Page 8 of First Love, Second Draft

“And what exactly were we doing in this picture? Standing next to each other and talking? Because if that’s your idea of cozy, then you must’ve been really jealous all those times my catcher ran out to talk to me on the mound. Did you think Rooster and I were whispering sweet nothings to each other behind our gloves?”

“Wouldn’t put it past you.” Gracie tugged at the blue-and-gray quilt hanging over the back of the couch. “Look, this has been a real slice of heaven catching up with you and all, but it’s time for you to go. For real. Forget whatever Matt told you, because I don’t need you here. After a quick catnap, I’m going to work on my manuscript the rest of the day. I’m on a super-tight deadline and the last thing I need is any distractions, so...” She motioned him to shoo.

“Uh-huh. Back to the issue of the bathroom. Not sure we figured that one out yet. Whenever you need to go, you’ll... pee on the couch?”

“It’s a very absorbent fabric. Look, seriously, Mona will be back any minute to check on me. You’re dismissed. Get back to the cottage. Better yet, get back to your precious baseball. Get back to your precious charity events. Get back to your preciouswhatever. Just. Go.”

She spent the next two minutes trying to spread the afghan over her body without actually moving because any sort of movement clearly sent her into a breathless, sweaty tangle of pain. He had half a mind to let her struggle the rest of the afternoon. Would serve her right.

But then again, struggling the past five years since their divorce sure hadn’t done him any good, had it?

He reached for his shoulder. Massaged the tightness. Times like this he wished he were a writer. Maybe then he could find the right words to get through to her. He sure hadn’t found them five years ago. What made him think he could find them today?

“What’s wrong with you?” Gracie’s breathless voice cut into his thoughts. “What are you doing?”

Noah glanced down, then back to Gracie. “Standing here, massaging my shoulder? What’s it looking like I’m doing?”

“You looked like you were about to cry.”

“You know I don’t cry.”

“Oh trust me, I know your heart of stone better than anyone. Which is why I can’t believe you were about to cry.”

He knew what she was doing. And it wasn’t going to work. Noahwhipped his baseball cap onto the trunk, then marched to the door, calling over his shoulder. “Try picking a fight all you want, babe, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Noah slammed the door shut behind him. Then swung it open again. “Except to the cabin to grab my phone.”

“For the last time, don’t call mebabe, and hey—hey!”

“What?” He opened the door again.

“It’s a cottage. And fix that porch railing while you’re out there.”

“Oh, I’ll fix it all right.” Easier than fixing their marriage—especially when he yelled, “Babe!” right before he slammed the door shut again.

4

Gracie woke up with drool crusting her chin.Ugh.How long had she been asleep with her head jammed in the corner of the couch? She used the collar of her shirt to scrub off her chin. Then froze. Why was Elvis Presley singing in her kitchen?

Another voice joined in with Elvis.

“Argh,” Gracie groaned, sounding half-pirate. No wonder her brain felt muddled. Her ex-husband was here, singing off-key to “Don’t Be Cruel”—and making some sort of stir-fry if her nose was to be trusted.

“Need more pain medicine?”

“Huh?” Gracie gingerly rolled her head to stretch her neck, stopping when her gaze landed on Noah standing between the kitchen and living room, a white dish towel draped over one of his shoulders. Goodness, she’d forgotten how much space Noah could fill with those shoulders. Her gaze drifted down to his white shirtsleeves stretched taut over his muscular biceps.

She covered her eyes and massaged her forehead. Not muscular. Average. Completely average. Well, Major-League-pitcher average. Some might place that in the category of muscular.

“Gracie?”

She spread her fingers to peek at him and his average-Major-League-pitcher-muscular biceps. “What? No. I don’t take painmedicine. Makes me feel terrible. Makes me feel—”Like this.“Wait.Morepain medicine? Did you give me pain medicine?”

He scratched the side of his overgrown beard. Seriously, someone get the man a razor. She’d always hated how he let his beard grow out like that every baseball season, all unruly and gnarly by the time October arrived. Though it did always sort of fascinate her to see how light and tawny his beard looked compared to the much darker shade of brown in his hair. Looked like some gray was sneaking its way into both.

He stopped scratching his beard long enough to hike a thumb over his shoulder. “I found a prescription bottle for pain meds in your patient belongings bag. You were kind of whimpering and your face was all scrunched up, so I figured it would help. You know I can’t stand seeing you in pain.”

“I’ve been sleeping the past”—she glanced beyond him to the clock on the kitchen wall—“five hours.”

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