Page 73 of Hot Shot

He gives me a look. “I was a pro pitcher in LA. I’ve been to legit gourmet joints more times than I can count. Doesn’t hold a candle to this.”

“Well, now you’re just kissing my ass,” I point out.

He eyes me a little too seriously. “If I knew that was on the table, we wouldn’t be talking.”

Again I laugh, though the sound is nervous, betraying my heart, which is currently beating between my legs. “I have the hardest time picturing you at a fancy LA restaurant. I bet you were surrounded by supermodels.”

“Sometimes.”

I laugh to cover the sting, imagining him with objectively perfect women fawning over him. “How’d that work? Is there like…some rich people’s dating app or something?”

“Well, yeah. But a couple of my buddies were likeinto it. You know, the life. The parties, the girls, the bars. For a while, I did it because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. It’s what so many people dream about, which…after living it, feels weird to me.”

“How come?”

“Because it was empty. Like your lists of errands and books and recipes. It served me and no one else, and I didn’t like how that felt.”

There’s not a single ick in the universe that could stop me from wanting to throw myself at him. I take a bite of food, wishing I’d put more garlic in it. Maybe if I had toxic burps, it’d be easy to keep my mouth to myself.

“Other than playing ball, it all just felt kinda empty. Like I was biding my time, waiting for something. I dunno. It felt that way for a long time.”

“What changed?”

“You came back.”

Boom, there it goes. My defenses are washed away by the tsunami in my panties.

I deflect as best I can with zero wits. “Didn’t stop you from those girls you left with at the game.”

“I didn’t go anywhere with them. I left them in the parking lot and went home and thought about countries where I could hide if I killed your fiancé.”

That’s it, I can’t take anymore. It feels like it will take a crowbar to redirect this conversation, but God help me, I try.

“So, how did it go playing catch with Cricket?”

Blessedly, he lets me have the subject change. “She’s gonna be good. For such a cute little shrimp, she’s got an arm on her.”

“She’s got that fire in her belly. I like it.”

“Reminds me of you a little. Anyway, I wish we could have played longer. Hopefully this weekend I can finish the batting cage.”

Smiling at him, I say, “You’re so good with her.”

He shrugs, a touch of sheepishness on his face. “Honestly, I was afraid she’d hate it here. That she’d cry and want to go back to Patty and Paul’s. She told me she loves being here. That you were great and I was okay too.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Ouch.”

He chuffs a laugh. “I mean, she’s not wrong. You’ve done so much, given so much already. Everything you did with her room? Like, wow. Helping her with her homework. Driving her back and forth to school, cooking—you’re running circles around me.”

I try not to blush, but fail. “It’s nothing. I just want to make it easy for her, you know?”

“I do. It’s all I want, too.”

“Well, you’re great at it.”

“I don’t know about that. But I definitely thought it would be weirder. Harder. Like I’d stumble around and fuck things up, saythe wrong thing, do the wrong things. But I think…well, I don’t know. I wonder if it went okay because my priority was to make her happy, keep her safe. Take care of her. That’s the best I can figure.” He watches his fork move his food around the plate, his voice tight with emotion and wonder when he says, “She called me Daddy.”

Unexpectedly, tears prick the corners of my eyes, my hand moving from my fork to my tight chest as it fills with sweet heat. “Wilder…that’s…are you okay?”

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