Page 23 of Small City Heart
“Maybe?” Charlie brushed a stray curl off Patrick’s cheek, and Patrick’s blood thrummed.
“I want to, but it’ll depend on my mom. I don’t want to ditch her.”
Charlie’s smile softened, and Patrick wanted to pounce on him. “I adore your mom,” Charlie said.
“She adores you. My walk of shame this morning was a bit awkward, though. Didn’t take much detective work to figure out where I’d been considering the huge hickey you left me.”
“Oops.” Charlie lightly touched the mark on Patrick’s throat, which had been expertly covered up with makeup. “You only left teeth marks on me.”
Patrick grinned. “You liked it.”
“Yep. So, your mom. I hope she doesn’t—” Charlie shook his head.
“What?”
“Get her hopes up, I guess. For us.”
“Yeah, that would be horrible,” Patrick said dryly, but Charlie didn’t seem to catch his sarcasm.
“I don’t want her to think I’ve led you on or that I used you.”
“She won’t think those things if they’re not true,” Patrick said, his voice unexpectedly hard and harsh.
Charlie glanced over, his eyes wide. He opened his mouth, but then a man across the soccer field shouted, “North! Come here. We got a proposition for you.”
Charlie’s face froze, his expression locking down, so Patrick gestured. “Lead the way, gorgeous.”
Wariness flashed through Charlie’s eyes, and Patrick almost stopped him, almost put his hand on Charlie’s arm or grabbed his wrist. It was clear that whatever was waiting for them in that group of men was not something Charlie wanted any part of. Before Patrick could act, Charlie was striding forward.
Patrick caught up with him as they drew near the circle of men—a bunch of bland, middle-aged, white guys. Charlie’s body language had Patrick on edge.
Charlie introduced Patrick around. Apparently, the men were all part of a recreational slowpitch softball league, which Patrick thought was adorable, until they started talking.
“When are you going to ditch that team of yours and play in the real league?” a man named Kevin asked Charlie.
Kevin had a comb-over. It was distracting.
“It’s rec league. There is no ‘real.’ And trust me, the co-ed teams are good.” Charlie turned to Patrick. “The firehouse’s team switched to the co-ed league this year because, you know, we had firefighters of all genders who wanted to play.”
“We should scrimmage,” Kevin said. “See which team is better. See how much those ladies are holding you back.”
“Taylor played softball at Kansas State. She runs circles around our team. We holdherback, and the rest of the women aren’t exactly lightweights.”
This all seemed like a lot of posturing over rec league softball. Patrick might have found it endearing if it weren’t for the misogyny.
“You’re Greg’s son,” Kevin said, changing the subject abruptly.
“Yep.” Patrick finished his ice cream and tossed his bowl and spoon into a nearby trashcan.
“Where do you live again?” Kevin asked. His brow was furrowed and his good humor, however uncomfortable it had been, disappeared.
“Chicago.”
“Probably better there than here for your type,” Kevin said with no real animosity in his voice, just totally matter-of-fact.
What the fuck?
Patrick had no idea what to say to that. He opened his mouth, but then Charlie said, “Patrick’s a photographer” as if that were some kind of explanation.
