Page 13 of Sweet Deal
“I guess you can dress me up but can’t take me anywhere.” His gaze lingered on her lips for a moment, and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing or if she merely had mustard on her lips too. Shaking his head, he stared at the last bite of his hot dog. “Know what this reminds me of?”
“A baseball game?” She bit into her last bite.
“Field day, the year before I moved away.”
There had been so many field days. Her mind wandered back to the last one.
“Our deal.”
“Deal?” Frowning, she fast-forwarded through her memories and then it struck her.
“You do remember?”
“If we make it to over thirty and aren’t married.” She couldn’t spit out the rest of the words.
“That’s the one. We were in quite the mood. Foot races, tug of war, hot dogs, and the silliest deal ever made.”
“Right. Silly.” She forced a laugh. “Oh well.” Tossing the dirty wrapper and used napkin into the nearby trashcan, she turned to face him, ignoring the stupid deal that hit a little too close to home at the moment. “Ready, or do you just want to concede now?”
Pushing to his feet, he reached for her hand. “Fat chance.”
Hand still tingling slightly where his had been, Rachel followed Jim toward the nearest open court. The familiar thump-thump of bean bags hitting wood filled the air, along with easy laughter and competitive calls from neighboring games. It felt good to be here, with Jim.
“Okay, Henderson,” she said, grabbing a set of bright red bean bags while he claimed the blue. “Standard rules? First to 21?”
“You got it, Sweet.” He grinned, hefting a blue bag. “Ladies first.”
She rolled her eyes but stepped up to the line. Her first toss felt rusty, landing just short of the board with a soft puff in the dust. “No worries. I’m just getting warmed up.”
Jim’s first throw sailed smoothly, landing squarely on the board near the back edge. “Like riding a bike,” he teased.
Her next throw was better. They traded throws, the bags landing on, off, sometimes surprisingly close to the hole. The easy rhythm of the game, the back-and-forth teasing, felt incredibly natural. With every toss, her aim improved.
“Three points for me,” Jim announced as one of his bags dropped neatly through the hole.
“Lucky shot.” Rachel lined up her own throw, focused, swung her arm smoothly, and watched as her red bag arch perfectly, landing dead center and sliding straight in. “And that,” she dusted off her hands with mock seriousness, “makes five in a row. Gotcha.”
A triumphant gleam lit up Rachel’s emerald eyes. Jim couldn’t help but grin. She wasn’t just good; she was scary good. He had half expected her game to be rustier than his—after all, neither had the time to play the way they did when they were kids.
Having tossed the blue bags into the designated container, retrieving a five-dollar bill from his wallet, he pressed into her palm. “This is getting to be a habit.”
“Isn’t it, though?” She beamed, tucking the bill into her front pocket.
“Do you need to get back to the ranch, or are you up for a cup of coffee and maybe dessert?”
“I’m always up for a cup of Agnes’s coffee.”
Without thinking, he placed his hand lightly against the small of her back to guide her toward the street. The warmth of her skin through the thin fabric sent an unexpected jolt through him. He pulled his hand back quickly, shoving it into his pocket. That small touch felt oddly intimate, crossing some invisible line he hadn’t meant to cross.
If Rachel noticed, she didn’t show it. She fell into step beside him, neither saying much in the short walk. At the café, he held the door open for her, the familiar aroma of coffee and home cooking greeting them. Agnes spotted them immediately, bustling over with menus, her eyes twinkling knowingly. “Well, doesn’t this feel like a trip back in time? Here for a late dinner?”
“Just coffee and dessert,” Jim said.
Agnes directed them to a booth by the window.
“You could be quite the corn hole hustler if you wanted to.” Jim resisted the urge to stretch his hand across the table and snatch hold of hers.
Her bright smile flickering slightly, and he saw that shadow again, the one that hinted at the stress she carried beneath the easy laughter. Something was definitely off. Any other woman and he’d believe it was just the stress of her job, but this was Rachel. He might not know the woman she’d become, but he knew enough to know something was seriously bothering her. “So is blueberry pie still your favorite?”
