Page 132 of Wild Pitch
I check Cade out again. He’s in a white linen button shirt that settles around his muscular body easily, not hiding any of his fitness, the top two buttons undone tastefully. At the bottom, he’s in a pair of terracotta chinos—Audrey was the one who taught those two words to me—and some frat boy boat shoes that match. His hair is perfectly combed with wax and in fact, I think he even trimmed it for this occasion, and he’s freshly shaved and smelling delicious.
Meanwhile, I have nearly the opposite ensemble. Rose had a pair of white jeans she described as obscenely tight on her, but they’re decent on me. Still form fitting, but I’m not flashing anyone. And Audrey produced this terracotta color top I’m wearing. It’s shoulderless but three-quarter sleeves, very tight—not hiding anything here—and cropped. I never in a million years would’ve chosen it from a store rack, but it’s a special occasion.
The occasion of showing my ex boyfriend and my ex friend that I’m beyond fine. That I’m hot and happy and unafraid to show it.
“It’s just…” I bite my lip as Cade turns into a dirt road with the guidance of the GPS. “I’m still not sure this is the right thing.”
“We can turn around any time,” he says with an easy shrug.
“Well, no.Iwould get upset if I made you drive an hour and a half back just when we’re arriving.”
And we are. Up ahead in the horizon we can see a sprawling mansion by the shore of Lake Alfred, the venue for Dawson and Amy’s engagement party. If only the sky would grow overcast so we could have an excuse to not hang out outdoors by a gorgeous lake surrounded by greenery and flowers. Alas.
“Then what’s the hesitation?”
I shift as far as my seatbelt allows me so I can look at his profile. “I barely got any sleep last night thinking about something.”
“Really?” He inspects my face. “You look perfect though, not tired at all.”
I press my lips tight. “Trust me, it’s the power of makeup. Anyway, I keep worrying about you.”
“Me?” Cade blows a raspberry. “Those people won’t heckle me any harder than Denver Riders fans will tomorrow.”
“Not that. I really don’t want you to think I’m just using you and that I don’t have any real feelings for you.”
Cade slows way down and brakes in the middle of the dirt road. I guess it’s fine, since there are no cars behind us, but I turn back to him in confusion. “So what are those very real feelings you have for me, then?”
I clamp my mouth shut. Tingly heat rises up my chest to my face. Wriggling, I sit facing the front again and fold my arms. “I’m not gonna admit shit before you do.”
“Hmm.” After a moment, he gets the car going again and mumbles, “Fair.”
The silence is way too embarrassing so I reach for the sound system and crank up the volume to how it was before. We drive maybe one more mile up to the house and find a spot to park on the grass. Cade walks around his truck in the time it takes me toget out and finagle the purse strap so that it stays firmly on my shoulder. He offers his hand and I hold onto it for dear life.
“Do you still remember pitches eight and nine?” Cade asks as we walk up to the house.
For a second I actually have no idea what he’s talking about, until I remember what feels like a year ago, when I went on my very last disastrous date and Cade fit me with a PitchCom so he and the guys could watch out over me.
A slow grin comes to my face. “Oh yeah, those were thehelp mepitch calls.”
Grabbing both of my hands, he turns me to face him entirely. “We’re changing them to a single one. Just whisper the wordswild pitchin my ear and I’m bailing us out mid sentence if I have to.”
“Good idea.”
“And one more thing.” He tilts his head back, my attention diverting to his thick neck for a second. “How much PDA are we doing?”
“Huh?” I blink hard.
“The whole idea with the outfits was to mark territory but nothing’s more effective than a little public grabbing or kissing, or both.”
I don’t have to mull it over too hard, especially at the thrill wrapping around my heart and pumping it harder just from the idea of his hands on me.
“Both,” I declare with a boldness I’d never have thought myself capable of. “Anything that doesn’t land us in jail goes.”
A corner of his lips lifts. “All right, darlin’. Let’s go.”
Nodding, I pull him to resume the walk toward the string music. We border the massive house following arrow signs decorated in fresh flowers that must’ve cost un ojo de la cara, as my dad would say.
The backyard is a massive grassy patch right by a private harbor. A couple of tents protect food and drink tables, and a temporary dance floor has been placed on the grass before the tents. A real string quartet plays from a stage by the harbor, and people in pretty clothes mingle all around with their little champagne flutes.
