Page 80 of Wild Pitch
Turning his head toward me, he suddenly mumbles, “Hope?”
And I stop—breathing, blinking, thinking.
His eyes remain closed, though. A little line appears between his eyebrows. Is he dreaming about me or am I in his nightmares? But he knew I was coming, so it probably means nothing.
I bite my lip, gently stepping away from the bed and retreating all the way out of his bedroom. My hands tremble as I grab the door handle and shut the door so softly that it makes no sound.
Then I run to the kitchen. So fast that my shoes don’t even have enough time to squeak against the floor.
I only stop when I’m in front of the groceries, my chest expanding and contracting violently while I try to get enough oxygen to my brain. My whole body is a ball of raw nerve right now. I feel like such a perv because there’s no way I should be thinking the things I’m thinking about a man who is so ill that he’s not even aware of what he does or says.
But he said my name. Not my last name. Not darlin’.Hope.
Placing my hands on my steaming face, I try to reason that it’s not the first time. That time, during the PitchCom date disaster, he did call me out by my name.
It feels different now. Maybe because I was pressed up against him. And maybe because I feel?—
“Who are you?”
I jump around.
An older woman wearing rubber gloves up to her elbows, and brandishing a dripping mop at me, stands at the end of the hallway I just came from.
Like I’ve been caught in the middle of a crime, all I can utter is, “U—Uh…”
“State your name and what you came here for before I call the cops.” She pushes the mop closer to me.
I lift my hands. “Um, I’m Hope Garcia. Friend of Starr’s—coworker. I’m in the team. Not a player. Staff. I came to make soup. He’s sick.”
“Oh.” She blinks hard and the mop moves back an inch. Slowly, her eyes travel up and down my length, closing in on the team logo emblazoned across my chest. She clears her throat. “Still, I’d like to see a badge.”
“I—Yes. Of course. May I reach for my phone in my pocket. It’s also my wallet.”
Somehow this softens the woman. “Miss, if you’re that concerned about an old woman with a mop when you’re clearly strong enough to take me down, you’re probably not a weird stalker. But yes, please, show me your employee badge.”
I quickly produce both my Orlando Wild employee badge and my driver license. She inspects them for a quick moment, watching my face like she works for the TSA, and finally sets the mop down on the pristine floor.
“So Cade’s sick?” She frowns.
“Yeah, he’s been sleeping all day.”
“He’s home?” Her eyes pop. Now she rests the mop against the wall and works on removing her gloves. “Ugh, I should’ve checked. I’d have cooked him something.”
“Um.” I tuck my phone back in my pocket. Even though the woman is almost two feet shorter than Starr, and her features completely different, the air of protectiveness in her is so real that I ask, “Are you Starr’s mother?”
“Goodness, no. You flatter me, Miss Garcia.” She chuckles and then, like it’s part of a joke, adds, “Cade’s an orphan.”
And just like a few minutes ago, my whole world tilts off its axis.
CHAPTER 26
CADE
Hope Garcia is in my arms.
The scent of vanilla envelops me and I lean even more into it. Her hair is soft and warm against my face. Or maybe that’s her skin. I press my nose against it, desperate for more. Her curves are snug against me and it’s all at once the most comfortable and exhilarating feeling of my life. Even better than striking out a cleanup batter with my cutter.
Wait. She feels rather flat. I run my hand across her side and except for some tiny wrinkles in her clothes, she’s as flat as…
