Page 46 of Summer Ever After
Panic crosses over Blake’s face. “Sorry, Jane. I should’ve told you, but the team’s full. We already found a sub.”
“No, I know. I just thought it would be a nice gesture to wear your jersey number. You know, for support.”
“Aww, that’s cute.” Holland’s smile grows in understanding. She was there in the beginning when the Summer of Jane Hayes was born. She’s partly to blame for this craziness.
My brows drop in confusion as I stare at the ninety-nine on Blake’s shirt. “You told me the other day that you were number thirteen.”
“I loaned my jersey to the sub and borrowed an extra from work.”
My lips morph into a frown. “So, whose number am I wearing?”
“That would be mine.”
There could be a thousand people chattering around me, and I’d still be able to pick out Walker’s amused voice.
I slowly turn around and meet his smug smile. My peripheral picks up the number thirteen across his chest matching mine.
Well, that backfired.
“How nice of you to wear my number, Jane.” Oh, that smugness. I would slap it off his face, except it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Play ball!” the umpire shouts from home plate.
“Okay, we’re up.” Blake tugs Holland toward the dugout.
Walker takes a step toward me, leaning in. “Wearing someone’s jersey. That’s intimate. Something a girlfriend would do.” His warm words dust the edge of my ear, sending chills rippling down my arms. His head kicks back just enough for me to see his playful blue eyes and teasing smile. “I didn’t know we were at that level yet.”
I ignore everything he just said, still trying to put all the pieces together. “What are you even doing here?”
“It’s called being a good neighbor and friend. It’s community, Jane.” His eyes dance. “I thought you liked this sort of thing.”
I purse my lips, eyeing him and his stupid sapphire eyes.
“Walker, you’re batting third!” Blake yells.
His stare drifts up and down my shirt, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Then he leans forward again, so far that his lips brush against strands of my hair, causing them to tickle my ear, making my whole body shiver. “You look good wearing my jersey. Real good.”
A firecracker of feeling explodes inside my body, sparks flying every which way.
Then he’s gone, headed to the dugout.
My chest collapses as I release a choppy breath. I blink a few times, trying to recover. But how do you recover after something like that? You have to wait until the fireworks stop.
I’m still waiting.
I don’t think this is how the trope is supposed to go, but it worked.
It workedsohard.
My feet carry me to the stands like a drive home when you’re not actually paying attention to driving—highway hypnosis. I sit, the hot bleachers burning the back of my legs. And before I know it, Walker is up to bat.
I swear, if he hits a home run, I’m out. A girl can only take so much.
The first pitch is in the dirt.
The second pitch is high.
And the third pitch…well, Walker swings and connects, sending the ball over the centerfield fence.
