Page 15 of Charlie and Her Sweet Escape
Bennett’s easy expression didn’t change. He leaned his arm on the back of my chair, and his low voice sent a hot tumble of air across my ear. “But what an embrace while it lasts.”
I shivered.
“Charlie and I should head to the field for warm-ups,” Bennett continued as he moved away from my chair, his voice still warm, but lacking that rumbling quality that made me feel as disoriented as being caught in a riptide. “It’s been a pleasure, Nana Marie. Feel free to kiss this face any time.”
Grandma barked out a laugh, while Mom groaned, “Don’t encourage her, Bennett. But thank you for the roof. You’re a lifesaver.” Mom rounded the table and pulled him into a motherly hug.
“Anytime,” he said, hugging her back tight. When Rosie had moved to town, we’d bonded over both losing a parent when we were young—I’d lost my dad, and Rosie her mom—and sometimes I forgot that meant Bennett had lost his mom too.
“Ready?” he said to me.
I grabbed my softball bag and slung it over my shoulder. My phone buzzed with an alert. I opened a text from Lily, showing a picture of a dozen red roses sitting on our table.
Lily: These were delivered for you.
Another picture showed the note attached:I forgive you, Charlotte. Always, Greg.
HE forgives ME?an impossibly quiet voice complained in the back of my mind. I ignored it as usual. He was trying—the flowers were nothing if not evidence of that. They were apology enough, even if he didn’t use the words themselves.
I stuffed my phone back in my pocket and turned to Bennett with as bright a smile as I could manage. “I’m ready.”
Bennett and I had played on the same rec softball league team, the Icy Asps, for the last eight years—with the exception of the three years I’d lived in Seattle tocomplete my master’s program. The Icy Asps were named after a local restaurant—an Italian café and American-style pizzeria—and tonight, we were out for blood.
The Bookish Ballers had been our rivals for all of those eight years, for no other reason than we were the two original rec teams, and for about three years, we’d only had each other to play. Our teams ranged in ages from eighteen to seventy-seven (Mrs. Mabel, the semi-retired English teacher at the high school who was a beast for the Bookish Ballers), and we took our rivalry very seriously.
“Good turnout tonight.” Bennett released a satisfied sigh as he parked in the mostly full parking lot.
“We’d better hurry.” I picked up my speed, Bennett right on my heels as we dodged people wearing orange (for our team) or blue (in support of the Bookish Ballers.)
It was a beautiful evening, cloudy but dry. We were finally getting a break from the lashing rain we’d been dealing with for the first half of the summer. I breathed in the scent of hot dogs and cookies, feeling like I was coming home.
Bennett ran straight onto the field, and I was about to follow him when I spotted Greg out of the corner of my eye, sitting on the bench. He was wrapping the arm that had been bitten, an intense expression on his face as he studied the players.
“Hey.” I sat beside him. “Thanks for the flowers.”
“They were expensive.” He flipped his phone toward me to show the receipt. “But you’re worth it.”
I’d have much rather he’d paid toward my mom’s monthly medical bill than buy me a huge arrangement of flowers.He’s trying to show he cares.I had to pause one beat and then two before I could say, “Oh, wow.”
He had a self-satisfied smirk as he put the phone back in his pocket. It was a common pattern: I irritated Greg, he was reactive, and he apologized by buying me something expensive.It wasn’t my favorite cycle, but at least it was familiar. And being generous and forgiving always put him in a good mood.
Which meant this was the perfect time to tell him aboutWild. “Hey, remember how I mentioned that I was going to apply for us to be onMarried in the Wild?”
“Kind of,” he said, most of his attention on watching the players warm up.
“And you said you could probably take a leave of absence from work if you needed to.”
“Hm,” he said absently.
“Well, I heard back from the producers, and we’ve moved on to the interview round!”
His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”
I wiped my sweaty hands on my shorts. “We might get to go on the show! We have a video call with them next week.”
“Are you serious? Or is this one of those jokey bits you do?”
“It’s real.” Time to lay on the flattery. “I told them about how your family founded a portion of Winterhaven, and that you’re an excellent outdoorsman. They were excited about your bow hunting and think you’ll add a really professional dynamic to the show.” Okay, I may have elaborated just ateenytiny bit on the super-short email they’d sent me, but it was all true in spirit.
