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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

RACHEL

“I hate when it rains,” my sister lamented from our couch, dropping her head back with a dramatic sigh.

“You hate when I let you order donuts and you have to sit in front of the TV and watch movies while I work this weekend? Sis, you’re breaking my heart.”

I laughed at her huff as I read through my article one more time. It had been a long time since something had been both so easy and hard as hell to write. There was so much I’d wanted to say about Silas, but I’d been afraid of how my tone would sound. I eyeballed what I’d written a million different ways until I was confident it didn’t sound like some fangirl who loved his ass in white pants.

Or someone who’d had a front-row seat to that ass without the pants.

My sister was supposed to be at softball practice, but it had been canceled because of weather. We’d had that talk about choosing a sport the night after I’d had lunch with Silas, and she’d picked softball with no argument. I’d relaxed until she’d shown me the paper from her coach later that night, with all the fees for new uniforms and even a couple of team-building trips. It was great that I could drop one sport expense, but the increase for the one she kept didn’t feel like I’d saved anything.

I scrolled back through the article, honestly satisfied with how it had turned out. I’d reached out to Silas’s old manager in Washington, never thinking that I’d hear from him on such short notice, but he’d sent an email a couple hours later with effusive words of praise for his former shortstop that I was able to weave in.

The Bats’ management was so thrilled he was here, Kent reiterating how Silas was such a great player and the fans would “eat him up,” when I’d chatted with him. The women would too, I was sure. But that was none of my concern—or shouldn’t have been whenever I thought of women throwing themselves at him at every game. It was none of my business and shouldn’t have made my hands ball into fists each time it crossed my mind.

The Brooklyn Bats had an attractive roster, as my sister had pointed out when she’d given me a rundown of the players she’d known. But Silas was more than just a hot team manager. He was young enough to pull off that sinfully cocky smile, but the touch of gray at his temples and the crinkles around his eyes made him so attractive it was almost painful to look at him.

He’d confessed feeling like he was past his prime, but nothing was further from the truth. He missed his old job, but I was sure he’d not only be embraced by fans, but he’d be an amazing manager.

I’d done plenty of research on Silas and how he’d been team captain at such a young age. There was no way he wouldn’t be a great leader, and I’d had enough recovery time from all the orgasms he’d given me that first night to say that—sort of—objectively.

“How many chapters have you written? You’ve been sitting there forever,” Taylor whined. “I saved you a Nutella donut.”

“This isn’t a book. It’s for the day job. The article on Silas.”

I smiled when her gasp traveled all the way to my corner of the living room.

“Can I see?”

“When it posts,” I told her, laughing when her lip jutted out in a pout.

Gayle wasn’t expecting the article until Monday, so I had time to read it over again…or send it to Silas like I’d offered.

I pushed away from my desk, the wheels on my chair sending me back about a foot as I eyed my phone. He’d said we were friends, and this PR campaign was making him uneasy. Why not show him the article?

He had paid for a cab for me to go home and had given me his sweatshirt—a sweatshirt I still hadn’t washed so I could bury my face into it when my sister wasn’t around, letting his fading scent bring back all those memories I could only relive in the forbidden corners of my mind.

God, I was so pathetic.

Before I lost my nerve, I rolled myself forward, pulled up my email, attached the article, and sent it to his email address.

Me: Hey! Article draft is done. I just sent it over so you could have a peek.

“It must have been so cool to talk to him.” My sister giggled as I settled next to her, clutching my phone in my hand and totally not anticipating a response. I should have just emailed it and waited for his reply without giving him a text heads-up. But maybe he didn’t check his email all the time, especially at night.

And maybe I needed better excuses.

“It was. He’s a nice guy,” I said, stretching my legs as I lounged back. My grandmother had had a plastic-covered gold couch that held a lot of memories but was uncomfortable as hell, especially in the summer. It had taken me a long time to finally replace it after she was gone. I’d kept the couch longer than I wanted to as a way to introduce Taylor to a grandmother she’d never known but who would have adored her as much as I did. I kept a pillow from the old couch, even though it stuck out in our living room because it didn’t go with anything.

I missed my grandmother every day, and although she’d been gone for a long time, sometimes a memory would sneak up and knock the wind out of me. When I’d lost her, I realized how alone I was in this world. I’d soon had a kid to take care of and didn’t have much—if any—free time alone, but the loneliness never wavered. Thankfully, taking care of Taylor had kept me busy enough over the years to limit any extra time to think.

My grandmother would know what to do with Taylor and how to do it better, and I’d wished for her advice so many times. I could only hope I’d learned enough by watching her all those years.

I dropped my chin on top of Taylor’s head as I pulled her closer, the rush of emotion getting the best of me. I jumped when my phone buzzed, almost forgetting the inappropriate or at least unnecessary text I’d just sent.

My stomach dropped as I read the message, not out of disappointment, but all too familiar dread.

Mom: Just wanted to say hi. Hope you girls are good!

A random text usually meant we’d be seeing her soon, but things were very different now. I’d changed the locks since she’d signed over her rights to my sister, and if she was back in the city looking for a place to stay, this wasn’t it. My grandmother had been done with her daughter before she’d passed away and had told me when she’d put my name on the house to call the cops if she ever tried to move back in.

But when my mother had come back for my grandmother’s funeral, she’d been pregnant and had stayed until Taylor was two weeks old. I’d had to learn about babies and formula quickly as she was never around long enough to show me. Or maybe she wasn’t around any babies long enough to know what to do herself.

It was easier to worry about Silas than my mother and what antics she would pull now. I wouldn’t let her come and go anymore, and I was prepared to fight her on it. I had fully executed guardianship papers, and my aunt Lucy had told me she’d pay for her lawyer to take my case if it ever came to that.

I prayed that would never happen.

“What’s wrong?” Taylor asked, squinting at me as she lifted her head. “You got all tense just now.”

“Just work. No big deal. So, why don’t I be a bad guardian and tee up that island dating reality show for us?”

“No, that would make you the best guardian.” She kissed my cheek and scurried off the couch. “I’ll get the cookies to go along with the donuts.”

I smiled as she raced to the kitchen, opening the drawer to our coffee table to stuff my phone inside in case my mother texted again, when I spotted Silas’s name on the screen.

Silas: Wow. That is an amazing article. Sure it’s about me?

Me: I don’t meet too many Gold Glove winners with six championship rings. Don’t worry, I didn’t get you confused with anyone else.

Silas: Well then, thanks. This is great. You make me sound like I could actually do this job .

Me: Because you can. I already wrote you a glowing article, so don’t fish for any more compliments.

Silas: You’re a talented writer.

Silas: I’ve been reading your books, by the way. So I already knew that.

My eyes grew so wide, my head tilted forward.

Me: Are you serious?

Silas: Well, maybe not all of them. I’m about eight books in. You’re pretty amazing. Just don’t tell me if you punched other guys as you wrote these books. I want to believe I’m the first.

He was the first for a lot of things, things that didn’t make sense for someone I’d only known for a day before we’d run into each other again.

Me: Thank you for saying that. And yes, you were the first writing casualty.

Silas: Good. I can’t believe R.M. Dioro wrote about me.

Me: She didn’t. Rachel Manning did.

Silas: Come on. Let me dream, Slugger.

“One box of chocolate chip cookies or two?”

My head whipped around to the sound of my sister’s voice.

Dreaming was nice, but it wouldn’t do me any good if I wanted to focus on real life.