Page 33 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)

I laugh. “It’s the high I didn’t realize I’d been chasing all my life.”

Scottie smirks and takes a bite of a chicken salad sandwich. “How’s the kabob? I was debating between that and the chicken salad.“

I look at my plate, and my pulse kicks up. I’m not full Adrian Monk or even Monica Geller, but none of the food is touching, and nothing is messy. Nothing is slathered or sticky. I only picked foods that sit where they’re told and behave themselves on a plate.

Over the last month, I’ve grown perfectly comfortable eating in front of Sean. How I’ll do in front of friends is another matter.

I slide a piece of chicken off the skewer and bring it toward my mouth. Sean bumps my knee with his, a show of support that feels like extra marrow in my bones, strengthening me. I take a bite, letting the juicy meat burst in my mouth. I chew and swallow without covering my face with my hand.

Sean grins at me through his own bite, his eyes looking misty. It’s such a small yet monumental show of support. He doesn’t see that bite as a meal, but a milestone.

The man really is husband material.

“It’s good,” I say. I stab my fork into another one. “Definitely worth getting.”

Soon, a few more people join us, including a woman with jaw-length strawberry blonde finger curls and the cutest freckles imaginable. “Hey, y’all. Good seeing you, Sean.”

“You too, Clementine,” Sean says. “Have you met my wife, Kayla?” Sean makes introductions, and Clementine smiles at us sweetly. “Clementine is the church organist.”

“But I can play anything,” Clementine says, “including Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” She puts a strange emphasis on the title.

I blink. And nod. And then it hits me.

“Oh! The song we play during the …”

“Seventh inning stretch,” Fletch says, like he can’t believe he’s having to explain this to the woman who signs his checks.

I laugh, refusing to be self-conscious that I missed Clementine’s hint. “Sorry, Clementine, give me a boardroom and a PowerPoint presentation, and I’m your girl. But the second you talk sports to me, it’s like a fog descends over my brain.”

“She’s being too hard on herself,” Sean says.

“She’s really not,” Fletch mumbles.

Sean kicks him under the table. Fletch grunts. We all laugh.

I look at Scottie. “Do we have an organist?”

“No, the announcer just uses a janky soundboard hooked up to an iPad.”

“Should we have an organist?” I look at Sean, who nods.

“The last owner was a cheapskate. If you have it in the budget, you should have one. It adds flair.”

“And I only charge $25 an hour,” Clementine says, putting the pinch on me with a smile.

I grin back. “I like your style, Clementine. Come by the field on Tuesday’s game. We’ll make it your official audition.”

“Deal.” She holds out her hand and I shake it.

I’m about to take another bite when I hear a voice behind me. It’s low, but not low enough.

“They’re getting awfully cozy, aren’t they?”

“Well, you know what they say. Fast weddings, faster divorces.”

“Or visa fraud.”

A dry laugh follows.

I freeze, fork still in my mouth. Sean squeezes my knee under the table, and he shifts, like he’s going to get up and give them a piece of his mind, but I shake my head, holding him back.

I don’t know if I feel stupid or defensive or both, but a quick glance around the table tells me no one else is fussed about it. Scottie and Clementine are both rolling their eyes. The couple of guys from the team who’ve joined us didn’t seem to notice.

Clementine stands up, brushing her hands on her skirt. “I’m grabbing another glass of tea. Anyone want anything while I’m up?”

A chorus of polite declines follows, and she heads off toward the drink table.

That’s when they approach.

The two women who were talking about Sean and me. I recognize them instantly as friends of Serena’s. They’re wearing sundresses and matching expressions that scream they haven’t forgiven me for existing.

Fortunately, they ignore Sean and me altogether, fixing their sights on …

Fletch.

Fletch, who has the tact and emotional availability of a sledgehammer.

I could almost pity them.

“Coach Fletcher,” the first says, with a sugary smile that doesn’t mask her venom as much as she thinks. “You clean up nice. You ever think about what a shame it is you’re single?”

Fletch tears a hunk off his roll and sticks it in his mouth. “I appreciate the offer,” he says dryly. “But I’m holding out for someone who’s into true crime, good conversation, and keeping her hot takes about other people’s marriages to herself.”

Sean snorts into his sweet tea. I bite my lip to keep from doing the same.

The first woman straightens like she’s just caught a bad smell. “Well, no need to be rude.”

“Oh, does that not describe you?” he asks, already turning his attention back to his plate. “Oops. My bad.”

They leave without another word, heels clicking a little too sharply against the ground.

I glance at Fletch. “You know, if that girl on the message board could see you now, I bet she’d like you even more.”

“I don’t care what she thinks,” he says, stabbing a piece of macaroni like it owes him money.

But his ears are pink.

Sean leans in. “You’re blushing.”

“Am not.”

“You are,” I chime in.

“She could be seventy for all I know.”

“Age gap romances are popular for a reason,” I say.

Fletch shakes his head. “You two are insufferable.”

“And yet,” I say, raising my tea in a mock toast, “you’re still sitting with us.”

He grumbles into his food. But he doesn’t move.

From Oliver Fletcher, that’s basically a declaration of love.