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. . .

[Declan]

Richard Baker never liked me; he tolerated me.

I was Isaiah’s best friend, but I wasn’t from the elite of Colorado, I was from low-country Arkansas.

And even if I became an All-Star first baseman, Rookie of the Year, and had a lucrative contract from Seattle and then Chicago, I still don’t measure up to his son.

As in, Isaiah was a better player than me and should have gotten a professional deal, according to Richard.

For his part, Isaiah assured me time and time again he never believed all that his father spouted. The overpraise. The underachievement. The disappointment was not with Isaiah, but in the league for not recognizing Isaiah’s talent.

Isaiah was quick to remind his father that the Vegas Victors never offered him a contract.

Nepotism does not look good on you, son , Richard told him.

Senior Baker didn’t hold the same opinion for his daughter.

Despite his distant relationship with her, he was protective of her in his own way.

After years working at the collegiate level, reporting from the sidelines in Seattle, Richard gave India a position with Vegas, launching her from D2 colleges to the professional league.

Like an automatic double, India got to take second base without touching first.

Sadly, I imagine there was resentment among her colleagues. Competition doesn’t only happen on a ball field.

Now, all that matters is India sitting across from me on this rooftop, glowing with pride because she’d gotten a job on her own, without influence from her father.

Or demands, because I have no doubt Richard Baker eventually ordered his daughter to work for him rather than some obscure colleges in the Pacific Northwest.

Her confidence is absolutely stunning.

There sat the woman I’d playfully taunted when I slipped into a bathroom. To be close to her, feel the energy of her sureness wavering off her warm skin and lick against mine.

A shiver skitters down my spine at the memory of our first kiss.

The heat of her mouth. Her hands on my chest. Our bodies lined up.

I was so fucking horny for her, I almost lost it in my sweatpants.

And I would have happily let that happen if she hadn’t reached for my waistband and slid her hand inside the loose cotton.

Within minutes, her smiley-face flannels were removed, and her hands were on the edge of the pedestal sink, and I was slipping inside her from behind, watching her breath hitch and her breasts heave.

Thunderstruck . That was the sensation.

For another minute, I appreciate this new version of her. Self-awareness radiates from her.

Assuming I’ve been staring at her for too long, and she isn’t going to respond to my declaration about time and Nashville, I clear my throat.

“I should check on dinner.” Hastily, I press off the wooden bench and cross the rooftop for the designated grilling area. After a few flips of the steak and a twist of the corn wrapped in tinfoil, I spin to find India has followed me.

“What made now your time?”

I sigh, hating how her voice has shifted back to reporter mode.

I was so close earlier to telling her how I’ve missed her.

Missed her voice when it had been soft and pliant, not this hard, edgy sound that’s distant and a little cold.

Professional, maybe, because that’s what she is, but I don’t like her stiffness around me.

“Michelle got married six years ago. Her husband Brent is an awesome guy, and he got a job near Nashville. Michelle and I always agreed where she went, I’d go, and vice versa. I started putting feelers out, and the Terrors contacted me.”

My original inquiry was at the collegiate level, having decided a long time ago that coaching in the professional realm would never be a possibility.

Even though my brother Dasher had connections in the upper league and suggested coming back to the Anchors in a coaching capacity.

The majors also involved a more rigorous time commitment which meant time away from Montgomery.

But when the offer came in, Michelle, and Brent, convinced me this was a sign. I was ready to move upward.

“The Terrors were looking for a new team manager. I started in the 2020 season.” The Terrors wanted a reboot, and I had the history of taking a university program on the cusp of extinction to the outer limits of spectacular. Their baseball program became one of the top in the nation.

“Helluva time to take over coaching a professional baseball team, Coach.” India chuckles.

I can laugh now at the memories of leading a team through half the number of games in a typical season inside empty stadiums. With a worldwide pandemic keeping people home, the year was a blur.

But it also was the birth of The Den, the streaming service bringing games to those homebound.

A slice of the stadium right in your den.

Or as the service name derives, from a den of raccoons, matching the team mascot.

“And here you are,” India states, her gaze roaming down my body in one salacious lick.

The licking might be my imagination running wild.

“Here we are,” I state, including her in the moment, because the last place I ever expected to be was standing on a rooftop in Nashville with her.

Watching loose hairs that fell from her twist blow around her pretty face in the heavy breeze.

She’s still wearing a sexy-as-fuck dress and those heels that must be killing her feet.

With the sun as a backdrop, she’d look almost angelic, but I know a little devil resides inside her.

A streak of mischief I have always been attracted to.

Turning for the steaks so I don’t do something foolish like say, “Truth or Dare” and hope she picks dare, I check the meat’s temperature and pull the meal off the grill.

“Let’s head back downstairs to eat. Do you mind grabbing our drinks?”

India collects our glasses while I carry the plate of food and follow her back down the stairs.

My gaze easily falls to the subtle sway of her hips.

Hips I once held in my hands. The backs of her legs are toned.

Her ass smooth and firm. My mouth waters for a bite of her. An appetizer before our main course.

Back in my apartment, India gently knocks on my bedroom door which is still closed.

“Isaiah? Can I come in?” When he doesn’t answer, she helps herself to enter my room. “Shit.”

Watching her rush into the bedroom, I set down the platter and round the peninsula counter to see Isaiah face down on my bed.

“What’s the status?” I ask, full of concern for my friend.

“Out cold,” she says, glancing up at me from her position beside the bed, laying her hand on her brother’s head .

I didn’t intend to smile, but when our eyes meet, something about those two words in reference to Isaiah brings on a memory so fierce, I almost laugh.

Slowly, India straightens, and her lips curl as well. The tension between us with the addition of an unspoken memory releases a nervous chuckle from her.

The same kind of laugh that made me want to kiss her in the first place all those years ago.

“Anyway.” I swallow thickly. “Dinner’s ready.”

Seated at the counter, conversation is stilted with inane small talk while we eat. Perhaps both our minds remain on Isaiah and his condition: out cold, but with some disconcerting questions lingering before he passed out.

Isaiah is the life of the party compared to my quieter side. Our friendship was almost instantaneous because Isaiah wanted it to be so. I never complained. He’s been the best of friends, and the betrayal of sleeping with his sister feels triple-fold now that he’s brought it up.

Not that the situation was easy to forget. However, time passed. I moved. India moved. I had Montgomery. India married Malakai. She went to Vegas. I landed in Nashville.

Our history was like one of those maps baseball teams project on the big screen to highlight the crazy path of a player’s journey through the league.

Suddenly, time feels like it is on my side, and I don’t know what to do with it. India and I have years of unanswered questions and life experience, and we can’t cram everything into one night.

Thankfully, we fall into more comfortable silence once seated on my balcony, watching the sky darken. The fireworks are scheduled to happen soon. India found a radio streaming service that will air a musical selection synced to the display. In the meantime, it plays country music.

As we wait, my mind races. Back to that map of travel from here, there, and everywhere.

Life led me in so many directions, and I don’t have many regrets.

Other than one: India. Fortunately, I had a great career with Seattle and a good run with Chicago.

I have Montgomery and a good relationship with her mom and Brent.

My brother is my idol, with Isaiah right next to him as a best friend.

What’s been missing, however, is my equal. A partner to share all the craziness life tosses at me.

My attention shifts to India. Her hair is still up but messier because of the continual breeze. She’s still wearing her professional dress and those damn shoes.

I’ve been sitting with my feet up on the balcony railing. The plastic Adirondack chairs are something Montgomery had me purchase and are not the most comfortable pieces of outdoor furniture.

And without thinking, I reach for India’s ankle.

“What the heck?” she gasps before an anxious giggle leaves her throat.

I slip off one high heel and then the other before cupping both her ankles in one hand and bringing them to my lap. I kick my feet back up to the railing and settle her feet on my thigh. She turns sideways in her chair to accommodate both her skirt and the new sitting arrangement.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, before I realize that unconsciously I’ve started stroking over the hard knob of her ankle with my thumb.

“Wiggle your toes, India. Put your feet in the grass.”

She huffs. “There isn’t any up here.”

I roll my head on the back of the chair. “You’re smart enough to recognize a metaphor.”

“And you think I’m too stiff to relax?” She arches a brow, popping it higher than the ridge of her red glasses .

“I’m just curious where that woman went. The one racing out into the snow to make an angel. The minx daring me down a diamond run when I’d only ever been on flat plains and baseball fields.” The one having spontaneous sex with me in a cozy bathroom.

“That woman . . .” India lowers her lids. “Has lived a little more truths in her life.”

My brows pinch wondering what she means. Wondering what Isaiah has left out of my curious probing about his sister over the years.

However, with a sudden explosion of bright red and twinkling white lights against the midnight blue sky, our attention turns to the colorful display.

While India turns up the volume on the music streaming app, I focus on her more than the celebration.

With each burst of a new firework, her silvery eyes sparkle.

Like a little girl enthralled by the explosion of color, she’s riveted to the confetti-like display.

Yet beneath that childlike enthusiasm is a reminder that this woman still holds a spark within her.

The one once flaming with confidence and drive. With humor and ease.

She still has those qualities, but like the initial boom of the shooting cannon and the sudden burst of the container, the softer side—the dripping sparks and drizzling flames—the brightness of the fireworks, is what I miss about her.

Again, watching her face, seeing her smile widen, hinting how much she’s enjoying the explosion of colors, makes her as brilliant as any firework.

More brilliant.

Wildfire .