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twenty-three

. . .

[Declan]

The timing was perfect because the All-Star Games were taking place in Atlanta for the next four days, leaving those of us not involved in the event with four days off.

Montgomery just so happened to be away at camp for these days as well, so I had four days to convince India that we could work. We could be each other’s secret because it was no one else’s business what we did outside of Music City Park.

I needed a circuit: a single, a double, a triple, and a homerun, which was no small feat to pull off in one game.

Like I told India, though, I wasn’t playing. My brother’s words had sunk in.

I’ve been given a second chance at bat with India, and I didn’t intend to strike out.

I respected the hell out of India’s concerns for her job. I didn’t want to risk anything that might jeopardize her career. Selfishly, however, I was willing to do whatever it took to prove to her we could be something.

The night after she agrees to a private date, I arrive at her home with grocery bags in hand.

“What? No flowers?” she teases, her smile extra wide as she takes in all the items in my arms.

“I didn’t take you for a flowers kind of girl,” I quip, although I have no idea what I’d base that opinion on. Our history happened during winter, when the ground was covered in snow.

“What woman doesn’t love flowers?” she continued to tease me.

“Next time.” I wink before setting down the bags. “Instead, I brought you a plant.”

I remove the wine-red leafed plant from a paper bag and hold it out to her. “It’s called a wildfire plant.”

“You’re kidding.” She lifts her head, taking the plant from me.

“Nope. Read the tag.” I couldn’t resist when I saw it.

Slowly, she smiles as she lifts the sedum to her nose. I doubt it has a scent other than warm dirt, but the look in her eyes is priceless.

“What else did you bring?” She eagerly reaches for the paper grocery bags, pinching her fingers on the edge of one before I playfully swat her hand.

“It’s dinner, but I need access to your kitchen.”

India arches one smooth brow upward before nodding at the cabinets behind me.

Her home is two-stories with a covered front porch.

A narrow hallway led us to the back of the house and the kitchen which has dark-blue colored upper and lower cabinets and a matching island that’s small, but considering the space, it works.

The house is located on a quiet block, and I’d noticed a handful of kids playing basketball a few houses down from hers.

“This is a great location.” The neighborhood is still considered Nashville proper, but more family oriented and secluded from the touristy areas downtown.

“I like it.” She hums, still eyeing the paper sacks I’d set on the kitchen table on the other side of the island. “It’s quiet . . . and all mine.”

I could ask about where she lived with her ex-husband. If they had a house or not. If they owned or rented, but I honestly didn’t care. This room with dark cabinets and butcher block countertops feels cozy, quaint even, and reminds me of Isaiah’s place in Colorado. It was home.

Shaking the strange thought, I step over to her kitchen cabinets and start to rummage through them.

“Nosy much?” she jokes, before asking, “What do you need.”

Within minutes, I have ground beef sizzling on her stove and the makings of my dinner selection spread out, giving away exactly what I intend for us to make for dinner.

“Tacos?” she questions.

“Nachos.” I hold up a bunch of peppers. “Complete with jalapenos.” I wiggle my brows and India laughs.

“Damn. And here I’d hoped we’d be making out on my couch later.”

“Oh, we’ll definitely be doing that,” I warn her.

“Not with jalapeno breath.” Her scowl is so cute, and forced, and within a few seconds she’s breaking form and smiling again.

“There’s these inventions called toothpaste and a toothbrush.”

India licks her front teeth and smacks her lips. “And you happen to have brought your own?”

She has me there. I didn’t bring those items with me for a very specific reason which isn’t necessary to disclose yet.

Within minutes, the ground beef is browned and a cooking sheet with tortilla chips and Mexican cheese is set into the oven to bake .

In the meantime, I offer India a pre-mixed margarita or a Corona beer.

“Definitely the Corona.”

I pop the caps, and we tap our long neck bottles against each other.

“To second dates,” I say. To second chances .

“We had a first date?” She arches one brow again before bringing the bottle to her lips.

“Colorado. The place of all our firsts. First kiss. First sex. First official date. Hiking.”

She smiles warmly at me, a genuine one that nearly bends my knees and takes me to the floor to worship her in other ways, like with my tongue and fingers.

Instead, I step toward the paper bags I’d set aside while prepping everything for dinner. “I have something else for you.” Pulling out a slim gift, poorly wrapped in brown paper, I present it to her

“What’s this?” India’s eyes narrow, like she’s puzzled but pleased.

“A housewarming present of sorts.”

Her head whips upward with further confusion in her eyes.

“I’ve been waiting for an invitation to your house before sharing.” The playful jab is a reminder that we’ve spent months ignoring one another.

India slowly flips the item over and I’m certain she knows what it is based on the shape of the gift. The flat square is rather obvious. But when she unwraps the gift, she stares down at the item like she’s never seen anything like it before.

“It’s a record.” Her voice is low, quiet and confused. “The soundtrack for A League of Their Own .”

Slowly, she lifts her head, eyes mystified, and for half a second, I worry I’ve made a poor choice.

“I remembered it being your favorite.” I’d admitted such a thing while we were hiking in Colorado. “And I just thought . . .” I wave at the album still held in her hands.

I thought she’d like it.

“I love it,” she whispers, swallowing hard while glancing back at the cover decorated with actresses dressed in old-school female baseball uniforms. “And it’s a record.”

“No one listens to CDs anymore,” I remind her.

Learning she currently collects albums felt like kismet.

Aimlessly browsing through albums one afternoon with Montgomery back in January, I came across the record and knew exactly who would enjoy it.

Isaiah had recently called to tell me his sister was moving to the area.

Finding the old album was ironic, so I bought it.

And I’ve been holding onto it ever since.

“But where did you find this?” She finally looks up at me while smoothing her hand over the cover.

“It’s Nashville. Vintage vinyl stores are located every five bars,” I joke, but the sudden tears glistening in her eyes causes my throat to clog.

“Hey, hey,” I quietly soothe, stepping closer to her, brushing over her smooth cheek. “There’s no crying in baseball.”

With a wet laugh in her throat, India sets the album on the kitchen table and launches herself at me. I chuckle as I catch her, tightening my arms around her lower back as her arms circle my neck.

“It’s the most thoughtful gift ever,” she mutters below my ear.

“It’s only a record,” I state.

“It’s everything.” She pulls back to look me directly in the eye, and I swear there is more on the tip of her tongue.

But the oven beeps, fracturing whatever moment we were about to share, which I’m certain would have led to me taking her down to the hardwood floors or clearing her kitchen table to spread her out as my personal dinner feast .

Instead, I rein in my raging hormones and finish arranging the fixings for our nacho night.