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“Oh, please.” I huff.
“How many more do you want?” he asks.
I quickly answer, “I’m good at one.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s totally fair. I’ll be able to give her so many opportunities and?—”
“Siblings?”
“Never part of the plan.”
“Totally understand that when you were making plans with?—”
I cut him off. “Do not ruin tonight with his name.”
“Wasn’t planning on it. I was just going to say the wrong person.”
This is not the first time since he’s been home that I’ve had butterflies fluttering around in my tummy—or further south—but just like the other times, I picture myself capturing them with a net and tossing them right out of there. I do not have the luxury of being smitten with Pope, not again.
“I just know I wish my parents had had more. They were happy with one.” He smiles. “Mom loved you like a daughter and Marks and Danny like sons. You took care of her when I?—”
“If the roles had been reversed, you’d have done the same for us.”
“I love this game, but my dream was a ten-year career in baseball, and then I always planned to come back here and ask the girl to marry me. Have at least two before we were thirty, beg her for a couple of more before thirty-five.”
“Come back here and ask the girl,” is what I heard, but I’m sure he said a girl.
“Your type doesn’t seem to be the kind who’d want to live in Walton, let alone birth four children.”
“Gotta ask,” he says with his major league smirk. “What exactly do you think my type is?”
“Blondes with C cups that probably aren’t real. Ones who have never missed a spa appointment, who wear designer clothes and actually choose to wear shoes that look more like torture devices. Women who would never eat a doughnut hole, let alone two whole doughnuts—and most of the time want to grab a third and devour it because it’s so much easier than making a salad when they’d been on their feet for twelve hours.”
“Is that right?” He chuckles again.
“I’ve seen the women you date.”
“You’ve seen the women I take to functions that require a date.”
“Oh, yeah? They leave right after?”
“Sometimes, but I can promise they never stayed the night or expected anything more than a good time.”
“So, hookers.”
“Jesus, Whit, is that what you think of me?” he asks as if he’s offended.
“It’s an assumption. Prove me wrong.” What the heck is wrong with me? Why can’t I just shut up already?
“Three is my number. All of them after Mom passed. None of them were interested in dating or a relationship. All wanted the same thing I did—to get off.”
“Gross.”
“The last woman was the one I spent the most time with?—”
I cover my ears. “I do not want to know these things.”
