Page 2 of Wanting His Girl

Well, I was a goner from the word go.

I've dated plenty of women before. But none sparked that feeling, that knowing deep in my gut that she's the one. It sounds like something out of a cheesy romance novel, but it’s true.

The only problem is that Melanie is younger than me. A lot younger. The age gap between us is like a stubborn pebble in my boot—I can't shake it. She's what, twenty-two? Fresh out of college with her whole life ahead of her.

And here I am, close to hitting the big four-oh.

As we turn the bend, the old park where our dad would bring us comes into view. It's silent now, with unmoving swings and a deserted slide.

Wes pulls an old baseball from his suit jacket pocket. "What do you say, boys? How about a game of catch for old time’s sake?"

Duke lets out a laugh, shaking his head. "You still carry that thing around?"

Wes shrugs nonchalantly. "Dad always said it was good luck."

"Yeah, he did," Chase says as he nods in agreement.

Wes turns to me then, tossing the ball lightly in his hand. "You in, Jake?"

I give him a half-hearted grin. "Sure, why not? I have a few extra gloves in my truck."

I take the worn baseball from him, feeling its familiar weight settle into my palm. It's been a while since I've thrown one just for the hell of it, without fans cheering or the pressure of a game riding on my shoulders. I jog over to my truck and grab the extra mitts.

A second later, the four of us fan out across the grass. Wes takes his stance, and I wind up, letting the ball fly.

It's a clean throw, the kind that comes from muscle memory, honed through years on the mound. We fall into an easy rhythm, the thwack of leather on leather a comforting sound, the sting on my hand a welcome sensation.

For a moment, I'm not a bar owner, not the odd man out among my hitched-up brothers, not a guy wrestling with thoughts of a girl who might just be too young for him. I'm just playing catch with my brothers like we've done a thousand times before. No complications, no concerns about age gaps or what-ifs—just the simple joy of the game.

"Nice arm, brother," Duke calls out, lobbing the ball back to me. “You've still got it.”

"Yeah," I say, grinning, feeling the tension ease off my shoulders. "Guess some things never change."

I reel back, focusing on the sweet spot just above Wes's glove. The ball cuts through the air, a perfect spiral—until it doesn't.

Something's off.

It veers sharply to the left, like it's got a mind of its own, and before I can even shout a warning, there's a sickening crash of shattering glass. The ball smashes right through the windshield of a car parked in front of the print shop across the street.

As I look closer at the car’s, a surge of dread floods my veins. I realize that it’s not just any car.

It’s Melanie's car.

A second later, the door to the print shop swings open.

Melanie steps out, her arms wrapped around a heavy looking box. She's in this floral number that clings in all the right places, hair pulled up in a way that shows off the delicate angle of her neck. The sight of her sends a jolt through me, a mix of raw want and admiration.

Damn, this girl is gorgeous.

As she walks toward her car, an audible gasp slips from her lips when she sees her windshield’s new spiderwebbed decoration. “Oh my gosh! My car!”

Shit.

She sets the box down on the hood, her eyes widening as they take in the destruction. I can feel each jagged edge of that broken glass twisting in my gut.

Instantly, I’m jogging across the street toward her.

My brothers' footsteps fall behind me but it's like they're miles away. All I can see is the distress wrinkling Melanie’s perfect forehead.

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