Finally,Rileystepped closer, lowering his voice.“YouthinkRoseis the kind of woman you can wait on forever?She’sbeen standin’ on her own two feet for two decades.Builta life.Builtabusiness.Builta damn softball team.Allwithout you.”
“I know.”
“If you want her back, you’re gonna have to give her something real this time.Nothalf-truths and long looks from across the room.”
Acen stared down at the gravel, where his boots had worn a shallow groove.“Idon’t even know if she wants me.”
“Well,”Rileysaid, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “there’s one sure way to find out.”
Acen didn’t move.
Riley stepped back and gestured toward the lot, where the clatter of tools and voices floated from the open garage bay.“Betterdo it soon, brother.Beforethat shiny new boy with the button-down charm makes her forget you ever existed.”
A truck rumbled by on the main road, radio blaring something twangy about second chances and broken hearts.Acenbarely heard it.Hismind was full ofRose—how she’d looked in the golden light outsideTheSilverCatfish, hair falling loose around her shoulders.Theway her eyes had softened when she laughed withDeclan.Howeasy it looked.
Too easy.
He wasn’t ready to give up.Notyet.
But easy?No.NothingaboutRosehadeverbeen easy.Andshe was worth every damn mile of the uphill road.
He looked up, toward the tree line and the distant shimmer of the lake.Somewherein that direction was a woman who used to know his every fault—and loved him anyway, for a while.
Maybe it wasn’t too late.
He straightened his shoulders and took a breath.Gravelcrunched as he turned toward the front of the garage, boots scuffing the edge of his self-made path.
“Where you going?”Rileycalled after him.
Acen glanced back over his shoulder, something new in his eyes.“I’vegot a plan.”
And just like that, he was gone—striding out from behind the garage into the heat and light of the morning, a man finally ready to tell the whole truth.Evenif it meant standing in front of the fire.
Because when it came toRoseMcAllister, half-measures just didn’t cut it anymore.
CHAPTERELEVEN
That afternoon,Rosestepped onto her porch, coffee in hand, planning to strategize for the upcoming playoffs and pretend the town hadn’t exploded around her love life.She’dleftCindyrunning the coffee shop.Herthoughts too tangled and her face too much at the forefront of gossip for her taste.
Home was where she could slow down and think.
The mug was warm against her palms, the chipped ceramic familiar from years of use.Sheeased into her favorite rocker, the one that had belonged to her grandmother, and let the creak of its old joints settle into the rhythm of the cicadas.Thelake glimmered down the hill, the surface broken now and then by a fish jumping or the breeze teasing across it.Ordinarily, this view would calm her, ground her, remind her why she’d stayed when others had left.
Today, though, her chest felt tight, and the coffee tasted bitter despite the three spoonsful of sugar she’d stirred in.
She’d told herself she’d focus on the tournament, map out lineups, run through batting rotations, and maybe draft a practice plan that would keep the women sharp without burning them out.Baseballstrategy had always been her safe place—angles, averages, instincts she trusted more than her own heart.
But before she could settle into that comfort, her gaze snagged on something out of place.
A small wooden box sat on her porch swing.
Her steps slowed, every nerve in her body going taut.Shehadn’t heard a car pull up, hadn’t seen anyone walking up the gravel drive.Thebox was plain golden oak wood, smoothed from age, no markings on the outside.Just… waiting.
Cautious, she set her coffee aside and crossed to it, her bare feet whispering against the planks.Shehalf expected the thing to vanish when she blinked, like something conjured out of her restless thoughts.Butit remained, squat and solid, the afternoon sun warming its edges.
Her hand hovered over the lid before she finally flipped it open.
Inside was a fadedPolaroid.
