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Something hard smacks the door to our right. “Fuck you!”
I sigh heavily and a knot forms between my shoulder blades. The pendulum swings on the mood spectrum. Guess we’re back to crazy.
Can’t wait to see what Friday night will bring.
“You have company!”
Silence. The door squeaks as it slowly opens.
“Hello, Ryan. ” Beth rests her hip against the door frame and my heart stutters. She changed from the T-shirt to a black tank top, exposing a hint of beautiful cleavage. “See. I told you he stares. ”
Damn. I do. And I did it right in front of Scott Risk.
Scott claps my back. “It’s okay. But try not to stare too hard in front of me. At some point I’ll stop finding it amusing and might have to kick your ass. And Elisabeth? Fuck isn’t allowed. ”
She shrugs, clearly not caring what’s allowed.
“Get yourself together,” Scott says to Beth.
“I’m going to talk to Ryan for a bit, then you can go. ”
Beth glances at her clothes. “I am together. ”
“I see skin. Lots of it. Come back out when there is less skin. ”
She sighs and does this slow pivot. As she walks into her room her hips have this easy sway that makes me stare—once again.
“I received something yesterday that you’ll appreciate. ” Scott crosses the foyer to the room opposite Beth’s and motions for me to follow.
The moment I enter the large office I’m in awe. Baseball. Everywhere. Jerseys in glass frames. Balls. Bats. Cards in display cases.
Scott pulls out a see-through box and hands it to me. My mouth gapes. “Babe Ruth. You have a baseball signed by Babe Ruth?”
“Yes. ” Scott flashes a smile, the kind I understand; this office is hallowed ground. The phone on his large mahogany desk rings. “Give me a sec. ”
I start to head out when Scott stops me.
“Stay. This won’t take long. ”
I love this man. I could spend hours in this office drooling over his stuff. Speaking in correct grammar and a business voice, Scott chats on the phone. I hover over a bat signed by Nolan Ryan. This could be my office someday. Hell no. This will be me.
Across the room is a table of framed pictures. Scott and Pete Rose. Scott and Albert Pujols. The picture frames are angled slightly toward the center of the table. Each person in the frame more important than the last.
When I get to the middle, I see a wedding picture of Scott and his wife and my respect for the man grows. He values his family.
I frown when I spot the small 4x7 photograph. It’s of a child and Scott. At least I think it’s Scott. I pick it up. He’s young and looks dorky wearing the old-school version of the Bullitt County High baseball uniform. He holds a girl. Barely out of toddler years. Maybe five. Entwined and pinned everywhere in her long blond hair are pink ribbons. The white fluffy dress makes her look like a princess. She has her arms squeezed tight around Scott’s neck. Her smile is contagious and her eyes are the deep blue of an ocean, almost exactly like…
“Elisabeth loved ribbons,” Scott says behind me. “Bought them for her every chance I could. ”
No way. “This is Beth?”
He takes the frame from me and gently places it back as the very center picture on the table. “Yes. ”
He says it with the heaviness of a man mourning. Hell, I guess he is grieving. Beth is a far cry from the happy child in that photo.
Scott’s lighthearted tone returns. “I picked Allison up from a dinner last night and ran into your mom. She said you finaled in a state writing competition. ”
My eyes flicker away. Dad must love that everyone in town now knows. “Yeah. ”
