Her gaze snaps to mine before she rolls her eyes. Giggling, she says, “Are you ever going to stop asking me that? Since when have I not offered you something I’ve cooked inyourkitchen?”
“If this were five months ago, I’d say yes, you absolutely would cook only enough for yourself,” I tease her. She smiles as she shakes her head. “It’s okay if you did. You don’t have to feed me. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Eating fast food for dinner every night isn’t exactly taking care of yourself,” she says pointedly. “Honestly, I’m surprised you’ve done so well in the majors with that diet. It’s incredibly important how you fuel your body. Look at how well you’re doing. I have to assume there’s a correlation between my meal plan and your stats.”
“Maybe it’s just you,” I murmur quietly, watching as Layla flits around the kitchen. I think it is her. Yeah, the meal plan doesn’thurt. I’ve found a lot of food I can tolerate. But having her in my daily life has made the biggest difference.
I’m beginning to think she’s my missing link.
Two hours later, after quite possibly the best chicken dish of my life, we’re lounging on my couch as Marilyn and Muriel roam around in their balls. I’ve got my gas fireplace on, more for ambiance than anything heat-related, and we’re quietly watching the flames dance around the fake wood. Out in the distance, lightning flashes with an approaching storm. Spring weather in Colorado is temperamental. It might be a thunderstorm, but it could also be snow. When someone told me the snowiest months in Colorado are March and April, I thought they were joking. Turns out they weren’t.
We have the sliding glass door open an inch, letting in a cool breeze ahead of the storm, and Layla grabs a throw blanket I have hanging on the edge of the couch, snuggling underneath it. I don’t think I’ve ever used it. It was here when I moved in, and I rarely sit in my living room to relax. Scooting a little closer to her, I pull the blanket over to cover me as well, then slide an arm underneath Layla, pulling her into my side. We’re both quiet for a few minutes as we watch the lightning.
During daylight hours, this is the closest I’ve been to Layla in weeks, and my body buzzes with endorphins. Tonight feels different. But more than that, I feel a peace in my soul I’ve never felt before. Sitting in my apartment, which feels more like home than ever, I’m acutely aware of how much she’s brought into my life, and I’m so fucking scared of what might happen when she realizes I’ve lied to her.
“I wonder if Becca is watching the storm right now,” Layla muses, jolting me from my thoughts.
“She does seem to get absurdly excited about the weather,” I murmur. Jax’s wife beams whenever she has an opportunity to talk about the weather. It’s oddly cute. I’m sure at some point in my career, I was able to talk about baseball with excitement and happiness. Honestly, even looking back to my last few years in Bridge Point, I’m not sure when that childlike excitement went away. I still love baseball. But I used to be shocked to get paid to do what I loved. Now it’s more of a job than a privilege. Without thought, I blurt out, “Do you think I should retire?”
Layla turns to me, studying me for a moment, before finally speaking. “Do you want to retire?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I think maybe mentally I do. I know tons of guys are forced to retire because of injury or the wear and tear this career puts on our bodies. I’ve been incredibly lucky. But sometimes I wake up and lament the fact that I have to go to work.”
“I think that’s normal for any job,” she comments. “I certainly have days where I have no desire to work with you guys.”
Chuckling, I squeeze my arm around her, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “Please. You love dealing with me. You probably get off on antagonizing me.”
Layla giggles softly. “It has been fun watching steam come out of your ears every time I’ve called you Sunshine.”
I rest my head against the back of the couch, reaching up to drag my left hand through my hair. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Of course.”
I take a deep breath. “I really like when you call me Sunshine. I’ve never had someone call me a name other than babe before. Babe seems so vague and impersonal. Sunshine is unique, and shows you actually know me a little. It’s why I call you Peaches.”
“And to get on my nerves,” she retorts.
I smirk. “I know you like it, Lay. Don’t even lie.”
She sighs. “I didn’t … at first. And I agree with you on babe. It’s a dime a dozen. Anyone can be called babe. I have girlfriends who call anyone and everyone babe. But the couple of times you’ve called me baby … I really liked that. It’s sweeter. More romantic. Has more meaning behind the word.”
“Have you ever had a man call you something like this before?” I ask quietly. I don’t want to ask about her previous relationships, but I feel like I have to know. I want to know everything about this woman. Dropping my hand from my hair, I slip it along her arm until I reach her hand. She intertwines our fingers without pause.
“I had a guy call me babe, and I hated it. He always seemed to whine the word. Baaaaabe,” she says, mimicking the man. “But baaaabe … God. It was awful. It was probably the most petty reason I broke up with someone for. I couldn’t stand his voice, though, and the thought of suffering through it for the rest of my life was enough to make me end it.”
Layla releases my hand, but begins to lightly stroke my fingers. Her gaze is locked on the storm outside as it comes closer. We can hear the thunder more, especially when Marilyn and Muriel aren’t zooming past the couch in their balls. Those balls on hard flooring are actually louder than I would have thought.
“I ended a date early because the woman laughed like a hyena,” I confess. “The sound reverberated across the entire restaurant. It takes a lot for me to be embarrassed about something, but that was enough. I didn’t think we were that compatible anyway, so it was an easy thing to do.”
“That makes me feel so much better,” Layla says with a breathy laugh. “Frankly, life is too short to waste time on people who don’t make me happy or fill my cup. I don’t have to settle for someone who irritates me, as much as my mom would love to see me married and popping out babies.”
“You’re close with your mom?” I ask, closing my eyes as Layla continues to lightly drag her nails over my skin.
“I am. She’d have preferred if I stayed closer to her, but I try to make time to get home whenever I can. It was easier when I was in Atlanta, though.”
“Where does she live?”
“In South Florida. I was raised in South Carolina, and after my dad died, and I’d graduated from high school, we moved.”
