Chapter twenty-one
Willow
Trying not to obsess about Ronan Sinclair has me exhausted.
Why does the man have to be so freaking perfect in almost every single way? He’s respectful, kind, humble, talented, and so goddamn sexy it makes me shiver every time I see him. My uncle adores him. He’s the kind of dad every little girl deserves. He loves baseball, possibly even more than I do.
But I can’t date a player.
The number of times I’ve had to remind myself of that fact has grown exponentially over the last few months. It’s like having your favourite, most delicious food laid out in front of you and then being told you can’t touch it, can’t have even one single taste. The longer you sit there, staring at the perfect feast, the more desperate you become to have it. The more willing you are to risk everything.
Ever since the hospital charity event, I’ve felt my defenses starting to crumble. The temptation to give in to what I know he wants is growing. He wants me.And godfuckingdamn it, I want him, too.But I won’t be another woman whose accomplishments are ignored just because of her relationship status. I have always refused to ever be known as Willow Lawson, so-and-so’s girlfriend, just like I have always refused to be known as Willow Lawson, the owner’s niece.
But Ronan is proving to be harder to resist than anyone else in my life ever has been. He’s under my skin, in my head, and he’s cracking the walls around my heart.
However, it seems that freaking annoying thing called fate that Ronan insisted was at play in Hawaii is up to something, yet again. The team is playing a home game later tonight, so who do I run into at a park halfway between Ronan’s house and my apartment when I’m out for a jog?
The Tridents’ new first baseman himself. And his adorable daughter.
I come to a stop, placing my hands on my hips as I try to slow my breathing down to normal. The air is cold as I suck in a breath, and now that I’m not moving, I take the windbreaker off from around my waist and put it back on, zipping it up for some added protection.
Ronan is pushing Peyton on the swings, and I can hear her high-pitched laughter even from the other side of the grassy area. There’s no one else here, just a gorgeous man and his gorgeous daughter…and me. The weirdo who can’t stop thinking about him.
Peyton spies me first, and I see her twist to say something to her dad before pointing at me. Ronan grabs the swing and pulls it to a stop so she can jump off, and the next thing I know, a miniature version of Ronan only with darker hair is running toward me.
“Finish line!” she yells, her arms open wide, and I look at Ronan in confusion. He crouches down and opens his arms, and I instantly mimic the position. Just in time, thank God, as Peyton barrels into me, wrapping her arms around me, almost knocking me over.
“Hi, Willow, got any Skittles?” she asks as she bounces back out of the impromptu hug as Ronan comes jogging up.
“Pey, it’s nine in the morning, you don’t need Skittles.”
I bite my lips together to keep from laughing at the fond, yet exasperated, tone in his voice. He looks to me with an apologetic expression.
“She’s been up since six,” he says with a grimace that Peyton misses, thanks to our height differences. “Figured some morning park time would be a good idea, so maybe there’s an-a-plater.”
“I know what that spells, Daddy.” Peyton pokes him in the thigh, and this time, I don’t succeed in fully concealing my snort of laughter.
“Oh, yeah? If you’re so smart, then you’re smart enough to know that a tired dad is not a fun dad. That nap isn’t just for you, missy.” The teasing growl to his voice is adorable, but also an uncomfortable reminder of how that growly voice sounds in bed.
Awkward.
“Can we play Maui and Moana now? Willow could be Heihei!”
“Willow’s not a chicken.” Ronan chuckles as he lifts his cap off his head and spins it around backward.
Goddamn it, why is that seriously the hottest thing a guy can do? Well, top ten, at least.
His gaze darts over to me. “And I don’t think she wants to play —”
“Excuse me, but that chicken is the best character in the entire movie,” I interject, my hands on my hips. Peyton gives me a toothy grin, and I know that my Disney movie expertise has just won me some points in her mind. “The comedic sidekick is crucial to any good story. How do we play?”
Peyton’s eyes light up. As she starts to babble on about how to play her make-believe game, I chance a quick look over at Ronan. To my surprise, he’s not watching his daughter, he’s watching me, and there’s an indescribable expression on his face. A mix of awe, gratitude, and desire. With something else that I can’t put my finger on.
Thankfully, Peyton’s game seems like a mix of tag and pretend, making it easy to play along, even though I didn’t pay close attention to her instructions. For the next short while, we run around the field and playground, my pride taking a beating as Ibawklike a chicken and flap my arms. However, Peyton’s laughter makes it all worth it.
But when my watch vibrates with a text from Uncle Mike, it sobers me instantly. “Hey, sorry, P, but I gotta get going,” I call out, slightly breathless from running around. Four-year-olds should be personal trainers with how high their energy is. Who needs sprints when you can just chase a kid up, down, and all over a playground.
Peyton dashes over and hugs my legs. “Thanks for playin’ with us.” She looks at Ronan, who’s come up beside us. “Can I go on the slides?”
