Page 38 of Third Strike Smitten

She laughs and slides in, and I close the door behind her before rounding the front of the car. When I get in and start the engine, she's already looking around at the interior with that curious expression. I’m guessing she's cataloguing information she plans to use against me later.

"Nice car," she says.

"Thanks."

"Does it have a name?"

I glance at her sideways. "No."

"Liar. Everyone names their cars."

“What did you name yours?”

“His name is Cletus.”

I toss my head back in laughter. “Cletus? What the hell kind of name is Cletus?”

“A very respectable one, thank you very much,” she tells me while also laughing. “And also, I didn’t name him. Tara did.”

“Who’s Tara?”

“Tara Pichler, my roommate. She’s also a flight attendant but she flies commercial so we don’t see a ton of each other. We share the apartment. It works out well for us. Now, what’s her name?”

“Why do you assume my car has a female name?”

She shrugs. “Call it a hunch.”

I finally huff out an exasperated yet amused breath. "Alright, her name is Diane and we don't talk about her, alright? She’s shy."

“Whatever you say.” Isla dissolves into laughter, and I pull away from the curb feeling something I haven't felt before a date in a very long time.

Nervous.

Not the kind of nervous that crawls up my spine before a game, all sharp edges and self-doubt. This is something else. Something quieter and somehow more unsettling. Like standing on the mound in a stadium I've never pitched in before. Everything looks familiar enough, but nothing is quite where I expect it to be.

"Diane," Isla repeats, testing the name like she's trying to decide if she approves. "Does Diane know she's your second favorite girl after baseball?"

"Diane doesn't ask questions," I say. "That's why we get along."

"Smart woman." She laughs again, and I feel the tension in my shoulders ease by about half. This is the thing about Isla Fallon that I can't quite figure out. She has this way of making everything feel lighter without even trying. Without even meaning to. She just opens her mouth and suddenly the air in the room weighs less.

Or in this case, the air in Diane.

But we don't talk about Diane.

I merge onto the main road, the city lights beginning to blur past the windows. Isla turns to watch them, her elbow propped on the door, her chin resting in her palm. The green dress shifts against her knee when she crosses her legs and I keep my eyes on the road like my life depends on it.

Which, frankly, it might.

"You're not going to give me any hints?" she asks.

"Nope."

"What if I hate it?"

"You won't."

She hums. "That's a bold claim."