Page 90 of I Wish He Would

Her eyes light up. “You’re the best.” She takes a long sip and hums. “That’s delicious.”

I take a swig of my own, then set the drink down on the white tablecloth. I grab a plate before looking over the options. “I don’t know what half of this stuff is.” I lean in closer, reading the placard. “Seriously, what the heck is foie gras mousse?”

“I don’t think you want to know.” She wrinkles her nose.

I grab a mango-glazed shrimp and a bacon-wrapped scallop. “I think I’ll stick with the things I can pronounce.”

“Same.” She pops a tomato from a caprese-salad skewer into her mouth. “You know what I always thought was a great idea for wedding food?”

“Only dessert tables?”

“I mean, that would be the dream.” Her lips twitch like she’s fighting back a smile. “But for people who say cookies don’t fulfill all the food groups, I think it would be fun to have a wide assortment of food trucks. Like those gyros we love after games and the cute taco truck that’s always set up outside the stadium. The burger truck Kelsey and Tyler are always talking about. The options are endless.”

“I think that’s a great idea. There would be something for everyone.”

“Exactly.” She gestures to the foie gras and escargot. “But we could skip the French truck.”

We walk over to a cocktail table and set our plates and drinks down. My heart pounds in my chest. “You said we.”

“What?” She eats the basil and mozzarella ball from her skewer.

“You said we could skip the French truck.” I brush a curl back from her face. She’s wearing it all down today for the formal event, and while she looks amazing, I miss the scarves in her hair. It feels like a piece of her is missing. A piece of the girl I’m falling hard and fast for. “You thinking of our wedding already?” I shrug, playing it cool even though my heart is racing. “I was thinking something more along the lines of taking you on a date when I get home.”

A blush climbs her cheeks. “I’d like that.”

She doesn’t say anything about the wedding, but she doesn’t have to. Her eyes say it all. They’re glowing and hopeful. And in them, I see our future.

Since the start of the cocktail hour, Austin has been bombarded by wedding guests wanting pictures and asking him all sorts of baseball-related questions. It feels a little bit like our paradise bubble has popped, but I don’t mind. I could sit and listen to him talk about sports for hours with the way it makes his face light up like a kid on Christmas morning.

But it doesn’t hold a candle to the way he looks at me.

Today, I’m happy just to be the proud girlfriend standing next to him, silently cheering him on. I still can’t get over the fact that I finally get to call him my boyfriend. We’ve been so busy—kissing, obviously—but I’m determined to talk more about the future tonight. I know my besties will demand to know every little detail at our weekly girls’ night tomorrow.

“It’s an honor to meet you.” Another wedding guest shakes Austin’s hand. He looks vaguely familiar, probably someone I met at one of the country club events I attended with Bradley years ago. “Your batting average this season is insane, man. What’s the secret to your success?”

My mind flashes back to the clip I saw of the reporter asking Austin that same question after the game he played out of his mind. That night he told the reporter it was just a lucky day, and it felt like another nail in the coffin, placing me firmly in the friend zone. But tonight, he looks down at me like I’m the answer to everything.

“A whole lot of practice and being surrounded by people who support you every step of the way. The ones who help you pick yourself up and carry on after the hard games and who celebrate every win with you. That’s the key to success.” Austin slides his hand down to my waist. “At least, it’s mine.”

I thought the only time I’d hear Austin talk about me like this was in my dreams. But hearing him credit his success to me—to a stranger, nonetheless—is my new kryptonite. My entire body hums, wanting to be closer to him.

I settle for squeezing his arm. “Austin’s being modest. He’s got more talent in his pinky finger than most people do in their entire body.”

“You’ve got that right.” The guy points at me before turning back to Austin. “You know, I actually used to be pretty good myself back in the day. I was a starter for my high school team.”

“Is that so?”

No one else would be able to notice the slight inflection in Austin’s tone, but I catch it and duck my head to hide my amused smile. We’ve had multiple conversations about this topic. How random fans will approach him and talk about their glory days from high school baseball and how they would’ve gone pro if not for an injury or living in such a small town.

“Yeah, I was a pitcher. Everyone said I would’ve made it big if I hadn’t torn my rotator cuff my junior year.” He rubs his shoulder. “My pitching was never the same after that.”

Yep, there it is. It’s always some version of the same thing, but Austin takes the comment in stride, as he always does. “I’d have loved to have seen you play.”

The man’s smile is wider than the state of Texas. “I wish you could’ve seen my slider.” He holds up his hands. “It’s nowhere near as good as Fletcher’s, but it was unhittable back in my school district.”

“We’ll have to get you to one of my games so you can see Fletch’s in person.”

His eyes light up. “That’d be great. Thanks, man.”