Page 9 of View With Your Heart

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” she replies. It strikes me that she’s more beautiful than I remember. Her face is lightly tanned, making those blue eyes gleam under the shadow of the ball cap bill. Her lips remain rosy, and I want to step closer to see if she still has freckles scattered across her nose.

She glances away from me to her son, and I finally stop gawking at her, recalling we have an audience.

“Hey.” I nod at him, rushing forward with my hand outstretched. “Gavin Scott.”

Her son opens his mouth to speak, but Britton interjects. “His name is Gee.”

“Mom,” he drones again. “I can speak for myself.”

“Excuse me,” she whispers, but I sense that tone is mom-speak for don’t talk to me like that.

“Gee. That’s a cool name,” I state. It reminds me of my nickname from when I was a child.

“It’s a nickname,” he clarifies. We all stand in awkward silence a second before I recall why I’m standing where I am.

“You play baseball?” I’m stating the obvious.

“Yeah, my team is going to Cooperstown this year, and I’m trying to get in extra batting practice.” He tips a brow at his mother, and she places her hands on her hips.

“Mom’s not cutting it?” I tease, shifting to look at Britton but realizing I shouldn’t as she takes my breath away. Britton is a mom, and it agrees with her. “Is your dad better?”

Suddenly, the temperature around us drops ten degrees, and it’s not an atmospheric shift.

“My dad’s dead,” Gee says softly, and my lids slowly lower.

Shit. Shit.

I turn to Britton. “I’m so sorry.”

She nods once and steps closer to her son, wrapping an arm around his back. “It’s been three years.” With her hand cupping his shoulder, she gently jostles him. “Patrick would have done better.”

Patrick. That was her husband’s name. She was married. Of course, she was married, but now she’s a widow. Jesus, she’s too young for this.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, finding myself inept at saying anything more intelligent or sympathetic or just change the freakin’ subject.

“So.” I clear my throat. “I’m an old friend of your mom’s. You might have heard of me.” I glance up at Britton, but as her eyes widen, I realize . . .” Or not. But I played ball in California. Pitching was my original position, but eventually, I played first base. Maybe I could throw you a couple of pitches.” I tip a brow at Britton before turning back to the kid. “What position do you play?”

“I wanted to be a pitcher too, but my friend got the spot because his dad is the coach.” Ouch. Yeah, I remember those things happening when I was young too. “Now I play in the outfield because I’m a lefty, and I can throw far.” The lack of enthusiasm in his voice tells me this is not his choice position.

“I didn’t love being first base either, at first, and my dad was the coach. He had me as the pitcher, but when I got to college, they moved me. First base was good for me.” My eyes leap to Britton, wondering if she remembers first base with me. My mouth waters as I recall the taste of her. The feel of her lips against mine. The way she eagerly kissed me. Then I shame myself for daydreaming about the mom when I’m trying to help the kid.

“Do you still play ball?” Gee asks, and I swipe a hand through my hair to refocus.

“No. I broke my wrist. I couldn’t throw after that, and other opportunities came up for me.”

“Cool,” Gee says. My eyes return to Britton, wondering if she remembers anything about us. If she remembers that summer. If she remembers that one weekend like I do. “So, can you still pitch?”

“I think Mr. Scott might have other plans this evening,” Britton says, and I exaggerate, looking around me.

“Mr. Scott? Is my dad here?” I chuckle while Britton frowns.

“We use proper addresses with adults. It’s a sign of respect.”

Oh. Right.

“I can be Gavin,” I state, but Britton shakes her head.

Jeez. Tough mom.