Page 17 of Double Play

I hate that Isaiah was right.

“Need any help?” I ask, needing something to do with my hands before I do something reckless like reach across this counter and tug Declan toward me.

“Just the door in a minute. The grill is on the roof.”

Declan unwraps the brown butcher paper to reveal two thick steaks. He opens cabinets and pulls out spices, dousing each side of the meat with the collection he gathered. Turning for his fridge, he removes a few ears of corn, still covered by the husk.

“Want to shuck these?” He holds up one cob to emphasize all of them.

“Sure.” Sliding off the stool, I’m eager to have a task. Too many thoughts run through my head, and I’m starting to wonder how long Isaiah will be on the phone. Leaving Declan and I alone isn’t only awkward, it’s dangerous.

Because as much as I hate to admit it, Declan Wylde still stirs me up. As soon as I step closer to him, in the cramped proximity of his kitchen, my body goes haywire.

Nipples tighten. Clit pulses. Heart rate accelerates. My body recognizes something powerful is nearby and wants access to whatever that energy will provide.

Standing in the unsexy position of pulling corn husks off the cob, I’m leaning over the trash can, when Declan brushes his hand against my hip as he passes behind me.

This is the third slip-of-the-touch, and I should be offended. I should ask him not to touch me, but something has me holding my tongue.

A memory hits me again. The way he couldn’t keep his hands off me once we started what we’d started. Little things like a brush of his pinky against mine. The brief placement of his palm on my lower back. Or his hand on my hip, like he needed to move me out of his way, when it was just a ploy to touch me.

When Declan turns back toward me, he says, “What?”

“What what?” I blink, pulled from the simple memory catalogued in my brain as insignificant but something still stuffed in the file labeled Declan Wylde as important.

“You have a strange look on your face.”

You touched me, I should defend. But the sound of my retort softens in my head. You touched me. Spoken with tender surprise and passionate yearning.

I want him to touch me again.

The thought is misguided. Declan and I are not the same two people we were more than a decade ago. He’s a single father. I’m a new divorcée.

Life has . . . happened.

I don’t know this new version of Declan. A year ago I didn’t recognize myself. And the last thing I need is the distraction of a lingering attraction to someone from my past.

Because that’s the best place for Declan Wylde and his soft touches. The past.

But after Declan clears his throat and we silently finish prepping food, he leads me to the stairwell and then allows me to go in front of him, like the gentleman he is. Yet I feel his eyes on my backside, forcing me to take one slow step in front of the other, like I’m pulling him behind me, leading us toward the future.

Eyes on the ball. Aiming for the outfield.

Once we reach the rooftop, the view is stunning. The setting sun. The glistening river. A city alive with bright neon lights and the hint of music.

I love Nashville.

“It will take a few minutes for the steaks to cook,” Declan says after setting the steaks on the grill. “Let me pop back downstairs for our drinks, and we can sit up here while we wait.”

After a nod from me, Declan exits the roof but quickly returns. My wine glass is refilled. He holds a glass of water filled to the rim with ice for himself.

Taking a seat on a wooden bench that squares off a section of the roof, we remain quiet while I sip my wine, and he drinks his water. A steady breeze blows over the rooftop, hot and heavy, like the distance between Declan and me. Or maybe that’s this nervous energy suddenly heating my insides.

I should say something, but I don’t know what to say. I’m never at a loss for words, which is what makes me so good at my job. I’m quick on my feet, fast with a question. But now, my tongue is completely tied as I sit across from Declan.

Thankfully, he saves me from my rising anxiety when his brows cinch and he speaks. “So, Isaiah mentioned your health earlier . . .”

I raise a hand to stop him. “I’m good⁠—”