Page 46 of I Saw You First

“Baseball career, huh? I have questions,” Abbey says but Lisa brings our food before she can ask.

“Another beer?” Lisa asks. “How about you, hon? Another margarita?”

I nod as I lift my bottle and drain it. Abbey asks for water. She practically inhales those two tacos. I accidentally knock my elbow against her arm as I lift a huge forkful of cheesy, meaty goodness to my mouth and a streak of warmth like sunshine travels up through my arm, into my chest.

“That smells so good,” she says under her breath.

“You want a bite?” The question comes out of nowhere. I’m not the kind of person who shares their food, but there’s something about Abbey and this night that makes me want to give her half of everything I own. No, not half. All of it. Everything.

She looks at me, eyes wide, like this is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. “Are you serious?”

I use my fork to cut off a large piece of enchilada and hold it up to her mouth. She gapes, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Come on,” I say. “Take a bite.” My voice is low, husky, and her eyes grow even wider at how dirty and raw this sounds.

She leans over and opens her mouth, and I feed her. I can’t take my eyes off her as she closes her lips around the food and her eyes flutter shut. Then she whimpers, and I’m half hard at the sound.

“Oh my god,” she says. “The cheese.”

A drop of enchilada sauce drips from the corner of her mouth to her chin, and I’m seized with an intense urge to lean over and lick it, lick up her jaw to her earlobe, kiss my way back to her lips. She notices the sauce and dabs at it with a finger, and I’d give anything to be able to draw that finger to my mouth and suck on it.

I clear my throat and turn away. “Good, right?” I ask, my voice thick and shaky. I take a deep breath. Calm the fuck down, I think. This is your employee.

She drains the last of her margarita and sets it down with a loud bang. She’s not oblivious to my impropriety, or maybe she’s feeling the intensity of our contact, too. “So, ah, what do you like to do in your spare time? Besides go to shows?”

I jab my fork into the sour cream and spread it on the chalupa. “Managers work a minimum of fifty hours a week. I don’t have much spare time.”

“I overheard you tell Sam that you were planning to volunteer at some fall festival.”

“Yeah, it’s a fundraiser for the Hometown League.”

“Oh, the nonprofit.” Her face lights up. “Tell me about it.”

I launch into an explanation of the nonprofit youth sports organization for kids and young adults with disabilities, and her eyes—god, those eyes—glimmer with interest. That’s one thing about Abbey Rhodes—she gives you her full attention and really listens to what you’re saying… or not saying.

“There are thirty-two leagues right now, one in every major city with a Hometown Electronics store,” I say. “They each serve two to three hundred athletes every year, people who would otherwise not have the opportunity to participate on a sports team. The Twin Cities league has been around the longest and has the most teams, and we’ve got a few outstate teams, too.”

“That’s amazing. And your dad—he started the nonprofit?” she asks with a note of incredulity.

“Absolutely not. It was my mother’s idea. She did the work, and he took the credit.”

“No offense, but that sounds like something he would do.”

“None taken,” I say almost cheerfully. “I completely agree with you.”

“What do you like best about it?”

What don’t I like about it? I get to play ball, for one. There’s nothing like the crack of a bat or the thwump of the ball hitting the center of your glove. I love working with the kids, teaching them the game and how to be a good teammate. Being out on the field with those athletes—who’ve overcome some of life’s worst challenges—settles me, calms me, gives me the perspective I need.

I tell her all of this and then huff out a laugh. “But you know what? The best thing is that I’m the best version of myself when I’m out on the ball field.” I swallow hard, not sure how she’ll take this sappy admission.

She surprises me by reaching over, squeezing my hand, and then letting go, much too soon. I let out a long breath.

“And your mom?” she asks quietly. “Is she still involved?”

That space in my heart cracks a little at her question, the place where I keep my grief locked up and inaccessible. “No. She essentially lost the nonprofit in the divorce, too.”

“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry.”