Page 64 of Serving Bunt

Sweet, syrup-soaked sourdough heaven.

Their Bananatella waffle sandwich was the best thing I had put in my mouth in months. Well, second best thing.

Diaz’s dick took the cake . . . er, waffle.

I sat cross-legged on a blanket spread over the grass, a paper plate balanced on my knee, watching the game with a ridiculous smile on my face. Mo was curled up beside me on her leash, her little body tucked against my thigh. She’d been surprisingly well-behaved so far, mostly because Diaz kept sneaking her tiny pieces of grilled pork from his plate.

Every time he offered her a bite, her tail would thump wildly against the blanket and she’d look up at him with those big, adoring eyes like he was the best thing since sliced kibble.

I know the feeling, girl.

God, it was hot how good he was with her. I reckoned this was how some women felt when they saw men holding babies, an “ovary explosion,” as my sister, Erin, called it. Similarly, watching Diaz gently scratch behind her ears or slip her another treat made something warm settle deep in my belly.

A brovary explosion.

“You’re going to ruin her appetite for actual dog food,” I told him.

“Please.” He snorted. “I saw you sneak her half of your waffle sandwich.”

“That was one bite,” I protested.

“It was three.”

“She was . . . helping.”

“Helping with what?”

I scratched Mo behind the ears. “Quality control.”

He simply shook his head. God, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this at ease. The American League was up by two in the top of the fifth, and our guys had been a huge part of that success.

Pink had looked sharp in his start, working a clean opening inning and giving up just a single hit. Tucker had already roped a line drive into right field, and Roman’s clutch triple in the fourth had driven in the two runs needed to put the American League ahead.

The rest of our Rose City crew had spread out across the lawn in little clusters. Bennett and Bella were cuddled together on a mountain of pillows, doing lord knew what under the spare quilt from my room.

Abuelita was caught up in an animated discussion with her new best friend, Lolly. The two of them had already exchanged email addresses, and from the looks of things, Lolly would be making a pilgrimage to Puerto Rico someday soon.

With or without Bernice.

Parker had stretched out on a folding chair, chunky pink sunglasses perched on her head as she flirted with one of the guys from the production crew . . . and Penelope.

I was starting to understand why Parker had so many exes.

The woman had one of those personalities that pulled people in without seeming to try. Confidence, charisma, and curves for days—a deadly combination, for sure. She might’ve been my type, if I didn’t already have my eyes on somebody else.

More specifically, on his thighs.

His very thick, very bare thighs.

Diaz was stretched out beside me, looking unfairly good in his “Get Roasted” sleeveless shirt and short shorts. “Hoochie daddy shorts,” as Pink called them, probably because they made you want to hoot at daddies.

Finally, a fashion trend I could get on board with.

His knee brushed mine every so often, a casual point of contact that sent little sparks up my leg. I glanced over at him again, unable to stop myself.

The sleeveless shirt showed off the faint trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of those dangerously short shorts. The thin fabric clung to him just enough to hint at the thick outline of his cock, relaxed but still prominent against his thigh. A few tattoos peeked out from under the hem, including a piece of small, elegant script in Spanish along his inner thigh that I’d traced with my tongue before taking him into my mouth this morning.

He looked like sin wrapped in summer.