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When we were kids selling lemonade, Brooke tended to overprice her goods, eager for more profits. I still remember her ten-year-old self telling me she knew the worth of her lemonade. The day she said that burned me up. I took it to mean she thought she was better than me, which pissed me right off.
If she raised her prices to compete with me now, it would be a huge business mistake. I wondered if it was still her weakness and if her stakes were as high as mine. Did she have bills to pay or a child to raise?
I hadn’t heard that she had a husband or children, but it didn’t mean she didn’t either. I ignored the disappointment that ripped through my chest at the thought. What kept me going with Brooke through the years was that I liked her. If I gave into those feelings and acted on them, we wouldn’t compete anymore. Nothing would be the same. And I enjoyed our rivalry. It fueled me to be the best version of myself.
So, no, I wasn’t worried about Java Coffee. I was excited to get to know my competition and to come out on top. My daughter’s financial stability and my ability to spend more quality time with her depended on my business’s success. I wouldn’t let Brooke Langley stand in my way.
“Do you go to Java Coffee?”
“Not since you hired me on, boss.”
I nodded, pleased at his loyalty. There was nothing I valued more in an employee than hard work and loyalty. Christopher had coordinated the construction while I was in Philadelphia, wrapping up my old job and getting ready for the move. His help was invaluable.
I wanted to give him more responsibilities, but that hinged on the success of Bean Rush. I knew the statistics. Most businesses failed within five years, but I wasn’t your typical business owner. Just like my lemonade stand, I’d come out on top. I was positive Brooke thought her stand was the best, but she always thought that. The reality was something different.
I ignored the twinge in my heart telling me that Brooke came out on top as many times as I did. We were co-valedictorians. There was never a clear winner in our history, but I needed to be the last man standing in this one. My daughter’s future happiness depended on it.
ChapterThree
BROOKE
“Will I be on the Orioles again this year?” Hunter asked.
I glanced in the rearview mirror at my nephew. “I don’t know, buddy.
When my sister, Abby, asked me to take my nephew to his first baseball practice of the season, I was thrilled. I loved spending time with him—and not just at family get-togethers. I enjoyed being part of his daily activities, whether baseball practice or just hanging out and watching a movie.
As a single mother with a photography business, she had difficulty juggling Hunter’s after-school activities, and sometimes, she needed my help.
“What position are you most excited about playing this year?” I relished my alone time with him. Sometimes it made me nostalgic for what I thought I’d have by then—a husband and a child or two.
“Pitcher,” he said without thinking about his answer.
I smiled. “I bet you’ll get a chance to try it.”
Hunter sighed. “You know I pitched last year.”
I’d attended every game I could the year before, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember what position he’d played. “And you were great at it.”
His chest puffed with pride as he looked out of his window. He looked so adorable in his Orioles baseball cap from last year. He’d been so excited for the season to start that he’d worn his full uniform from last year. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he didn’t need to wear it.
I turned at the snack shack and pulled down the dirt road to the gravel lot. Dust flew in the air from the various trucks, minivans, and SUVs pulling in for practice. Parents grabbed chairs and gear while kids ran toward the fields.
I loved everything about baseball season. The playing of the national anthem at the beginning of every game, the crack of the bat, and the joy when a kid ran home for the first time.
When I parked, Hunter unbuckled, opened his door, and said impatiently, “Come on.”
“Hold on.” I hurried to the trunk, pulled out his baseball bag, and helped him put it on his shoulders. “You sure you need both of your bats?”
“Yes,” he said, his tone irritated. Then he walked off without waiting for me.
I slung the camp chair over my shoulder and followed him to field eleven. There were twelve fields total, and we were on the very last one. “This is a trek, isn’t it?”
But Hunter must have spotted a friend because he took off at a jog without responding.
“It certainly is. You ready for another baseball season?” One of the moms came up next to me, pulling one of those collapsible wagons with a younger child riding in it and two more kids walking next to it. Both kids carried bags with bats.
“I love it.” I nodded at Hunter, who was talking to a friend animatedly as he hung his bag on the fence. “Hunter’s my nephew.”
