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Lightning flashes in those eyes. “Tell me,Morgan. What's an accountant doing coaching baseball?”
You’re mad, Cass, I silently remind myself as guilt threatens to take over.Stay mad.
“Stop with the little innocent act, baby. It’s not gonna work on me again.” I risk a step closer, telling myself it’s for privacy’s sake and not because I enjoy how much she has to crane her neck to keep meeting my gaze, because I want a closer look at the dark flush creeping up her neck. “I lied but so did you.”
“About having a kid?” Her laugh is humorless, outraged even. “I didn’t realize I had to disclose my parental status to a one-night stand.”
“I don’t give a shit about your kid.” When Sunday flinches, it strikes me that maybe that came out the wrong way, but I’m too far gone to backtrack. “You knew exactly who I was, so cut the bullshit.”
Sunday crosses her arm over her chest, so pretty in her defiance. “No, I didn’t.”
She’s lying to my face and still, my brain moons over the pout of her lips, the lilting cadence of her voice, the fabric now drawn tight over her chest, around her hips.
At the risk of sounding like my young nieces and nephews, I retort, “Yes, you did.”
“God, how the hell do you get anywhere with that ego weighing you down?” Sunday snorts, taking a step forward only to immediately back up again when it brings us chest-to-chest. Or maybe chest-to-forehead is more accurate. Jesus, I feel like I’m arguing with fucking Thumbelina. “Even if you’d told me your real name, I wouldn’t have known who you were.Cass Morganmeans nothing to me.”
I laugh, bitter and maybe a little self-righteous. “So you’re telling me it’s a coincidence? Someone else just so happened to sell a story on their magical New Year’s Eve with me? I fucked someone else in my car and forgot about it?”
Something between a wince and a glare twists Sunday’s face as she jerks slightly. “Yes, Cass. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
Something about her tone, so strong and clear, has a shred of doubt fighting to be heard but I ignore it. It’s Occam’s razor, right? The simplest explanation is the truth. Her selling me out is way simpler than… what? Someone seeing us together and pretending to be Sunday, sharing very specific details of my anatomy while miraculously respecting the mystery girl’s privacy? Nah. “You know, if you wanted the big bucks, you should’ve gone for the ‘I’m carrying his baby’ headline. Really commit to the invasion of privacy.”
Through gritted teeth, Sunday insists, “I didn’t go for any headline because I had nothing to do with that story.”
“I don’t believe you.” Mostly. Imostlydon’t believe her.
“That's your prerogative.” Sunday shrugs, like she couldn’t care less what I believe. “But I’m telling the truth.”
“I—” I bite my tongue before it lashes another witless comeback. God, I’m too old for this. Bickering in broad daylight, swapping snark with a stranger like a disgruntled child on the playground. I’m supposed to bemaking nice, not making things worse. “Fine,” I force out. “Whatever you say. Just stay away from me and my family.”
Frustration leaves Sunday on a heavy exhale. “That’s gonna be a little hard,Coach.”
Fuck. I sigh, hands on my hips as I stare—maybeglarejust a little—in the direction of a kid I’m sure is glaring right back, the reason I’m gonna have to see Sunday at least three times a week for the foreseeable future.
“Are you—” An unfinished sentence draws my gaze back to Sunday. In the blink of an eye, I watch her bravado die, replaced by something quietly desperate. “Don’t let this affect August. Please. He really, really wants to be on the team.”
Again, the easier option strikes me first. To take on the role of karma and deny her kid a spot on the team. Make someone else’s life as shitty as mine is lately.
But…fuck. I can’t do that. I’m pissed off but I’m not a monster. “Don’t tell anyone,” for some reason, that coaxes a laugh out of her, “but that spot is his.”
A single sentence and everything about her changes. Her eyes light up, cautiously hopeful. The tension in her stance eases, one crossed arm lifting to tuck the few errant strands escaping a braid behind her ear. Plump lips stretch into a hesitant smile, murmur a disbelieving, “Really?”
Just like that, I forget for a second. Who she is, what she did—what she says she didn’t do, what my gut, if I really listen to it, says she didn’t do, but what something in me remains convinced she did. She smiles and I only see the woman from the bar who made me forget for a little while.
But then someone yells my name. I hear that all-too familiar snap of a photo being taken. I swear I see a flash too.
And Sunday steps closer.
She doesn’t back up like someone who’d rather not be front page news would. She does a pretty convincing flinch-and-grimace duo, I’ll give her that, but there’s no mistaking the sudden lack of distance between us, and it’s as telling as it is disappointing.
Some tabloid called me a magpie once. Always distracted by pretty, shiny things.
Sunday is the prettiest, shiniest thing, and I can’t afford to be distracted these days.
So, I walk away.
4
