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Momentarily, I’m distracted by her lips wrapping around the spoon, by the soft, pleased noise she makes, by the bob of her throat as she swallows. Only when she waves the utensil, a silent gesture for me to continue, do I snap out of it. Slumping, I stretch my arms above my head—and hallucinate Sunday eyeing the flex of my biceps—before cupping the back of my neck, thumbs tracing the cursive words tattooed there. “It made sense, okay? I read the article. It was…”
Sunday winces. “Invasive?”
“Specific.” Pierced genitalia level specific. “I just—wait, you read it?”
Another wince. “I was curious. I wanted to understand why you were so convinced it was me, and I do. I get that you knew me for, like, four seconds—”
Do not make a joke about lasting way longer than four seconds.
“—and I get that all the big, neon-lettered signs pointed to me but…” She blows out a breath, metal clanging as she drops her spoon and copies my slumped position. “I guess I just hate that you thought I’d do that. And that I’d chase after you like some stalker, dragging my freakingsonalong for the ride.”
“If it makes you feel any better, that part really confused me.”
Her laugh makes me wonder if maybe it does.
“I really am sorry.”
Silent, Sunday stares at me. Assesses me for long enough to make me sweat before nodding, such a slight movement flooding me with relief. “I’m sorry too. For what I said about you being taken by half of Chicago.”
“Don’t be.” The corner of my mouth curls upwards. Yeah, it pissed me off in the moment, but honestly? “It was funny. And I deserved it.”
“It was mean.”
“I’m used to a little mean.” When her frown doesn’t relent, I sigh. “I like sex, Sunday. Does it suck when that gets thrown in my face like it’s a bad thing? Yeah. But I’m not ashamed of it. And if I get mad about every little joke or dig then that’s just enforcing the idea that it’s wrong.”
“That’s a kinda twisted rationalization.”
“I’ve been told I need a new therapist.”
She laughs, a real laugh, and if I could keep that sound—that wheezy, raspy, exhausted sound—forever, replay it whenever I wanted, I would.
“If you want nothing to do with me, I get it. But if you’re okay with it, I’d like a clean slate.”
“A clean slate,” she mulls over my suggestion, “to be, like, friends?”
Yeah. Okay. I see where Luna is coming from.
She is fucking adorable.
Especially when her gaze drops to her fidgeting hands, red flushes freckled cheeks, and a nervous squeak sharpens her soft, Southern twang. “And we just forget about…it?”
“It?” I can’t help but probe. “Tall task, Sunday.”
“Stop it.”
“You ask too much of a man.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
Honest, actually, but I’ll let her think I’m joking. Leaning forward, I hold out a hand. “Cass Morgan.”
Her smile is slow but it’s a smile. And she takes my hand, slender fingers wrapping around mine, and shakes gingerly. “Sunday Lane.”
“I studied accounting in college,” I add for good measure. “But I’m a baseball player now. And a coach, temporarily.”
Sunday’s smile grows, a breathy laugh leaving her. “I’m a teacher. And a mom.”
One day, I’ll ask her about that. I’ll find out how andwhythat jackass from the field gets the privilege of calling her kid ‘son.’ I’ll clarify that when I said I didn’t give a fuck about her kid, I meant I didn’t care she was a mom, that if she told me that night, it wouldn’t have changed anything.
