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It was probably pointless for Tess to shout that to the man after he grabbed his beer and ran at top speed out of the bar and into the pro shop. He wasn’t going to stick around long enough to pay for it anyway, just in case Tess decided to grab a lighter instead of his beer.
“Listen, I think you need to—”
“I think you all need to shut the hell up!” I shout, making all of them shut the hell up and stare at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which I probably have. Too bad this isn’t a recent loss, and I’m pretty sure I lost it in eighth grade, the first time I ever saw Shepherd Oliver take his shirt off.
“I’m sorry, but none of you are helping right now,” I continue, softening my voice so I don’t hurt their feelings. “I feel like I’m going crazy. He did these incredibly sweet and amazing things for me, and I owe him so much for that and I’m so grateful, but a part of me is just still so angry. He just brings out the mean in me, and I don’t know why.”
Birdie gets up from her bar stool and moves to the one right next to mine, wrapping her arm around my waist and resting her chin on my shoulder.
“I know you haven’t had any experience with this since sperm donor certainly never brought this out of you. You’ve refused to ever have a one-night stand again since then. The one relationship you had lasted three months, just because you were both too nice to break it off sooner absolutely doesn’t count. Nor do the handful of awful blind dates you’ve been set up on,” she says quietly. “But Wren… Shepherd doesn’t bring the mean out of you. He brings out the fire. There’s a big difference. Why do you think I spend half my time arguing with Palmer? Because it’s fun. And it’s especially fun making up.”
As I swipe at the tears on my cheeks, Tess nods from behind the bar.
“Sadly, that’s true. Bodhi drives me up the goddamn wall, but man does he make up for it later on.”
Since Birdie’s right and I have absolutely no experience with any of this, I’ll just have to take their word for it. And not collapse into another pile of tears, because even though it secretly has been kind of fun giving Shepherd hell the last week, none of what they’re saying matters. He’s still not mine. I still don’t get the benefits that they’re so helpfully reminding me aren’t available to me.
“Right, well, if you guys will excuse me, I have a crafter to apologize to,” I tell them, sliding off my stool, giving them all a smile I don’t feel, and heading toward the double French doors that will take me outside.
“Grab the bat from my golf cart just in case!” Murphy shouts after me.Thwack.
My heart skips in my chest when I hear the sound of a bat connecting with a ball, not just because it’s one of my favorite sounds in the world, but because of who made it. My heart always tries to jump out of my chest whenever I see Shepherd step up to the plate and power through a swing.
I’ve been sitting in the bleachers for the last fifteen minutes since I got to the high school, just watching Shepherd hit a bucket of balls on the empty field while school is still in session. He’s not in his uniform with the ass-hugging pants, but it doesn’t matter. Even wearing a pair of black athletic shorts and a fitted, long-sleeved, ocean-blue Nike shirt, watching him toss up a ball and then launch it out by the fences beyond the outfield without breaking a sweat is a sight to behold. With every hit he makes, I watch the muscles in his biceps bulge, the ones in his powerful thighs tighten when he bends his knees into his stance, and my breath leaves me with a whoosh every time he connects with the ball. I’ve seen it a million times on TV, but there’s something special about seeing it in person.
As he continues to go through the bucket of balls he dumped around home plate, I get up from my spot in the bleachers and make my way down the stairs. Walking through the gate in the fence, I stick close to the fence line inside the field, paying close attention as I walk just in case Shepherd suddenly hits a line-drive foul in my direction. When I’m standing a few feet away in the dirt and he bends down to grab another ball, I let him know he’s not alone out here.
“I wondered why that ball was getting bigger, and then it hit me….”
The stupid baseball pun is out of my mouth before I can stop it, Shepherd’s eyes flying up when he hears my voice while he’s still bent over, reaching for a ball. Feeling all hot, sweaty, and itchy with his eyes locked on mine as he slowly stands back up, I shove my hands into the back pockets of my jean shorts and start kicking my toe around into the dirt. Thankfully, I’m on my way to work, and my white T-shirt with the Dip and Twist logo on it is still free of chocolate sauce stains.
