Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“Or that Blair’s bakery used to be a five-and-dime?”
“Didn’t know that either.”
“Did you know he took his first date to see Vertigo at the Main Street Theater, and she looked just like Kim Novak?”
He snorted. “Of course she did. And he made a great over-the-shoulder catch in 1954.”
“And afterward, he took her to the diner for a chocolate malt, and he was so nervous he spilled his all over her.”
That made him laugh. “Poor Dad.”
“He made me fall a little in love with Bellamy Creek again. There’s so much history here, and everyone was so sweet and friendly. It made me sad I’ve stayed away so long.” I elbowed him playfully. “You should ask him about his stories sometime.”
“The only ones he ever tells me are about baseball—and half of those aren’t even his.”
“Well, maybe you could ask him more specific questions. Or next time you take him downtown, let him play tour guide for you.”
“He probably prefers you,” he said, nudging my side. It was the kind of affectionate touch that might have been flirting, except that Beckett never flirted with me.
Or did he?
He was so hard to read. Every time I thought maybe he was looking at me a little differently, a little hungrily, the moment would evaporate, and I was left doubting it happened at all.
Like last night.
I’d realized when I got up to my bedroom that I’d left my sweater on the couch, and I’d silently tiptoed back down the steps to grab it.
Just as I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw him standing next to the couch with his face buried in blue cashmere.
I’d stopped and stared, blinking at him in the low light. He held the sweater to his face for a moment, and I saw his shoulders rise, as if he were inhaling deeply.
A noise escaped me—a quick, high-pitched gasp.
Desperate to escape unseen, I darted back up the stairs two at a time, then slipped into my room and carefully shut the door so it made no sound.
After snapping off the light, I sank down on the edge of the bed and placed a hand over my thundering heart. It was so loud that I thought I heard Beckett come up the stairs a moment later, but I wasn’t sure.
That was the thing—I couldn’t be sure about any of it. I spent the entire night tossing and turning, and by morning I’d been convinced the whole episode was in my mind. After all, I’d definitely been tipsy after those beers. And this morning at breakfast, he’d been business as usual. No lingering looks, no flirty comments, and certainly no touching. Beckett was a man who always kept his hands to himself.
For the first time in my life, I sort of wished he wasn’t.
We spent a solid hour at the ball field, and I took pictures and video of Beckett teaching Elliott how to grip the bat, keep his eye on the ball, and step into his swing. He also taught him some base-running tips, such as taking a couple shuffle steps before pivoting and running from first to second as quickly as possible. Of course, Elliott missed ninety-nine percent of the balls Beckett patiently “pitched” at him, and he wasn’t a terribly quick or coordinated athlete, but he was having the time of his life out there on the field.
Mr. Weaver served as catcher for a while, throwing balls back to Beckett with a surprisingly good arm, and then joined me on one of the dugout benches in the shade.
“What do you think?” I asked him. “Is he destined for a career in the Majors?”
Beckett’s dad scratched his head and answered diplomatically, “I’m not sure.”
Laughing, I snapped another shot of Beckett helping Elliott choke up on the bat and widen his stance. Miraculously, he hit the very next ball Beckett lobbed at him from about fifteen feet away. Stunned, Elliott stood still for a moment, watching the ball.
Beckett, who could easily have grabbed the ball out of the air, “missed” it in dramatic fashion, jumping for it and falling to the ground with an empty glove.
Elliott started to crack up.
Next to me, Mr. Weaver got to his feet. “Run!” he hollered through his hands.
Elliott took off for first base, both hands on his helmet because it was too big for him. While Beckett chased the ball, fumbling and dropping it several times, Elliott rounded first and headed for second.
“Keep going!” shouted Mr. Weaver, shuffling as fast as he could over to stand along the third baseline.
Beckett pretended he was going to throw the ball to third, cocking his arm way back—then stopped. “What? No third baseman! Then I’ll have to tag you, runner!”
Elliott, who was rounding third, looked at Mr. Weaver, who was waving him home. The smile on his face nearly blinded me.