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)
“Go! Go! Go!” I cheered, clapping my hands.
Beckett was making a beeline for home plate, yet somehow managed to look like he was struggling hard to beat Elliott there.
“Slide!” Mr. Weaver yelled.
I winced as Elliott, who’d never slid into a base in his life, dove headfirst toward the plate, arms outstretched—more of a belly flop than a slide. The helmet bounced off.
“Nooooo!” Beckett reached home plate and tagged Elliott’s back with the ball a full second too late.
“Safe!” Mr. Weaver spread his arms, palms down. “Home run!”
I snapped a quick picture. “Great job, Elliott!”
He got to his feet, sweaty and dirty, but glowing with pride. “Thanks.”
I went jogging out to the plate. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Nah,” he said, but he rubbed one knee and then both elbows.
“That was awesome.” Beckett clapped him on the back. “You did a great job running the bases and looking to the coach for the sign to keep going.”
“Did you like the slide?” Elliott asked, looking up hopefully.
“I loved it,” Beckett replied, scooping up the batter’s helmet. “I’d say you won the game for your team and deserve an ice cream cone.”
“That sounds good to me too.” I smiled gratefully at Beckett.
He shrugged, like it was no big deal, although the color in his cheeks deepened slightly. Was he flushed from exertion? The sun?
Or was there something heating up between us?
“You’re sure it’s okay if I go?” I asked, lingering in the kitchen with my keys in my hands. Earlier I’d texted Bianca that I could make it to girls’ night, and she’d replied with a bunch of happy emojis and said they were meeting at seven o’clock at a wine bar called The Avignon.
“I’m positive.” Beckett snipped the twine on the bakery box containing the apple pie and opened it up. “I mean, I think you’re crazy for choosing wine and fancy French cheese over beer and good old American apple pie, but that’s just me.”
I laughed, watching him lift the pie from the box and set it on the counter. “It does look good. Maybe I’ll have a piece when I get home.”
“If there’s any left.”
“You three are going to eat that whole pie?”
“We might.” He took plates down from the cupboard. “I could probably eat half of it by myself. I’m a big guy.”
“A gentleman would at least save me a small piece,” I teased.
He glanced at me over one broad shoulder. “Then I guess you’ll just have to wait and see if I’m in the mood to be a gentleman tonight.”
My stomach flipped. For a second, I felt flustered and tongue-tied—which was silly. For God’s sake, he was just talking about saving me some apple pie . . . right?
“Uh, I told Elliott he could stay up until I got home, but that he should take a shower and put his pajamas on at eight, eight-thirty at the latest.”
“Got it.”
“And he can have a piece of pie and maybe a snack, but no pop.”
“Okay.”
“But he probably shouldn’t have too much to drink after eight, or else he might have an accident.”
“Understood.”
I glanced down at my jeans and plain white T-shirt, which I’d dressed up with my wedge sandals and some delicate gold jewelry. “Am I dressed okay?”
“You look great.”
“You didn’t even look at me.”
“I didn’t have to.”
I smiled, feeling heat in my cheeks. “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be back by nine, but feel free to call me if you need me to come home sooner.”
Finally, he turned around, his expression a little exasperated. “Maddie. Go. I can handle things here. Elliott’s a breeze. He’s helpful, polite, and unlike some other people living here, I bet he doesn’t argue when you tell him Ronald Reagan isn’t the U.S. President.”
I laughed again. “Okay, I’m going. Have fun.”
The drive to The Avignon took about ten minutes, during which I obsessed over what Beckett had said to me.
I guess you’ll just have to wait and see if I’m in the mood to be a gentleman tonight.
It was hard not to wonder if the boundary between us was shifting.
Or what would happen if one of us crossed it.
The moment I stepped through The Avignon’s glass door, I heard my name.
“Maddie! Over here!”
I looked in the direction of the voice and spotted Bianca waving at me. She was seated with Blair and another woman who had a sandy blond ponytail at a high-top table near the bar. When I reached them, I immediately recognized the woman with sandy hair as Cheyenne Dempsey, Griffin’s younger sister.
“Hey,” I said, smiling at all of them as I slid onto the fourth stool at the table. “It’s so good to see you. Thank you so much for inviting me out tonight.”
“Of course,” said Bianca, who was perched on the stool to my right. “We’re glad you could make it.”
“Gosh, you haven’t changed a bit.” Cheyenne smiled at me from across the table, and I remembered what a bubbly, friendly girl she’d been. “You look exactly the same as you did in high school.”