Page 141 of The Score We Never Settled

“Doesn’t matter. Adeline would’ve thrown a guilt trip because she loves brunch. She thinks it’s the tragedy of meals because not many people have it.”

“It’s notthatbig of a deal.”

“Don’t tell her that. You’ll hear about it for those two hours.” Slowly, I place her down on her feet and hold her by her hips, making sure she has her balance. “I bet you head, your Uncle Ben talks about that strikeout in the third.”

Layla smirks and rolls her eyes. “I told you a million times to stop swingin’ at outside pitches.”

“World Series,” I remind her. “I don’t get to pick.”

“You wouldn’t have had a strikeout because it would’ve been a ball. You chased it.”

I scowl. “I didn’t chase it.”

I chased it.

I knew better, but I still did it.

Regardless, doesn’t matter; I made up for it the rest of the game. I scored in three runs, hit a home run, and I only struck out once.

“You chased it,” Layla replies matter-of-factly. “And eat. You haven’t eaten in hours.”

“I have. I just ate your pussy about an hour ago—” Her palm slaps my chest, trying to appear taken aback by the comment, but she knows better.

I’m infatuated with her in every way, shape, and form.

“Sit across the table,” she orders me then. “I don’t trust you with that look in your eyes.”

“Which one? The one where I want to bend you over it or the other one where I’ll beunderit.” Her head tilts back, posing exasperation when I take full advantage of the angle and press a long kiss to the column of her throat. “You set yourself up, Layla Jean. You know how fast and deep my attention is captivated by you.”

She cups my face but doesn’t pull me away from her. “The sooner we have brunch, the sooner we can get to that.”

Bet.

Straightening my spine, I steal a kiss, then stretch my back, preparing myself for these family dinners, lunches, and brunches that have become a thing this year.

“Alright, Short Stop. I’m ready.”

I watch her straighten her dress and refluff her hair quickly before we exit the bathroom and out of our ensuite bedroom, to find a table perfectly put together with white floors and burgundy napkins. Adeline even has black silverware to match the team’s colors.

“There they are,” she greets us, closing the distance and hugging both of us at the same time. “I hope you’re hungry. The spread I have for us today is to die?—”

“I’m gonna die in thirty seconds if you don’t serve it already, Adeline,” our father gruffs, already sitting at the table with both a fork and a knife in his hand.

“Dad,” Everly chides. “You already told me you and Ben hit up the buffet downstairs for breakfast. You’re not gonna die.”

“They didn’t have bacon,” Layla’s Uncle Ben fusses. “How in the world do you not have bacon at a time like this?”

“Like what?” Layla presses with her arm wrapped around my waist. “Uncle Ben, you’re becomin’ more dramatic. No more cookin’ shows for you.”

He shakes his head as if that’s never going to happen and looks at me. “And what was that in the third inning? You’ve got better eyes than that.”

Apparently not.

And I squeeze Layla Jean closer to me, silently telling her I told her so.

However, she doesn’t come to my rescue; she pulls herself from me and walks the rest of the way to the table.

“I told him,” she says. “He said he didn’t chase it.”