Page 53 of The Score We Never Settled

Instead, he remained at home plate so he could eventually take his full turn and hit.

He did that for me.

Even after I said I was done.

“Let me come home, Short Stop,” he mutters softly. “I’ll break my contract and I can?—”

“Youcan’t,” I retort sharply. “You still have six years.”

“Ican,” he returns evenly. “Due to personal reasons.”

“You don’t have personal reasons. Just impatience.”

“I’m emotionally distraught.”

“You’re not.”

“I definitely am,” he utters while leaning in closer, placing his lips so dangerously close that I stop breathing. “I want you, Short Stop. I’ve never stopped wantin’ my curly-haired country girl with too much pride and a whole lotta sass. Put me outof misery already and let me have you fully already. This isn’t workin’.”

Does he mean now?

Like…wait, does he want—what does he want?

My brain just conked out.

His being so close, and us being so alone after all this time, my eyes begin to flutter closed just to be able to fully submerge myself intoallof him.

All of what we were.

Everything.

His lips barely brush against mine, but I definitely feel them, sending a ripple of lust and excitement through my body that I haven’t felt in forever.

“If I ever see you with another man again, I’ll rip him apart.” My eyes fly open with his direct threat, and I find him already staring down at me through a glower heated enough to melt through any future ideas I may have of that happening. “You fucked up, Layla Jean. Because I have eyes in town, and if you thought you were free of me tonight, you just earned yourself a full twenty-four hours of me fuckin’ it into your skull. I told you to suit up. You’re in for the ride of your life when I get you to finally stay with me.”

It hits me like a ton of bricks falling on top of my head on how he found out.

Adeline.

His sister.

Fallon’s other best friend.

Damn it.

14

LAYLA

“There’sthe most beautiful thing I’ve seen in the world!”

I smile at Agnes, her arms extended out to me as though she hasn’t seen me in years, when really, it was just this week she was up at the bakery, buying pastries that Doctor Reese would probably throw a fit over.

“Hey, Agnes,” I greet, pulling my small wagon behind me with all the baked goods I brought for her bake sale. “You sure do know how to make a girl feel pretty.”

She steps to the side and eyes the goodies I brought. Her brown-and-gray-peppered hair pulled back loosely in a messy ponytail as her clear blue eyes scan everything.

“Oh, honey, I wasn’t talkin’ about you,” she quips with zero remorse on the misplaced comment—on my part. “I was talkin’ to the sweets and delicious pies ya brought for me to raise enough money for the new church roof.”