She looks up at me, green eyes framed by dark lashes. “Oh.” A tiny exhalation passes her lips.
I have to kiss her, so I do, tasting coffee and sugar and whatever kind of lip gloss she uses. A flavor I know I’ll never be sick of. We’re still kissing when Asher comes in, wearing a pair of gray joggers and no shirt.
“Morning.” He pours a cup of coffee, dumps approximately a gallon of sugar into it. Sits at the table and grunts agood morningto Baby as she curls against his palm. “What’s this?” He taps Savannah’s notebook.
“I’m figuring out how to pay back a few people who took care of me when I left.”
Asher spins in his chair to face me. “She doesn’t have her own?—”
“We were just getting to that.” I study the list. Small amounts, unless you don’t have it. I realize I was controlling her for all those months and didn’t know it. I add that to the list of things—thelonglist of things—to talk about at my first therapy appointment next week. “How about an account? We’ll put a lump sum in there to start and then transfer more each month. A credit card with whatever limit. And can we pay all your tuition up front?”
Savannah smiles. “That’s a start.”
“Is the house in her name too?” Asher asks.
“No.”
“Well, fix that. How about the cars?”
“I’ll fix that too,” I say. “Anything else?”
He takes a sip of coffee like he’s really thinking about it. “Whatever the prenup was, change it so Sav gets half. No strings. No one should be trapped here because of money.”
I nod. This is about Sav but isn’t only about Sav. “How about you?”
Asher’s mouth tugs. “I have a car.”
“You’re part of this relationship too. You want your own room in the house? A million paintings? Whatever you want.”
“A million, really?” But he leans across the table and kisses me and then does the same with Savannah. “Maybe not a million paintings, but I can think of at least one picture we should hang up.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Asher
The conversation stopsthe second we get into the clubhouse. This time there’s no mistaking that for anything other than what it is. By the time we were done with the on-camera proposal yesterday, most of the team had cleared out of the locker room. Maybe they missed the whole thing.
Not likely, judging from the stares that greet us. No one says anything.
I glance at Brayden. His shoulders have crept somewhere near his ears. He seemed lighter after he escorted his parents from the house, demanding their set of keys and telling them not to come back without an express invitation.
If he got that, I can get him here. Guys aren’t even bothering to pretend they’re not focused on us. No one’s playing cards or shooting the shit or blasting terrible club music at eleven a.m. Fine, they want us to start the conversation, we’ll start the conversation.
“Last night gonna be a problem?” I ask the room.
Brayden makes a noise in his throat as if he expected me to say something that wouldn’t start a fight.
Everyone else is muttering. I listen for whatever words they’re gonna fling at us. No one gets up. Easy to be brave when it’s not to someone’s face, I guess.
And I’m about to just dump my stuff at my stall, change, and go remind the team I can pick up and put down heavier weights than they can, when Coach comes in. He’s in a pristine team-branded polo, a set of shorts so ironed they have a crease down the front. Braided belt, boat shoes. Maybe he’s trying to be an image on the Wikipedia entry forstraight guy.
“Gentlemen,” he says to us. His nostril curls the tiniest amount, like he can’t quite hide his distaste. “Are you here to collect your belongings?”
“No,” I say, “we’re here to play some baseball.” I tack on a belatedsir.
“We indulged your shenanigans last night.”
“Is that what you call letting your two best hitters play?” Yesterday, Brayden and I went into Coach’s office before the game, not quite apologizing but contrite enough for him to let us play. We’d swapped in our altered jerseys at the last minute. By the time Coach noticed, we were already in the game and the damage had been done.
