“This seat’s taken,” I say.
“You’re in the wrong place.” He doesn’t tack on ama’am.
I reach for the door handle—someone’s in the wrong place, but it isn’t me—when he interjects himself between the door and the car, preventing me from closing it. “If you’re not with the Atlanta Peaches, then you need to find another ride,” I say in my haughtiest tone.
“Good thing I am.” He climbs in, ignoring my squawk of outrage, and it’s then I notice he’s in a shirt that readsSquirrel Hill Baseball. Other than that, he doesn’t look much like a ballplayer: tall and lean with tanned olive skin and a mess of dark brown hair. He’d be almost pretty except for the very faint scar bisecting one of his eyebrows.
“You gonna shove over or what?” he asks when I don’t move.
“Fine, but I think there’s been some sort of mix-up.”
“Yeah, you’re not supposed to be here.”
“My husband plays for the Peaches.” My voice only catches a little onhusband, even if that’s who Brayden actually, legally is.
“So do I as of about twelve hours ago.” He settles into the seat next to me, long legs splayed out so that one of his knees almost brushes mine. I flinch back.
“So you are…?” he says.
“Savannah Burke. Or Savannah Forsyth.” Even if I’m not planning to legally change my name.
For some reason, he laughs. “Which is it?”
“Mrs. Savannah Forsyth,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Well, Mrs. Savannah Forsyth, I’mMisterAsher Adler. I just got traded here from Chicago.” He offers his hand, and I shake it briefly. Like Brayden, his palm is lined with calluses. Healso doesn’t immediately let my hand go. He turns it over and examines the large yellow diamond on my finger. “You just got married?”
“Is it that obvious?”
Asher’s mouth twitches. I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or with me. “No tan line.” Then he drops my hand. “Forsyth didn’t come to pick you up?”
I don’t bother to answer because it’s obvious Brayden didn’t. He just left me to navigate a new city on my own without doing more than telling me not to be late. If I say any of that, he’ll look like what he is: a bad husband. No, I mentally correct, afakehusband.
“It’s nice of you to share the car,” I say.
“I didn’t actually say we were sharing.” Asher’s lips twitch again, and I should really stop looking at his mouth or any of the rest of him. But when the driver gets in and asks where we’re going, Asher says, “Mrs. Forsyth’s house, then the ballpark.”
I give the driver the address—my new address—and we lurch forward into traffic.
“So,” I say, midway through the ride. Asher has spent most of the drive staring at his phone. That’s fine. We don’t need to make polite small talk. Hell, I’m not sure Asher does politeanything. Besides, it gave me time to finish today’s crossword puzzle and to stalk through Asher’s Wikipedia page looking for information about him. It’s barely a page—just that he’s Jewish and from Pittsburgh, where his mother is some kind of local reporter, and that he played for a Chicago team up until yesterday. He’s Brayden’s teammate now. Growing up, it was my job to charm my father’s business associates, even when he was stabbing them in the back. I should do the same thing now: try out my role of a sweet, Southern wife. I turn toward Asher as much as my seatbelt allows. “How do you feel about being traded from Chicago?”
“I take it you don’t follow baseball,” he says.
“I mostly watch college sports.” Which is true, in that Victoria would work at baseball games and I’d go mostly to hang out with her after. “Why?”
“Because you’re asking how I feel about being traded away from the worst team in the league to a good one.”
“When you put it like that…”
“How do you feel, being married to Brayden Forsyth?” he asks in the same tone I used.
I grit my teeth.I feel like I’m getting my degree paid for. I feel like I’m getting my health insurance covered. I feel like I’m a long way from home with no idea what’s going to happen.“Blissful.”
Asher quirks an eyebrow. “Clearly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You have that newlywed glow,” he deadpans.
