“I have a way with balls,” Junie announces. She blinks, her face goes redder than a tomato, and Flint and I both rush in to save her at the exact same time.
“She’s such a great soccer player,” I say too loudly.
Flint, unfortunately, takes a different tactic. “She’s the ball whisperer.”
My eyes fly to his.
He blinks twice, and nowhe’sthe color of a tomato.
An uncomfortable giggle goes through the crowd.
“Who needs a drink?” I say, again too loud, but now more comfortable ripples of laughter flow around us. “Water? Lemonade? I can make sun tea. And cookies! I’ll call in an order of cookies to the bakery.”
“Already on their way,” someone calls.
One of Junie’s friends nudges her in the ribs, and they lean their heads together, whispering and giggling and sharing in her mortification.
Her friend squeezes her shoulder and grins, and the color eventually fades from my daughter’s face.
Let’s be real.
Who among ushasn’taccidentally said something embarrassing?
Do I want the entire town talking aboutballswith my daughter?
Nope.
But I’m well aware she knows the double entendre. Her friends too.
And as they giggle together and more teenagers approach her with smiles and hugs and laughter, I realize this is good.
Being here is right.
For the first time since my mom was arrested and I missed Uncle Tony’s funeral and I realized I had to divorce Dean, I know Junie will be okay.
We all get back to work, and gradually, I find myself working right next to Flint as I help load boards into the back of his truck.
“Theball whisperer?” he mutters to me. “You know how much shit I’m gonna get from my students for the next week?”
I stifle a chuckle and resist the urge to lean into him and soak up the heat of his nearness. “I’m sure you’ve had worse.”
“Not like this. And not for a while. Jesus.The ball whisperer.”
“It’s genetic, you know.”
He slides a look at me, then glances around.
Closest other person is over ten feet away, loading up another truck. “Soccer?” he says flatly.
I smile. “Whispering to balls.”
His mouth sets in a grim line, and he shifts to glare at the wood—heh—in the back of his truck. “I’d tell you you’re evil, but I suspect I wouldn’t be the first.”
Is it wrong that simply teasing him here is turning me on like the full sun over the desert on a summer day?
Nope, I decide.
It’s a perfectly rational, valid response to being near a sexy man who’s made it clear he wants me, and who brought not just help but a sense of community to our home. “Definitely not the first. But it’s been a while since anyone’s called me evil for the same reasons you would.”
