“Well, to be fair,” I cut in, “that guy sounds like an asshole.”
She lets out a huff of agreement, then leans her elbows on the counter and narrows her eyes, studying the still-blank canvas sitting on the easel by the window. It’s been almost two weeks since she got the commission, and she hasn’t touched it yet. But I know she’ll start when she’s ready.
“I can hear it in his tone, like I had all this potential and just…wasted it.”
Cal’s always been proud of Sophie, but I understand how his concern can feel like pressure—because I’ve felt it too. His constant reminders about contributing to my 401k probably come from love, but they land like judgment.
“I think he wants what’s best for you,” I say, wishing I had the right words. I wish I could tell her she doesn’t have to earn her worth—not for him, not for anyone. To tell her she already is what she’s trying so hard to be.
“Maybe,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. She pushes herself off the counter. “Is it okay if I shower first? I’m meeting Liv and Andy to show them the new exhibit at the de Young.”
“Yeah, of course,” I say, and I immediately picture her in the shower. This time, I’m imagining myself in there with her—not for sex, but to wash her hair, run my fingers through her scalp, and get those little moans of pleasure from something more than, well, more than what we’ve been doing.
But that isn’t what she wants. She’ll let me bend her over the bathroom counter, both of us watching in the mirror as she comes undone, but then she’ll push me out the door and shower alone. She’ll curl into me after sex and let me trail my fingers over her soft skin, but just before we both doze off, she gets up and rushes to get dressed.
I try not to let it bother me. We agreed to keep this casual. I try not even to look up when she emerges from the shower and heads to Cal’s room, wrapped in a towel that barely covers her ass, her curls piled on her head to keep them dry. Okay, so maybe I notice.
Label or not, this is the best thing I’ve had in a long time—maybe ever—and I don’t want to screw it up. I like Sophie. Maybe more than I should. But even if we cut off the sex, I still want to spend time with her. She’s smart, funny,unpredictable, brilliant—and somehow my life feels more complete with her in it.
But fuck if I don’t want more. I want lazy weekends in our PJs. I want to walk hand in hand with her back from Bar None. I want to bring her flowers for no reason. And I want this to last longer than Cal’s house-sitting needs. Which is wild, because I’ve never wanted any of this domestic shit before. Baseball was always enough—until her.
But she’s not looking for a relationship. So I need to get my damn puppy-dog eyes under control and stick to the deal. Even if a part of me still hopes she’ll change her mind.
My phone rings.
“Hello?” I say, not recognizing the number.
“Liam Blake? This is William Vallera. I’m not sure if you remember—”
“Coach Bill?” A lump forms in my throat at the sound of my first Little League coach’s voice.
I wasn’t a bad kid, but I had a lot of energy and misplaced anger. I hadn’t hit my growth spurt yet, and I was a little shit when other kids teased me. Coach Bill took me under his wing. He taught me how to use my size-to-strength ratio to my advantage. He made me love baseball and, maybe more importantly, take myself and my talent seriously.
“I guess you do remember me,” he laughed. “Listen, I know this is a long shot, but I have some kids in the program right now. Well, they remind me of you.” I can almost hear him shaking his head through the phone. “If you’re ever in town, maybe you could stop by and show these kids that there is life after their hardships.”
My stomach drops. I owe Coach Bill so much, but how could I be some fucking mentor to kids when I failed at the one thing I could do?
“You still there, Liam?” Coach Bill asks when I don’t respond.
“Yeah, I’m here. It’s just that I don’t really…know when I’ll be back in town. I’m pretty busy.” I feel like an asshole as the lie slips out.
“Of course, I figured as much. But I wanted to reach out. You know I’m proud of you, kid, I talk about you all the time.”
“Sure, Coach, thanks.” I bite my lip hard to fight the sting behind my eyes.
“Well, keep me in mind if your schedule opens up.”
I click the end button on my phone and stare at the blank screen.
“What was that about?” Sophie asks. I’m not sure how long she’s been standing in Cal’s doorway, listening. She’s wearing a baggy pair of jeans and a tight white tank cropped just below her chest, and my eyes linger on the strip of creamy skin exposed at her waist.
“Nothing,” I say, lifting my gaze to her face. “Someone wanting a favor.”
“Who’s Coach Bill?” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“God, Sophie, how long were you eavesdropping on my phone call?” It comes out harsher than I intended. “He was my old Little League coach,” I add, trying to soften my tone. “He wanted me to come talk to some kids at the youth center. Sign some balls or some shit. But I’m not going.”
Sophie pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me. “Why not?”
