This fucking town.
“Can we not talk about this before I’ve even had my coffee?” I grumble.
He shrugs and relaxes back in his seat. The chair groans as he shifts his weight. “Well, alright, but only because I’ve got somethin’ more important to talk to you about than you and Sawyer doin' the horizontal tango.”
“Jesus Christ, Pops,” I mutter.
He laughs at what I’m sure is a horrified look on my face. My cheeks heat and I hide by taking another long gulp of coffee. I arch my brow, signaling him to continue.
“We need a couple more people for the pitch tournament tomorrow night. Helen and Kenny won’t be able to make it. Their grandkids have a school program that night, so now we're short two players. I told Barb Mackey I’d bring you along to play.”
I blink at him. “What?”
His grin widens. “She also told me to remind you that you promised her you’d come play one of these nights. And,” he adds with a knowing look, “she wanted me to mention that she puta lotof effort into that picnic basket she made for you.”
His smile is impish.Damn him.He knows I hate disappointing people, and he’s not above using it against me.
I sigh, resigned. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
“Good. You’ll need a partner.”
I give him a flat look. “I thought you’d be my partner.”
“Oh, no, no no. Harold is always my partner.”
“Fine, I’ll ask Tripp.”
He waves me off. “Oh, he already mentioned he’s busy. You could ask Sawyer,” he suggests.
I fix him with a bland stare. “You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?”
“Find a team to replace Helen and Kenny for the night?” he asks in feigned innocence.
“I’m onto you, old man. We aren’t going to be entertainment and fodder for gossip with your friends.”
“Of course not,” he mutters. His mustache twitches mischievously, and I roll my eyes toward the ceiling.
Me and Sawyer will be the talk of the town if we show up to the pitch tournament together, but that bothers me less than I thought it would. So, despite what I said to Pops, I pull out my phone as I stomp up thesteps to the only room in this house with a single bar of service and message Sawyer.
Are you any good at pitch?
Pops insisted I pick up Sawyer while he drove himself to the Mackeys’ place for the weekly pitch tournament. I haven’t been able to drive the old Chevy without remembering exactly how Sawyer looked sprawled across the front seat with my fingers buried inside of her while she panted my name.
Seeing her in that front seat again had my dick getting entirely too excited before playing pitch with a house full of irreverent senior citizens.
I hold the door open to the ranch-style, and Sawyer smirks at me as she walks in. The sound of chattering halts as soon as we step through the doorway and all eyes are on us.
I lift a hand and wave awkwardly. “Hey guys, Pops said Mrs. Mackey was baking, so we came to crash the party.”
A few people chuckle and Mrs. Mackey bustles into the room with a full smile. “I made some more of those pumpkin bars, just for you, dear,” she says, ushering us to a small closet where we can hang our coats. “We’re just about ready to play.”
I try my best not to think about the mixture of Sawyer and pumpkin bar that was on my tongue two nights ago.
"Thanks, Mrs. Mackey," Sawyer croaks out.
There are three tables set up. One in the kitchen, a card table in the living room, and a third in the dining room. The Mackeys and theJohnsons are sitting at the kitchen table. Pops and his partner Harold are at the table in the dining room with the Clausens, which leaves Bob and Linda Andreasen at the table in the living room, waiting for Sawyer and me to sit down and play.
“You do remember how to play, don’t ya?” Mr. Mackey asks from his spot at the kitchen table.
