He hesitates by the door. “I’ll see you tonight? You’re bringing Evie to T-ball practice, right? I promised her extra turns at bat.”
“She’d riot if I didn’t.”
“Good.” His eyes hold mine a second longer than necessary. “I’ll save you a spot on the bleachers.”
When he leaves, the door swings shut quietly behind him. I press a hand to my chest and take a slow breath, but it doesn’t help.
No strings attached, I remind myself.
Chapter two
Cam
Kate Prescott has been under my skin for months.
It’s manageable most days. A text here or there. A coffee run when I know she’ll just happen to be at Penny’s. The occasional afternoon that starts with a kiss and ends with her hair tangled in my hands. We said it was simple—fun, no pressure, no expectations.
For me, that lasted for about five minutes.
After stopping at home to change, I’m back in my truck and my steering wheel’s in real danger of taking the brunt of my frustration. Anytime I see Kate I either leave sexually frustrated or simply frustrated with myself for wanting to see her. She hadasked me to drop off the books, leave a note, but I couldn't stop by the library and not spend time with her.
Another truth is, I like helping her. I like making things easier, even when she pretends she doesn’t need it. And I like the way she says my name—Wells—all soft around the edges.
So, essentially, I’ve turned into a complete sap where Kate is concerned.
I pull into the parking lot and park by the field. My T-ball kids are already scattered across the diamond like confetti. Half are drawing shapes in the dirt with their fingers; the other half are chasing someone’s hat across the outfield. I grin despite myself.
“Coach Wells!” little Caleb yells from first base. “Did you bring snacks?”
“Bats before snacks, champ,” I call back. “You hit, you eat.”
That earns a collective groan, but it gets them moving. They know I’ll cave and hand out cookies before we’re done anyway.
I grab the bucket of balls and head toward the plate. The evening sun hangs low, painting everything gold. The sound of kids laughing is the kind of simple joy that never gets old. I coach high school ball because I love the game. But this—watching four and five-year-olds figure out how to hold a bat, how to listen, how to cheer each other on—this is what reminds me why I started.
“Coach Wells!” another voice rings out, bright and small. “I can swing harder now!”
Evie Prescott barrels toward me, ponytail flying, her little bat clutched tight. She’s wearing aCedar Falls Little SluggersT-ball shirt two sizes too big and a grin that makes you want to grant her every wish. I crouch to her level.
“Hey, superstar,” I say, tapping the brim of her hat. “Are you ready to show me that home run swing?”
She nods fiercely. “My mom said I could stay until the fireflies come out.”
“Then we'd better use our time wisely.”
She steps up to the plate, plants her feet, and swings, missing the ball completely, but she looks so proud of herself that I can’t help but smile. “Almost, Evie. Try again. Eyes on the ball.”
She squints, adjusts, and connects this time. The ball dribbles toward third, and she takes off like she just sent it over the fence.
After she slides—belly-first—into first base, her shirt is streaked with dirt and her laugh echoes across the field.
I can’t help holding back a smile, but I gently correct her, “Great hit, Evie! Just make sure you keep running next time, try for second.”
She throws me a thumbs up, still laughing. Kate’s laugh sounds the same way. That same unguarded joy. And just like that, I’m thinking about her again.
I glance toward the parking lot and spot her leaning on the fence, hair pulled up, sundress catching the light. She’s smiling at her daughter, but when her eyes find me, something in my chest shifts.
She raises a hand in a small wave. I tip my hat.
