Page 67 of Serving Bunt

“Want me to come with you?”

“Hell no!”

His brows shot up. He knew exactly why I was bolting, but I didn’t need to wait around for him to tease me about it.

I turned and headed toward the gourmet waffle truck, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between us before I did something stupid, like drag him behind the barn, push him to his knees, and let him make good on his offer to lick my freckles.

Later, I told myself.

Tonight, once everyone went home and the barn was quiet again, I wanted Diaz back in my bed. I wasn’t ready for everything just yet. The idea of fucking his ass—or having him fuck mine—still made my stomach twist with nerves.

Even though I knew it would be good.

Diaz would make it good.

But I wasn’t there yet. I wanted to take my time, explore every inch of him, preferably in a California King.

Until then, I would settle for waffles . . . and maybe another blow job or two.

The line for Pop Goes the Waffle was short enough. Just as I finished ordering, James Jarrett stepped out from the side of the truck, holding a plate with some kind of towering waffle concoction.

“If anybody asks,” he said, “I only had two of these.”

“Two of what exactly?”

“The Monte Carlo. Whoever thought of pairing jam and maple butter with turkey and melted cheese deserves a fucking medal.”

I nodded, chuckling. James glanced toward the barn wall where the game was playing in bright HD. “Your guys are looking sharp.”

“Thanks.”

“Does it feel weird to be watching instead of playing?”

“You have no idea,” I told him.

Weird didn’t even begin to cover it. For the last five years, the All-Star break had meant packed clubhouses, media obligations, and trying not to look like an idiot standing next to some of the best players in the world. This year, though, I was sitting on a blanket in rural Oregon with a waffle in one hand and my dog in the other.

Yet somehow, I was having a better time.

James nodded like he understood. “First summer after I stopped acting full-time, I kept reaching for scripts that weren’t there anymore.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm.” He took a bite of his waffle monstrosity, moaning around the mess of jam and cheese. “I spent nearly twenty years with somebody telling me where to stand, what to wear, and when to show up. Then one day, nobody was calling.”

“That sounds . . . terrifying.”

He shrugged. “It was. But not as terrifying as realizing I was all alone.”

Something in my chest tightened. I knew exactly what he was talking about. Baseball was baseball. I loved the game—always had, always would—but when I pictured what I wanted most right now, it wasn’t the crowds or the travel or even stepping into the batter’s box.

It was the idea of coming home to someone after it all.

Someone to share the wins with, to lean on during the losses. Someone who made the quiet moments feel full instead of empty.

Someone like—

James studied me for a long moment, his expression softening. He took another bite of his waffle, chewing thoughtfully before speaking again.