Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 102185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“Because you remind me of home.”
I don’t expect my chest to tighten, but it causes me to lower my hand. “Aren’t you in Costa Rica to get away from home?”
“I didn’t know how much I missed it until spending the night with you, cowboy.” She pulls the sheet up over her chest and wraps her arms around her legs again. “Where are you from?”
“I’m not sure we should travel down that road when we know it leads to a dead end.”
She only responds with a barely discernible nod, her eyes watching me as if she already knows our ending.
Maybe it’s that look, the one losing the hope that shone in her eyes only a minute prior, that gets me. Or how her shoulders are beginning to fold forward. As much as I’ve tried to close myself off to . . . everything, sometimes an emotion slips through. Fuck.
I rub the back of my neck, eyeing her. Those big green eyes are a trap I’ve fallen into. I lock the bolt and pull my shirt back off over my head. “Maybe just a little longer.”
When I get my jeans off and dive back into bed with her, she says, “I’ll make it worth your while.”
CHAPTER 1
Cricket Dover
Four years later. . .
The crack of the bat draws my eyes up from my phone to the ball flying over the far side of the baseball field. I visor my eyes to watch the ball breach the boundaries. Home run.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a home run out here on Dover Creek field. Leaning forward on the metal bleacher, I watch the batter jog the bases. “Who’s number twenty-two?” Without my glasses, there’s no way I can see the name written in smaller letters on the back of his jersey from these nosebleed seats.
“Greene,” Savvy replies, flipping the pages on her clipboard when I glance over at her.
“Greene with an E, as in Greene County?” The rivalry between our county and theirs runs back generations. I still don’t know what caused the initial ruckus between the Dover and Greene families, but it persists in the peripheries of the modern lineages for each, at least from my understanding. It always sounded like a bunch of old ranching tales from the wilder west days of the Texas Hill Country.
My cousin, and assistant, drags her finger down the roster, then taps it twice on a name. When she looks at me, she says, “Griffin Greene. Definitely a Greene with an E of Greene County.”
“And of Rollingwood Ranch, Greene Farms, which is under the ranch umbrella, and the Greene family reviving their small town of Peachtree Pass.” I sigh with a roll of my eyes. I’ve heard so many stories growing up about this so-called feud that I feel like I know the family myself. I don’t, but I know enough to get by. “Ranching royalty in these parts.”
Looking at me under the brim of a Dover Armadillos baseball cap, she adds, “And a former pro baseball player to boot.”
Turning my attention back to him on the field as he rounds home base, I note, “Wonder why he’s no longer in the Major Leagues when he still hits like that?”
“I don’t know his story.”
“Neither do I.” I’d like to, though. “Just curious.”
“He’s cute,” she tacks on casually as she stands, knowing her audience well.
I look up at her, my eyes still shielded from the sun with my hand. “How cute?”
“As a woman in a never-ending engagement, it wouldn’t be proper for me to speak on such things.” She laughs and plops down next to me again. Then, as if others in this empty stadium will hear us, she leans in, and whispers, “Very cute. Don’t tell Blake I said anything. You know how jealous he gets, and they’re teammates for this fundraising event. But he’s just your type.”
“First of all, I rarely talk to Blake. Our paths just don’t cross that often, except at family events or the occasional dinner with you guys. I don’t even think he likes me.”
“He likes you, but we do tend to get in trouble together.”
“Trouble as in have a good time? That’s once in a blue moon at best. We rarely go out anymore. Anyway, second, your secrets are always safe with me. And third, I don’t have a type.”
“You have a type. You just don’t want to admit it.” She stands again and starts to shift down the row. “I need to get back to the office. Are you staying for the rest of practice?” She eyes the field and homes in on a certain baseball player. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” Her laughter trails her as she takes a few steps down.
“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” I reply. “I have emails to catch up on before the end of the day.” And check this guy out a little longer . . . maybe I do have a type?