Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
I shake the thought away. Not a date. Not a date. I remind myself sternly. Still, I slip into a pair of low wedges, because apparently, I want to torture myself further.
The GPS leads me through a quiet neighborhood with tree-lined streets and quaint bungalows. When I pull up to the address, my heart lifts in surprise. His house is a charming little bungalow with a wide wrap-around porch, hanging ferns swaying in the gentle breeze. The porch light casts a cozy glow, making it look like something out of a small-town postcard.
I take a shaky breath before climbing out of the car, reminding myself I’m here for dinner with Juniper. That’s all. Focus on the kid. My sandals click against the porch steps, and I pause at the front door, listening to muffled voices and laughter inside. There’s a flutter in my chest, something that feels almost like hope. I can’t tell if it’s excitement or nerves, but it’s definitely there.
I knock lightly, and for a moment, my heart hammers in time with the echoing rap of my knuckles. Then the door swings open, revealing Ripley. He’s in a casual T-shirt and jeans, looking way too good for someone who’s supposed to be my nemesis. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on the sundress, and something flickers across his expression—surprise, maybe? Approval?
“Hey,” he says, his voice unexpectedly soft.
“Hey,” I manage, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I… uh… nice place.”
He smiles, stepping aside. “Thanks. Come on in. Juniper’s been talking about you nonstop since we left the stadium.”
I step into the foyer, trying not to notice how close we are, or how his cologne mingles with the scent of something delicious cooking in the kitchen. I feel like an intruder in this cozy space, yet also strangely welcome. Maybe it’s the warmth of the lamplight or the sight of Juniper darting around the corner to greet me.
“Coach Kali!” she squeals, throwing her arms around my waist. “You’re here! Dad’s making tacos, and Aunt Hattie made guacamole. She’s the best at guacamole!”
I laugh, gently patting her shoulder. “Wow, that sounds amazing.”
Ripley clears his throat, shutting the door behind me. “We’ll see if you still think so after tasting my cooking. Come on, I’ll show you to the kitchen.”
And just like that, I’m following him through a hallway lined with family photos—Juniper as a baby, a younger Ripley in an old baseball uniform, a woman who looks like she might be his sister. Something about these glimpses into his life makes my chest ache, reminding me that beneath the surly pitcher is a whole person I barely know.
No. I remind myself, this is definitely not a date. But as I step into the warm, bustling kitchen, the smell of spices filling the air, I can’t help the tiny spark of excitement flickering in my chest—mixed with a healthy dose of nerves. Because if it’s not a date, why does it feel like one?
6
Ripley
I still can’t believe that Kali—my new umpire nemesis-turned-reluctant dinner guest—is standing in my kitchen, chatting away with my sister like they’ve been best friends for ages. Part of me wants to pinch myself just to make sure I’m not hallucinating. A week ago, I wouldn’t have imagined sharing a meal with Kali if the world depended on it. Now, here she is, wearing a sundress that does an unfair number on my concentration.
I catch myself staring a little too long at the soft pastel fabric skimming her curves, and I swallow hard, turning my attention back to the food. The plan was simple: whip up an easy taco dinner, show off a bit of culinary skill so Kali won’t think I’m totally useless off the field, and maybe keep the evening short and sweet for Juniper’s sake. But from the moment Kali walked through my front door, I’ve had trouble remembering how to properly stir ground beef in a skillet.
I shift my grip on the spatula, trying not to let my eyes wander over to where Kali and Hattie are whispering conspiratorially near the cutting board. My sister, as usual, has her long brown hair pulled back in a loose bun, an easy grin on her face as she lays out tortillas and carefully chops tomatoes. Kali stands beside her, handing over knives and bowls whenever asked, fitting seamlessly into a kitchen she’s never been in before. It’s such a domestic scene that I have to do a double take—since when do I let near-strangers come waltzing into my life and share my dinner table?
“Rip, you’re burning the meat,” Hattie calls out, not even bothering to hide her amusement.
I jerk back to the pan, noticing the edges of the beef are browning a bit too quickly. “I’ve got it under control,” I say, though my heart’s thumping hard enough that I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince.