by J. M. Maurer
My heart flutters like a butterfly inside my chest, his puppy dog eyes doing quite a number on my senses. But I can’t go back with him. As crazy as it sounds, my hormones want to strip those briefs off his hips, right here in the middle of the road.
Ha! Let the town talk now.
I’ve officially lost it, my mind and my heart dueling through a fit of emotions over what I want versus what I can’t possibly have.
“Thanks for the offer. I wish I could,” I lie. “But I’m kind of tired, and I just want to head back home.” Another lie.
Truth is, I could stay awake all night if it meant I’d be with Ben. At least they’re lies to protect what’s left of my tattered heart. A heart I wish I could forever give to Ben.
“Then let me drive you home,” he offers, watching as I shake my head. “Please come back with me. I’ll even throw on some clothes.”
Ben’s toned body covered by clothing is the last thing I really want. As it is, it’s going to take months, maybe years before I can get the current snapshot I have of him out of my head.
I take a step forward, my mind set on going home. “I walk a lot. I’m good. I’ll be home in no time at all.”
Ben lifts his hat and shoves his fingers through his hair, sighing as an expression of defeat washes over his face. “You know, you’re too stubborn for your own good.”
“It’s got me through life so far.”
“Well…” He pauses. It’s as if he’s searching for something to say. “Be careful,” he adds, sliding his cap down over his head. “A beautiful lady like you shouldn’t be out walking alone.”
I shoot him a smile, thanking him for the compliment. But what is it with everyone telling me what I should and shouldn’t be doing?
“Don’t worry about me,” I say, my voice steely with resolve. “Twenty minutes and my bladder and I will be friends again.”
“What about me?” Ben asks, calling from behind. “Are we friends?”
Friends? I turn and raise a brow, feeling my heart flipping into yet another battle with my brain. We were attached at the hip last spring. Friends care about friends. That’s it. My head wins. Ben only thinks of me as his friend.
“Sure, Ben. Whatever you want,” I say, then turn and walk away.
Back at home, I reconcile my relationship with my bladder and go through no less than a half dozen tissues before firing up my laptop. I plop down on my bed and move the cursor to the search box. Letting the vertical line blink for several beats, I eventually muster up enough courage to type in BEN. I stare for a moment before tapping the keys to add REDS PITCHER. I draw in a breath, hoping it’s enough for the search engine to bring up his full name, and then coax my finger to press ENTER.
A slew of hits fill my screen with pictures, the images confirming I’ve found the correct Ben. And before I talk myself out of finding out more about him, I click on the first link that mentions Ben Peterson.
The Cincinnati Reds drafted Peterson as a second overall pick in the Amateur Draft. He spent two months in the Minor League before making his first appearance in Major League. During his fourth career start, he threw a one-hit, no-walk, twenty-strikeout shutout against the Atlanta Braves. His stellar opening season landed him National League Rookie of the Year honors and solidified his spot on the roster as the organization’s top ace. He finished the season with an 11-4 record.
I scroll down to check out his early life, noting he was born in Georgia and his parents are both deceased. Wow. At least we have one thing in common. I read on. Surprised to find out he turned down offers to play professionally after high school and accepted a full ride to Ohio State instead. Among his many accomplishments on the mound, he graduated with honors from the Fisher School of Business.
An unladylike snort escapes my nose as I read the last part again. Rubbing across my abdomen, I work to soothe some additional flip-flops going on inside my belly. Hey, settle down in there. We’re just learning more about Daddy.
And finding it interesting we have the same college degree in common. I adjust how I’m lying, hoping to calm my little one’s activities. When a reposition doesn’t work, I decide I might as well go make something to eat. I waste no time warming up some leftovers and take them back with me to where I left off, steam rising from both the meatloaf and the mashed potatoes.
Giving them time to cool down, I chew a bite of lettuce and nearly choke after making the grave mistake of clicking on IMAGES.
My heart drops into my stomach as my eyes scan past picture after picture of Ben. And women, several of them, each one more beautiful than the last, all tucked in at his side, smiling right there beside him.
I close out my browser and shut the lid. I’ve seen enough. I don’t look remotely like any of them. Now I feel like the only thing connecting the two of us is what’s growing inside my womb. For whatever that’s worth. Ben hasn’t even connected the dots, putting the expected date of delivery together with the date of conception. It’s simple math for a business major who should easily be able to count backwards or forwards for a nine-month span of time.
And he had the nerve to ask me if I was married. Pffft. Clearly he thinks my fifty-five pound weight gain came about because of someone other than him. Why else would he look at me the way he does and ask me such a silly question?
Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Having him in my life is certain to turn out like a roller coaster you think you can handle. But after the corkscrews and free-falls of reality you suddenly realize you can’t manage.
This is one ride I’m not hopping on. No, I can’t do that to him.
I won’t be that girl. I’ll do whatever it takes, because his life is too perfect to screw up.
I’m strong. I can do this without him.
Chapter Six
Ben
Like a loony, I pound on the wooden door. “Where’d you go? Mrs. Tinley, I know you’re in there.”
The front door swings open, leaving my fist hanging in midair. “Bender,” Mrs. Tinley answers, her hunched posture almost as worrisome as is her disapproving stare. “That baseball did a number on your frontal lobe. Don’t make me teach you a lesson in social etiquette. Go put on some clothes. And bring me back a beer while you’re at it.”
“My head’s fine.” So said the neurosurgeon I woke up to in the ICU. “You were getting the beer. Then you disappeared like the Loch Ness monster taking refuge and hiding somewhere deep inside Mike’s house. This time, I’m Nessie, and I’m entering yours.”
I push through the threshold and storm off to find her kitchen.
Mrs. Tinley follows but her awkward stride makes her rather slow, which grants me ample time to scour what she’s got hidden inside her fridge. “I reckon you boys walk around the locker room lookin’ somethin’ like a toddler in a diaper on a hot summer day, but this ain’t no baseball stadium and you ain’t no toddler. This is my house.” She tosses me a robe, her aim so perfect it knocks a few hairs right off my chest. “Dress yourself, or you ain’t touchin’ the booze from my fridge.”
Following her orders, I set a large glass jar on her counter and slip into the purple robe. The moment I cinch the belt that rests high up on my waist, I’m confident I look like a tall yet skinnier version of Barney. At least I’m covered, and Mrs. Tinley seems to approve. I’m not sure why. It’s clear my hairy legs don’t match the look I’ve got going with the mini-dress I’m wearing.
“Better?” I ask, voicing my next admission in a hurry. “It better be, because I think I’ve got a problem.”
After some silence, Mrs. Tinley hands me a short glass she’s filled with a clear liquid. It looks like water. “The way I see it, you’ve got more than one problem. Care to clue me in on which it is you’re talkin’ about?”
I sniff the contents and take a seat in a plastic yellow barstool at the counter. Mrs. Tinley’s house is clean, but it’s definitely a time-hop back to the 1970s. Her rust-colored carpet is heavily worn shag with flattened trails from room to room. Looking aroun
d, I’m at a loss for how her almond-colored appliances are still functioning.
She meets my gaze, the bun on top of her head loosened and frayed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out. The math ain’t difficult.”
Words escape me as I repeat her comment in my head. I have no clue as to what she’s talking about. How did we go from a discussion about my problem to some sort of math?
Mulling it over, I tip back my head and down the clear liquid in my hand. Immediately, I wish for a chaser to clear the burning flaring up in the back of my throat. I nearly drop the glass to the counter as I cough and sputter, eventually discerning that whatever the old lady just fed me, it tastes pretty darn good.
“What the heck is this?”
“Simple moonshine. Made it myself. Just don’t let the locals know.” She flashes me a look of warning, then takes a chug herself. “Closet drinkers. They’ll all be out here sniffing around. I don’t need that, but sometimes you gotta play their game. And I ain’t goin’ to hell any more’n you are. But if you don’t fix your problem, I may just take you there myself.”
Defensive to her threat, I throw up my hands. “Hey, I tried everything. Even hypnotherapy didn’t work.”
“Meathead, this ain’t about baseball.”
“Ouch, that hurts. Feel free to call me something harsher next time.”
“It’s gonna hurt a lot worse if you make me slap you upside the back of your head. Maybe I ought to give it a go anyway. Might just be what you need to get your brain working again. ’Cause what I saw today ain’t the actions of a man expectin’ a baby.”
A tightening in my chest follows a wave of extreme heat. I narrow my eyes into slits, feeling my eyebrows squish together. “What’d you say?”
“You ain’t got nothin’ wrong with your ears, Bender. You heard me. You gotta get your ass off that chair and go make this right.”
I lift my cap and drop it on the counter next to the empty glass. Sifting my fingers through my hair, I arch my spine, and get to work calculating some simple math. When I don’t know where to start the equation, I toss a sideways glance at Mrs. Tinley. “Hey, how many days are there in a typical pregnancy?”
At my question, she stares with brooding eyes, tips the precious jar, and refills her glass with moonshine. Like an outlaw gearing up for a shootout in the streets of the Wild West, she downs the contents, slams the empty to the counter, and fixes her cloudy eyes on me, pinning me with her stare.
“Bender, if you don’t get this right, I’ll beat you from here to Hades.”
I lower my gaze to the counter and wipe the excessive sweat away from my forehead. After a moment of silence, I ask her if Addison is carrying my baby.
A laugh of disbelief roars out of Mrs. Tinley’s throat. “Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Home Run. Quick. Give the guy a trophy.” She dumps a knuckle’s-worth into my glass, and then slides it across the countertop back into my hands. “After what you sustained last year, Bender, this shouldn’t come as much of a blow. Tell me how you didn’t immediately know that baby’s yours?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because we barely know each other.”
She lifts a curious brow. “And yet—”
“I know. I know. I slept with her. I should know.”
“You’re darn tootin’ you should know. Addison Hunt hasn’t so much as looked at a guy since the death of her parents hit national headlines.”
A strange mix of equal parts guilt and sadness moves through me when I hear of Addison’s loss. Addison Hunt. Now I know her full name. Even more, not only is the woman of my dreams available but she’s carrying my unborn baby.
Riddled with shame for walking away from her the way I did this morning, I finger the top of the glass, absentmindedly tracing circles around the rim. “Her parents are dead?”
Suddenly, I grow concerned, my stomach rolling when I think of how Addison’s been facing this pregnancy all alone.
“Pretty tragic. There’s a few of us around here who keep a lookout for Addison. She’s a strong woman. No other family to speak of. She never asks for a thing. And despite what people say behind her back, she gives to this community like you wouldn’t believe.”
In all the days I’d thought of Addison, an accidental pregnancy hadn’t crossed my mind. “I don’t know how this happened. I’m telling you, we took precautions.” But it’s not like I checked anything after we’d been together. Would anyone actually do such a thing after an amazing day like ours in the woods? The thought puts a grin on my face as I think back to the day I soaked in everything I could about her. “You know, she shoots a rifle like a veteran sniper only wishes he could. Ironically, I guess I’m the one who got the last shot in that day.”
Mrs. Tinley chuckles, then gently pats my hand. “I’m kinda surprised she took you out. Before her papa became governor, they used to hunt all the time. Each fall they’d get their limit of deer and skin ’em upside down in Mr. Jenkins’s barn. Addison saw to it the venison was frozen in family packs full of meat and sausage to help feed the less fortunate throughout the winter. I don’t think she’s aimed a barrel in years. S’pose it’s much like ridin’ a bike. Once you get back on, you remember how to do it.”
The memory of our day in the woods settles deep in my heart. Not sure what to say to Mrs. Tinley, I decide to stay quiet.
Staring unseeingly, I feel Mrs. Tinley pat my hand. “She lives in the white house at the south edge of town, just before Main Street turns back into the country highway. Apartment C. Be sure to grab a bite to eat before you go pounding down her door like you did mine. You need something to soak up the two-hundred proof you just drank. Maybe even a shower and some clothes’d do you good.” Mrs. Tinley smiles as I rise and slip my cap back over my hair. “Oh, and Bender. Go easy on her. These hiatuses you’re takin’…just so you know, you’re rechargin’ your batteries inside her childhood home.”
Surprised by yet another revelation Mrs. Tinley’s made, I give her a slight nod and follow it up with a frown. Given the day’s events, I’m pretty stunned. However, I won’t let any amount of shock stop me from finding apartment C and claiming my Addison.
Chapter Seven
Addison
My phone rings about the same time my doorbell dings. I check the caller ID and decide to give Rachel a call back later. She’s probably just checking in since I missed her at the firehouse for our usual night out enjoying a pork tenderloin sandwich. In my slow response to my doorbell, I hear it ding again.
Since I don’t often get visitors, I have yet to make a habit of checking the peephole. Hearing the bell again, I can’t help but be curious and start running a list of who might be standing on my doorstep instead of having fun at the festival going on at the square.
I turn the knob and gasp in surprise as I open the door. Once again face to face with the man who rocks my world, I stare back at him. He stands tall before me, this time in fitted jeans and a tight red T-shirt. He’s ditched the baseball cap, granting me an opportunity to fully explore his features and all the sandy-brown hair he usually has tucked away. A few inches of length moves gently with the wind, the sight teasing me to sift my fingers through. I imagine the strands are soft and in sharp contrast to the bed of fine whiskers framing the square jawline of his face. Taking him in, I tingle with a need to touch him.
Eventually, I lock in on his intense blue eyes. They’re centered below trimmed brows, glinting with what appears to be a flicker of hope. My heart hammers against my chest wall, nearly taking me down.
Taller than me, he dips his chin and cocks his perfectly symmetrical head. To my surprise, he lifts both brows, and brings an open hand into my sight. It’s as if he’s silently asking if it’s okay to take my hand. I don’t have a choice. My hand has a mind of its own and immediately finds his.
It’s rough in spots, but warm to the touch, and spurs tingles to race up my arm. I’m suddenly hot. And I can’t help but grin back when his nervous look turns into a smile.
“H
ello.” He squeezes my hand. “I’m Ben Peterson. The jerk you met this morning.”
I let out a slight laugh, my body warming as Ben draws my left hand up to his lips. Soft and sensual, his kiss leaves an imprint on my skin where a part of me wishes he’d slip a ring up my finger.
“I’m sorry about earlier this morning.” He releases my hand and this time lifts a brown paper bag into my view. “I’m hoping we can start this whole day over. I brought kabobs and some lemonade I picked up at the square from one of the booths.”
“I totally get it. I can imagine that as a baseball player, you might see human basketballs as frightening creatures. Trust me. I understand.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder and toss him a grin, catching an extra glint in his eyes as a broader smile lifts above his chin. “Come on in. I ate a little while ago. But I’ve found human-basketballs are full of energy and require lots of nutrition. So it’s not likely I’ll take a pass on your kabobs and certainly not freshly squeezed lemonade.”
“Good, because I’m starving.”
I bet he’s hungry. He’s a big guy. A physically built man who just finished a rather strange workout. I don’t know much about baseball, but what Ben was doing looked like some kind of baseball yoga. Watching him, I got the feeling that holding a balanced pause on one foot might be more difficult than Ben made it look.
His spine was straight. The muscles in his legs were tight. The six-pack he’s sporting made the entire drill look nice and easy. Then he went and ruined the pose by hurling that triple-digit number.
Ben shoots me a serious look as he enters my apartment. It makes me wonder if he caught me thinking about my visions of his package.
His hand grazes mine as I take the bag. “Addy?” The sad tone in his voice throws me off, cutting a direct path right to my heart.
I sit the bag on a barstool and turn to meet sad eyes. “Ben, are you okay?”
