by Grant, Pippa
“But he was talking to the men last night,” Aunt Bea tells me.
“He spent two hours painting baby Ashes with you.”
“Painting. Not talking. It’s our turn to catch up.”
“You saw him at Grady’s wedding.”
“Psh. He was doing all of his best man duties.”
Go away, I mouth to him, remember Max Cole saying the same thing to me a dozen or so times before he finally kissed me and ran away himself, and feel my face heat like the ovens at Crusty Nut, which is where I’m headed for my day shift as soon as senior aerobics is over.
Cooper blows me a kiss.
That’s not good.
Does he still have a key to my house?
How long has he been up?
Did he prank me while I was here?
I start to smile. If he got me, I get to get him back.
God, I miss him when he’s gone.
Brothers are supposed to be annoying, and Cooper is—Grady too, sometimes—but I don’t mind. My brothers are also awesome.
I won the brother lottery, which has become clearer and clearer the further into adulthood we’ve all gotten.
“Are any of you coming back to work out?” I call to my class.
“Not while you’re not working out with us,” Mom calls back over the sea shanty music that Nana insists we use every week.
“Don’t you have to get to work?” Cooper asks me.
“Aren’t you supposed to be running sprints up and down your mountain?”
Yeah, his mountain.
Shipwreck isn’t hurting economically between the tourism and the side hustles so many of our residents have picked up in the internet age, plus we have a growing segment of people who move here to work from home since we have solid internet and we’re basically the best small town to ever exist—and I’m not just biased. We get written up in articles about The Best Small Towns To Live In Across America all the time.
But Cooper and his professional baseball salary are a step above. He’s been slowly buying all the land on Thorny Rock Mountain as it comes on the market, and at this point, he owns most of it.
Not all—he has a few neighbors, mostly rich and sometimes famous city folks who come out for a few weeks total a year. But if they ever sell, you know he’ll be first in line to make an offer.
And he’s grinning again. “Wanna join us?”
“Already did my cardio today.”
“Lies.”
“Maaaah!” Sue replies.
“Exactly,” I agree. I rub his head again. Goofy boy’s missing one horn, and has been since he adopted Grady after the great goat invasion several years back.
“How many more of your teammates are coming?” Aunt Glory asks.
“Are you all going to be running shirtless up and down the street all winter?” Dita Kapinski asks.
“I saw Max Cole come home shirtless last night,” Aunt Bea, who lives across the street, says. “Hubba hubba.”
“I can hold your feet for you while you do sit-ups,” LaShonda Mayberry offers. “And you tell Robinson that Glory might not be available, but I am.”
“Does your husband know?” Nana asks her.
“Oh, honey, Robinson’s my free pass, and yes, Jason knows it.”
I roll up my own mat, toss my Bluetooth speaker in my messenger bag, and head to the door, watching Cooper’s face do the same kind of gymnastics he does with his whole body at second base as the moms and grandmas of Shipwreck pepper him with questions. “Don’t keep him too long, ladies, or he won’t get his workout in, and then he’ll be Cranky Cooper.”
“Cooper’s never cranky.”
“He’s a shithead sometimes, but never cranky.”
“Check your doors good before you walk in your house, Tillie Jean. We know he owes you for that glitter bomb.”
I slip on my jacket, then go up on tiptoe and ruffle his dark hair on my way past. “I hope it’s not lame.”
He snorts, but his eyes are twinkling. “Ladies. I’m a changed man. I don’t pull pranks anymore.”
Translation: I just set up the mother of all revenge plans, and I can’t wait to see Tillie Jean’s face when she walks head-first into it.
Time for extra vigilance.
But I’m not expecting to need it quite as fast as I do.
I walk out the front door of the senior center and almost run into a very tight baseball ass.
Max is bent over on the sidewalk, dressed in a Fireballs track suit too, petting one of the stray goats that occasionally wander into town. “Who’s a good goat? You like shoe laces? Bet you’d like a juicy steak better. Who wants a juicy steak? Who’s a good goat?”
And that’s my entire problem with Max Cole.
From afar, he’s every bit the kind, funny, good guy that I’d want to get to know better.
But up close?
“That’s Goatstradamus, and he’s the reason we had to install bear-proof trash cans behind Crusty Nut,” I say.
Max jerks upright, turns, and his expression goes flat as roadkill.
Up close, he’s that.
Locked-up, off-limits, and a total stick in the mud. His jacket is unzipped, and the performance fabric of his white shirt pulls taut over his broad chest, giving me one more view of the muscles I touched last night.
His eyes narrow, which I feel more than see, since I’m still mentally groping his chest.
“Tillie Jean. Didn’t see you there.”
“Between my invisibility cloak and your lack of eyeballs on your butt, I’m not surprised.” I smile.
He doesn’t.
“Sleep well?” I ask.
“Great.”
“Awesome.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t leave your doors unlocked or Goatstradamus will pull a Sue on you.”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t twitch a facial muscle. Doesn’t ask what kind of code that is—it means Sue broke into Grady’s house and refused to leave, in case you’re wondering—and doesn’t answer either.
I sigh and step around him, lifting my messenger bag out of reach of the goat. “Have a good workout. I’m off to work.”
“Tillie Jean.”
I glance back at him.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down. “Sorry. About last night. Won’t happen again.”
“Because I’m Cooper’s sister, or because I’m that repulsive?”
Good morning, growly bear glare. Been a few hours. I missed you.
“TJ. Quit annoying Max.” Cooper pops out of the senior center, Mom on one arm and Dita on the other.
I smile at all of them. “You want me to stop breathing?”
Max flinches.
Cooper’s lips twitch.
And Mom gives me a mom look. “Tillie Jean. Don’t make the poor boy uncomfortable.”
The poor boy is towering over all of us and could probably bench press the pirate ship float that Pop rides every summer at our annual Pirate Festival. Rumor has it he’s on tap to do a photo shoot for Arena Insider’s Bare Naked feature sometime this winter too.
And yes, that’s exactly what it sounds like.
He’s doing a photoshoot naked.
With all the juicy bits covered once the pictures go to print in the sports magazine, of course, but still naked.
And now I’m uncomfortable.
Also, Goatstradamus is trying to eat my messenger bag.
I jerk it out of his reach. “Just heading to work. See you all around.”
Probably too soon for some of them.
But that’s his problem, not mine.
5
Max
All good things must come to an end, and today, apparently, that good thing is me successfully avoiding adding to my list of things I hate about Tillie Jean Rock.
Today, she’s having an argument with a parrot right outside my bedroom window.
You heard that right.
She’s arguing with a parrot.
“Give it back, Long Bea
k Silver.”
“Rawk! Get your own fucking treasure. Rawk!”
It’s five-thirty in the morning, and the woman who has been the bane of my existence my entire time with the Fireballs is once again destroying my calm. I’ve managed to successfully avoid her for two weeks now—two pretty damn good weeks of settling into a solid routine with my teammates, getting stronger, staying healthy, maintaining inner peace, doing random acts of kindness by feeding the stray goats and buying lunch at the local pizza joint or the new Mediterranean grill off the main drag for the locals, all the positive stuff my therapist recommends—but apparently my good luck has run out.
I shove my head under my pillow and try to find the quiet place. Good air in. Bad air out. Sleep good. You can do it.
“I swear to Davy Jones, you mangy bird, if you don’t give it back, I’m making fried parrot for lunch today.”
I’d ask Robinson to trade houses with me, except he’s renting out the bedroom over Cooper’s parents’ garage.
No thanks.
Stafford’s in a rental house next to Cooper’s grandparents.
Apparently the frisky runs heavy in the Rock genes. Both of my teammates are complaining about the same noises.
Addie Bloom, our batting coach, is out here with us too, renting space above the bowling alley, and Hugo Sanchez, our conditioning coach, is in a spare cottage on a goat farm. Cooper has a couple rental places on the mountain, but they’re all booked sporadically through one of those house vacation rental sites, and I’d have to move my crap out every few weeks if I used one.
There are literally no other options in this town unless I want to move into the hotel, which would be even worse. And yeah, I could move back to my own place in the city for the rest of the winter, but other than Tillie Jean, I like being here.
I like working out with my teammates.
We’re the only ones who know what we’re going through, and while there are a bunch of guys still in the city, they’re not doing what we’re doing here.
They’re not being a support group without calling it that. They have their own personal trainers, their own schedules, and their own gyms.
Not like Cooper, Trevor, Robinson, and me. Together. Day in and day out. Like the team we need to be next year.
“Drop it, bird,” Tillie Jean hisses.
How a woman can hiss loudly enough to wake the dead is beyond me, but she is, and now, after a couple weeks of not letting her destroy my calm, Tillie Jean is bursting out of that little mental box I store her in.
The one labeled Her brother is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a best friend, knows my reputation, and would kill me if I looked at his sister wrong, therefore, it’s a good fucking thing she’s annoying as hell.
And then there are days like the glitter bombing day. This morning. The day we met, which I actively refuse to acknowledge for my own sanity, and which has been joined by that stupid kiss on the list of things I pretend I don’t think about but which have made my list of things I hate about Tillie Jean Rock grow exponentially.
Concentrate on what you love, not what you hate, my therapist would say.
Fuck him.
He’s not here. He doesn’t know what it’s like.
Sure, Max. Keep telling yourself that. Maybe try to age back up to adulthood sometime today too?
“Rawk! Eat shit! Rawk!”
“Fine. New tactic. You look lovely today, Long Beak Silver. Your feathers are extra pretty. Who’s a good bird? Who’s such a good bird who wants to drop it right now?”
“I saw your mama blowing Santa Claus. Rawk!”
I roll out of bed, stalk to the window, and open it to a blast of cold air. “Does this town have noise ordinances?”
Tillie Jean shrieks.
“Hide the treasure! It’s the po-po!” Long Beak Silver says.
“Go walk the plank, you mangy bird.” Tillie Jean lifts a flashlight and aims it at the parrot, who’s sitting on her roof with something shiny beside him.
“Middle finger emoji,” the bird replies.
Yes, seriously. The bird has learned to say middle finger emoji. I watched Cooper teach it the phrase two days ago over lunch at the Korean place that’s apparently also relatively new.
Tillie Jean makes one of those are you kidding me? noises. Then sighs. “Why do you walk the plank for my brothers but not for me?”
“You’re a girl. RAWK!”
She swings the flashlight at me, temporarily blinding me on top of all the noise. “Do you see what I have to—oh my god, are you naked? Do you ever wear clothes? It’s thirty degrees out here.”
I dig deep to not turn into the cranky asshole I would very much like to be right now. “Why the hell are you arguing with a bird while I’m trying to sleep?”
“He stole my keys.”
“Where do you need to go at five fucking thirty in the morning?”
“I was planning on leaving a present for Grady at his bakery, since he left me a present at Crusty Nut yesterday and this is the only day of the week that he’s not there at four in the morning himself, but it appears I’m up early to pluck a parrot featherless instead. If I can get my hands on him. And don’t tell me this is the universe’s way of telling me it’s a bad idea to prank Grady. Sometimes the universe wants you to work for it.” She tilts her head, and in the span of a blink, she turns back into Cooper Rock’s Annoying Little Sister, dropping her voice so it’s throaty and full while she bats her lashes at me. “Care to join me? You don’t have to put your clothes on.”
Four years of being Cooper’s teammate.
Four years of Tillie Jean flirting with me.
Four years of my molars getting closer and closer to cracking every time she pushes it.
I’ve mentioned there are ten million things I hate about this woman, right?
The first time I saw her, I didn’t know who she was. I just knew she was in Chance Schwartz’s apartment, a dark-haired, flushed-cheek, full-lipped vixen, naked and alone but still enjoying herself in his bed. I couldn’t see everything, but I could see her full breasts, and I could hear something vibrating under the covers where her legs were clearly spread.
Didn’t think much of it, beyond being grateful for the show.
I’ve had women in my bed too, when my teammates dropped by. Not usually having to get themselves off, but definitely in my bed.
But showing up for lunch with a bunch of the guys on my new team a few hours later and getting introduced to her as Cooper’s little sister while Schwartz was slipping his phone number to our server?
She and Schwartz didn’t last long after that.
Schwartz didn’t last long on the Fireballs either.
Both are my fault, even though any woman deserved better than Chance Schwartz, and Cooper was technically the one who informed management that Schwartz needed to be traded off the team or he’d be calling his agent to make sure he himself was, and even the old management wasn’t dumb enough to let Cooper walk.
Also, no, I don’t lose any sleep over that. Schwartz was a prick.
If I had a sister, I wouldn’t have wanted her dating him either.
And I’m no better than he is when it comes to women—I get around and I don’t commit, though unlike my former teammate, I’m upfront about it—and I like having Cooper Rock as one of my friends.
So instead of answering his sister’s invitation to join her naked, I slam the window shut, and I take myself back to bed, where I bury my head under two pillows and tell myself I’ll be able to get back to sleep.
I don’t.
Naturally.
Instead, not three minutes later, I hear the distinct clink of a ladder being propped against a roof.
Reason number eight thousand, two hundred fifty-five…
It’s dark as a meatball’s asshole outside, and she’s climbing up onto her roof to chase a bird.
An old, familiar sense of duty pokes me in that damned spot between my shoulder blades, and the next thing I know, I�
��m pulling on sweatpants and heading out into the chilly night—sun’s not up, so yes, it’s still night—where Cooper’s sister is ascending a rickety ladder with nothing but a flashlight and the sound of a parrot’s voice to guide her.
And we’ve added gets me up at stupid hours of the night to the list of things about Tillie Jean Rock that I cannot stand.
“Rawk! To the left. Rawk! To the right. Rawk! Dip and grind! Dip and grind!”
“Please just give me back my keys.”
“Daddy gives and Daddy takes away. Rawk!”
She mutters something she probably learned from the parrot as the dark outline of her reaches the top of the ladder.
I stride to the edge of it and peer up. “What are you doing?”
“Getting my keys. Regardless of what the universe is telling me, I need my car keys.”
“This town’s four square blocks. Walk.”
“It’s ten square blocks and growing, and I can’t carry Grady’s present that far.”
“Christ on lasagna,” I mutter.
“Aww, you sound just like Luca. That’s adorable. Is he coming to work out with you guys again soon? I miss Henri, and she’s not taking texts while she’s on a deadline.”
Shit.
I am cussing like Luca Rossi. Guy hasn’t been on the team a full year, and he’s already sharing his personality. “Can you please get off the roof before you fall and break your head?”
She twists and plops, and suddenly she’s sitting on the edge of her roof, feet dangling, probably staring down at me.
I assume that’s what the hairs raising on the back of my neck means, anyway. I can’t see her, and my heart’s starting that old, heavy rhythm again.
Dammit.
Dammit.
Beautiful morning. Chilly, but clear. Can see stars. She’s a grown woman.
Nothing to get riled up about.
My pulse is still inching upward, though, and my lungs are giving me warning signs that this is a complication I cannot afford this morning.
Go home, Max. Go home. She’s not your problem.
She sighs loudly. “I sincerely appreciate your concern, but number one, I unfortunately do this all the time, because my grandfather’s parrot is an asshole, and number two—”
