by Grant, Pippa
“Sleep with her and I’ll kill you. Distract her so she’s not sprinkling sprinkles all over the ceiling fan in my bedroom? I’m good with that.”
“Sprinkles on your ceiling fan?”
“Worse than glitter, man. Sweat a little at night and you wake up sticky as hell.”
I rub a hand through my hair, which is still glittering. “At least you can eventually wash it off.”
“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” He frowns. “This isn’t foreplay, is it? I’m serious. Don’t touch my sister.”
“I’m not touching your sister.” Fuck, I want to touch his sister.
“Aw, Cooper, go easy on him,” Luca’s girlfriend, Henri, says from down the table. “Every playboy can be redeemed by the right woman.”
“He can redeem his own fucking self if he wants to go near my sister.”
Mackenzie leans around Brooks to peer at us too. “Would you let Francisco date your sister?”
He makes a face like he’s thinking about it. “Probably.”
“What the fuck?” Shut up, Cole. Shut. Up. “He’s no Boy Scout either.”
“Yeah, but I’ve seen how he treats his mom. He’d shape up for TJ.”
Luca throws a napkin down the table at us. “Don’t be a dick, Cooper.”
He rolls his eyes. “Or maybe I’m protecting Max from Tillie Jean. Ever think of that?”
Now I want to throw something at him. “I don’t need protecting from your sister.”
He glances around, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not saying this, because my sister is fucking awesome, but TJ…she’s like, queen of the on-again, off-again thing. You two would fuck with each other’s heads. Okay?”
Dammit.
Dammit.
I’m sweating again, and on the verge of wanting to throw him out the window.
He doesn’t usually use my weaknesses against me.
“Where is TJ?” Cooper asks.
Looking for something to wear is probably not the right answer. “Sloane’s car was at her house when I left.”
He frowns. “Don’t sleep with her either. She’s like, long-term material, and you two don’t go.”
“I know some single women in Sarcasm if you get lonely,” Annika says as she and Grady join us.
Cooper tilts his head. “Yeah, I’m okay with that. You can sleep with anyone in Sarcasm. Except Annika’s sister. Or her mom.”
I recoil. Annika’s sister is in high school, and her mom’s in her fifties and dating someone.
“You’re being a dick again, Cooper,” Darren calls.
“Yeah, but it was worth it to see that look on his face. Who’s up for a game of darts? I feel an ass-kicking coming on.”
Cooper slaps me on the back as he rises. Robinson hops up too, and Trevor slides into Cooper’s vacant seat. “Tell me you’re not being an idiot.”
“Four years, Stafford. I’ve been on this team for four years. You think I’m gonna suddenly be interested in somebody’s sister?”
He frowns. “Yeah.”
“Not happening.” It is so happening.
“Fuck Cooper, man. I’m not worried about him. I’m worried about you.”
I jerk my head toward him. “Grown man here. I think I can handle living next door to a single woman without any danger to my heart.”
He grimaces.
And I realize he might not be talking about me at all. This is my first time spending an off-season here, but it’s not Trevor’s. “Holy shit. You hooked up with her last year, when you were out here for off-season with Cooper, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“But you wanted to.” And now I want to put my fist through a wall.
She’s a damn Siren. She’s getting all of us.
He shakes his head, but it’s not a denial. “I’m about washed up, and I have been for longer than I want to admit. Put me in a house next to a pretty woman who smiles and waves and drops off leftovers after her shift for four solid months, and yeah, it’s hard to not feel like you found a place to belong.”
“She brought you leftovers every night?” Forget the wall.
I want to punch Stafford.
“Yeah. I’m nice to her. Try it sometime. And don’t let anyone tell you her banana pudding is where the magic is. It’s the blondies. With the walnuts and ice cream and maple sauce.” He wipes his mouth. “I’m drooling, aren’t I?”
I signal the server and order a beer. If I don’t, I’m gonna get pissed.
Jesus.
I’m turning to one beer to distract myself.
This is a bad sign.
I also cut a glance at the door. Where is Tillie Jean?
And how good are the locks on my house? And why am I on the verge of raising my flagpole again at the idea that she’ll crawl through my windows and get revenge while I’m gone?
“Why do you get dessert and I get pranks?” I ask Stafford.
“I’m not a dick.”
“She’s a dick.”
He grins. “She is not. And you wonder why you don’t get desserts. But Cooper’s wrong. TJ’s not the queen of on-again, off-again. That was one guy. Not every guy she’s ever dated. For the record. Not that I won’t kick your ass myself if you do something dumb, but I’m not going to lie to you about why.”
Groans and cheers explode at the end of the table, and we both lean in to check it out.
Darren, Tanesha, Luca, and Henri are playing the Go, Ash, Go card game again. Based on the way Henri’s dancing in her seat, I’m guessing she just won.
“Rematch,” Tanesha says. “We played three cards.”
Henri’s still dancing. Her short, curly hair’s grown out since this summer, and it’s not quite as crazy as when it was sticking up like devil horns when we first met her. “Who’s a winner? I’m a winner!”
Luca’s grumbling, but he’s smiling at her too.
Brooks and Mackenzie are leaning over a tablet with Emilio and Marisol, probably looking at honeymoon pictures or talking about weddings.
Francisco’s at the bar chatting up Georgia.
Grady and Annika are making eyes at each other over a basket of fried mushrooms.
And I’m sitting here wondering where my annoying neighbor is, and if she hurt her tailbone or twisted her ankle again, and if I’ll wake up to Lego pieces all over my bedroom floor tomorrow.
And how I should pay her back if I do.
The server returns with my beer, and I climb to my feet as soon as I’ve had a gulp. “Pool?” I ask Trevor.
“Aw, I thought you’d never ask.”
Team first. Team second. Pranks a distant third.
More boners for Tillie Jean, never.
That’s the plan.
We’ll see if it works.
18
Tillie Jean
Sloane and I walk into The Grog like two cowboys swinging into an old west saloon, except for the part where my ass hurts a little every time I step with my left foot, there’s no saloon music, and if I called out Giddyup, cowboy!, my grandfather’s parrot, who’s flitting around the room from perch to perch, would probably laugh at me and tell me to fuck off because this is a pirate town.
But we’re still trying for swagger.
“Oh my gosh, she’s even more adorable in person than on the picture on her website,” Sloane breathes.
It takes me a minute to remember who she is, since my eyes have immediately gone to the pool table, where Max and Trevor are engaged in a game that has both of them appearing relaxed and happy, which is dangerous territory.
They’re both drinking out of traditional Grog steins, though I’d bet hard money Max’s drink is plain tea. And then I wonder if he’s having a hamburger tonight. I’ve heard through the grapevine that he stops by once a week and orders one. His one indulgence after eating clean and working out hard all week to stay in top shape the other six and two-thirds days of the week.
I can’t do one indulgence a week.
I need one of Grady�
�s donuts at least two mornings a week, plus Korean barbecue any opportunity I get, and I’m no slouch in the kitchen or on the grill.
It’s why I have to do aerobics at the senior center and participate in the town’s 5k runs.
And now I’m wondering if Max would ever do aerobics at the senior center like Cooper does on occasion.
“I can’t do it, TJ,” Sloane whispers.
“What? You stop by boot camp all the time.”
She gives me a weird look.
I give her a weird look right back, realize I was lost in my head and boot camp has nothing to do with what she’s talking about, and straighten with a hot-cheeked smile. “Oh. Right. Henri. C’mon. She’s awesome, and you’ll make her night if you ask her to sign your autograph book.”
One eye crinkles. “Why were you thinking about boot camp?”
“The brain works in mysterious ways. And right now, my brain says you need to meet Henri.”
“Can we do it in the ladies’ room though? I don’t want the rest of the team to see.”
“So long as I give her a heads-up first. If it’s a planned bathroom ambush, that’s okay. If it’s unplanned, it’s awkward.”
“Tillie Jean!” Marisol rises and waves at me, and the group bent over a card game at the end of the pushed-together tables all look up too. “Come show Emilio the picture of your painting that you showed me earlier.”
And now I’m blushing even worse.
I shoot one last unintentional look at the pool table, catch Max watching me, and duck my head and cross the bar to the group, waving at other friends as I go.
Sloane’s previously met a bunch of the team here tonight, since Cooper’s teammates aren’t usually strangers to Shipwreck. But she was visiting a friend up in DC the last weekend Luca and Henri were here. I introduce her to everyone, and the minute Sloane gets flustered over I’ve read your books, Henri leaps up, hugs her, and orders her to sit and play a round of Go, Ash, Go so they can be friends.
“TJ.” Marisol nudges me. “The painting.”
I pull my phone out, scroll through to find the picture of the painting she made a fuss over at coffee this afternoon, and hand it to Emilio.
He’s grinning while he takes it, but the grin quickly morphs into a furrowed brow and a whoa face. “Dude.”
I snatch the phone back. “It’s not weird. I did one for almost everyone on the team. Wait. Maybe that is weird.”
“You have one for Brooks?” Mackenzie leans over the table and holds out a hand, making the gimme gesture.
She’d left the coffee shop before Marisol asked if I’d painted anything new recently, and missed the whole story. But I did do one of Brooks, so I pull my phone out again and flip through for the picture. “Don’t tell Cooper, but I was working on paintings of all three of us to give to Mom and Dad for their anniversary, and right after I finished his, he had this six-game streak where he was just hot, you know? So I was like, I wonder what happens if I paint someone else on the team?, and then—”
“Oh my god, you were painting our luck?” Mackenzie squeals.
If ever there was a human born who appreciates baseball superstitions, it’s Mackenzie.
But I shake my head. “It didn’t work.” No need to go into details. Nobody needs to know that I painted Trevor, and the day I finished it, he gave up a two-run lead in the bottom of the ninth. No one ever remembers when the relief pitchers save a game. They only remember when the relief pitchers lose it. “But I felt weird having two guys on the team painted and shoved in my closet, so I started doing everyone. I thought—okay, it’s silly, but I thought if management wanted to use them—”
“Or buy them from you because it’s art?” Marisol says pointedly.
I wave a hand. “It’s a hobby.”
“Show Mackenzie your painting of Max.”
Hello, bad idea. “It’s not done yet.”
“It’s a masterpiece.”
“It is not.”
She leans back in her chair and glances at the dart board, where Cooper’s battling Robinson in a Cooper-style game of darts, with both of them throwing darts over their shoulders, with their eyes closed, between their legs, and whatever other weird ways they can think of to toss darts. “Cooper, your sister’s doubting her artistic ability.”
“It must be Saturday,” he calls back.
“Or Friday,” Aunt Glory adds.
“Sometimes Wednesday,” LaShonda calls from the bar.
Max slides me a look that I pretend I don’t see, because otherwise, I’ll wonder if he’s wondering when I paint. If he’s noticed the lights on in my house late at night. If he ever looks at my house at all.
Stop thinking about Max, Tillie Jean. He’s off-limits.
“Wait, what art?” Henri asks. “Tillie Jean, I didn’t know you made art.”
“She paints,” Sloane announces.
“Like fruit paints, or like people paints, or like does that weird pouring and spinning thing?” Luca asks.
“Those videos are so mesmerizing.” Henri smiles at him, all joy and love and happiness, and he smiles back, and my heart does that thing where it aches with the kind of longing I pretend I don’t understand.
It’ll happen when it’s supposed to happen, Matilda Jean. Trust the universe.
I’m only twenty-six. It’s not like my eggs are drying up.
But they are very curious about what Max thinks of this entire conversation.
I have a problem.
I very clearly have a problem.
“Like people and places paints.” Sloane pulls out her own phone, dashes her fingers over the screen, and hands it to him. “You didn’t hear about the night we all painted Ashes? Tillie Jean taught us. And here. She painted this picture of one of her cousins. It’s hanging in her living room.”
I’m not embarrassed by my hobby. I like my hobby.
But everyone tells me I should take commissions or try to sell something to an art gallery in the city, and I don’t want to.
See again, do what makes you happy.
Here, I paint when I want, there’s no pressure, and if someone wants to hang one of my paintings in their house or business, it’s just a thing where I made something they like, and I’m flattered, and it’s win-win.
If I tried to sell my art, to sell my hobby, strangers would get to pick apart every wrong brushstroke, and take all the joy out of it.
Been there, done that. I’d rather keep loving my art and keep it to myself and the people who love me than let the world tear it apart in the hopes of making money from it.
“Tillie Jean!” Henri looks up from Sloane’s phone. “This is amazing.”
I flap my hands. “I mean, yeah, I can paint circles around a seven-year-old, but it’s just a thing.”
“Say thank you, Tillie Jean,” Cooper calls as he nails a bull’s-eye while blindfolded.
“Is that Pop’s trick see-through blindfold?” I call back.
“What?” Robinson looks between us, then shoves Cooper. “Let me see that thing. Aw, man. You cheat.”
“Have you met my brother?” I call to Robinson, and everyone cracks up.
Even Max, though he glances away the minute our eyes connect.
Robinson lifts a dart and squints at it in the soft light. “Do these things have homing sensors? Did you microchip them? Is that why you’re playing with your lucky set?”
With my paintings forgotten, I relax into the evening, only occasionally stealing a glance at Max.
He is in a black T-shirt and tight jeans, staying on the one half of the bar and oozing confidence and some kind of magical aura that makes me want to be closer to him.
I keep to the other half of the bar, as I’m practicing resisting temptation.
Until Cooper challenges me to a round of pool.
Mr. Professional Athlete thinks he’s the winner in the family, but he’s not the only one with a competitive streak.
And he’s going down.
He racks the balls.<
br />
I inspect them.
We go five rounds of rock-paper-scissors to determine who goes first, and Grady finally calls it when Cooper demands seven rounds after losing the initial five.
Grady’s such an oldest kid.
But it means I break.
And it’s a glorious, beautiful, perfect break that sends the nine ball into the corner pocket.
“Scratch,” Cooper says.
“In your dreams, Stinky Booty.”
“Your left boob touched the edge of the table.”
“That’s not against the rules.”
“House rules. You can’t put your boobs on Aunt Glory’s table.”
I’m grinning while I eyeball the table to decide how I want to play my next shot. “House rules. You lose a turn for making up stupid house rules.”
“Agreed,” Grady calls.
“Rawk! Eat shit and sniff my armpit. Rawk!”
Cooper points at Long Beak Silver, who’s flitting around unsupervised. Pop must have left the window open for him again. “That means he’s taking my side. We need a tie-breaker.”
“Are they always like this?” Henri whispers to Luca. Everyone’s gathered around to watch. The locals because they know we’re going to be utterly ridiculous, and the team because the locals gathered.
I assume.
Possibly Cooper’s planted people in the crowd to distract me and throw me off my game.
“I took a glitter bomb meant for Cooper,” Max tells her dryly. “Pretty sure they’re always like this.”
“Oh my gosh, I wondered if you knew your hair sparkles a little when you turn just right.”
“Been saving it to share with Luca.”
“Get your glitter hair away from me, dude. I’ve got a commercial shoot next week.”
“Tillie Jean’s turn,” Aunt Glory calls. “You’re rusty on dreaming up dumb rules, Cooper.”
“Rawk! Girls smell like fart powder! Rawk!”
I lean over the table. “Eleven in the side pocket. Also, I get seventy-five Shipwreck points if I manage to take the bird out with a ball shot off the table.”
“You get three thousand Shipwreck points if you take the bird out with a scratch,” Annika corrects.
