Page 43 of Shades of You

What the hell should I say?

How should one respond when someone reached for the first time in fourteen years? While at boot camp as a miserable, guilt-ridden eighteen-year-old, I’d deleted Evan’s information from my contacts. But who else could it be? Finally, I sent back a response, my thumbs numb and clumsy.

Hunter: Thanks for the advice. Maia might be a good sister, but she’s not the best hitting coach.

My text floated away into the digital ether, carrying with it another huge step in mending the chasm between brothers. Pedro sat up on my lap, sensing my change in mood.

“Come on, come on, Evan.” After a pause, another text came through.

(305) 222-6395: No, but she’s good at building a team. So is Stella.

I snorted, an unexpected laugh escaping me despite the tension coiling in my gut. That was typical Evan, always giving credit where it was due. And he wasn’t wrong—Stella could rally a group of cats into a swimming race if she put her mind to it. This time I answered more quickly, more confidently. A challenge wrapped in a veiled request.

Hunter: Maybe the Stingrays need a new hitting coach.

I stared at the small ellipsis that indicated he was typing a response, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. The brief lull felt like being underwater, suspended between two worlds—the surface where everything was light and clear, and the depths where things got murky and unpredictable. My fingers tightened around the phone, its edges digging into my palms. The text bubble popped up again, and I braced myself, ready for whatever Evan threw my way.

(305) 222-6395: If you need some pointers, I might be able to help you out.

Breath exploded from my lungs as I bolted upright. Screeching, Pedro leaped from my lap. I ignored him, hope flaring in my chest like a beacon.

Hunter: When and where?

(305) 222-6395: Let’s have a casual batting practice in the garden next to the Big House. Can you come Saturday morning? Dad kept my old batting cage, believe it or not.

Hunter: I believe it. I’ll be there.

Nothing happened for a solid minute, a minute heavy with portent. Pedro cautiously jumped back on the couch and sat with his tail curled around his white paws. I tapped out a final text, adding one confirmatory word at the end.

Hunter: Thanks, Evan.

The answer came immediately.

(305) 222-6395: You’re welcome.

The phone slipped from my hands, landing on the coffee table with a clatter that spooked Pedro. Once again, he leaped off the couch. This time, he shot me a disgruntled, narrow look before stalking off toward my bedroom. I barely noticed, my head falling back against the wall, and both hands running through my hair.

Evan’s words, so simple and casual, were anything but. They rattled around in my head, a chaotic blend of past and future colliding. Baseball had always been our common ground, and now it might just be the thing to bring us backto each other. Picking up my phone again, I opened our conversation and tapped the icon at the top. In place of the bare digits of his phone number, I entered a first name. Nothing else was needed.

Evan.

I could already feel the trimmed grass of the lawn Evan and I had once practiced on as kids, smell the leather of my glove, hear the crack of the bat—a sound that spelled out hope in the only common language Evan and I truly spoke anymore.

For now, that was enough.

Chapter Twenty

Brenna

My shop wasits usual refuge of much-loved books and fresh coffee, but I barely registered the scents drifting around me. My actions were mechanical as I shelved a group of new non-fiction titles. Hunter Markham had infiltrated my thoughts with the stealth of a shadow.

I could almost feel the press of his lips, the rugged terrain of his scars beneath my fingertips. And the way he’d groan my name in a private confession between entwined bodies. The overwhelming feeling of him inside my body, inside my mouth. Our moments weren’t solely forged in passion. I also loved our quiet interludes—two silent figures pressed together on the couch, each lost in a separate world of printed words yet somehow together at the same time.

I forcibly shook my head, hoping to tether my wandering mind. I began gathering the books for this afternoon’s book club meeting, arranging them in a neat stack beside the cash register.

The bell above the door chimed its familiar tune. Benstrode into the bookstore with purpose. His expression tightened and his brows lowered as he scanned the room, like he was searching for someone other than me.

“Everything okay?” I asked, watching him closely. His light-brown hair was ruffled as if he’d run his hands through it.

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