Page 58 of Make My Heart Malt

“You have at least ten more years of playing baseball in you. If that’s the case, it’s like one thousand six hundred and twenty days of this.”

“Are you planning on doing this for ten years?” Maybe she does want more. You don’t talk about being in someone's life ten years in the future if you don’t expect to be in it.

A pinkish hue flushes over her cheeks. “Hypothetically speaking.”

“I have three years left on my current contract, then I don’t know what will happen. If I play well enough, they might offer me a new one, or I could get traded.”

“Perhaps to Minnesota?” She flashes me a hopeful smile. “Then you’d be somewhat closer.”

“Maybe. Their catcher sucks.” I wink.

A downward smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “Now I miss you even more. This talk has taken a sharp turn down Depression Drive. How about a change of subject?”

“How about this? Soon I'll see you wearing my jersey, with nothing on underneath, in person.”

Her eyes go wide. “Wait. Are you coming back?”

“I’ll be in Harbor Highlands on the twenty-third for Christmas.” My plan was to surprise her with a visit. Show up unannounced and lock us away in her bedroom for atleast twenty-four hours, but the wide grin on her face right now is worth spoiling the surprise.

She squeals. “I might have to buy another Minnesota jersey, so you can rip it off me.”

“I will gladly rip off anything you have on. It’s like unwrapping my very own present.”

TWENTY-SIX

WOOLLY MAMMOTH STATUS

Dessa

I chalked up my lunch date with Georgia, and the awkwardness with Tony to mercury being in retrograde. We haven’t seen or talked to each other in several years, so we needed to shake off the rust. Tonight, I invited them over for dinner and drinks at my house as a take two. With an oven mitt covered hand, I open the oven and pull out a vegetarian lasagna. The savory aromas of garlic and fresh melted mozzarella fill the kitchen. I set the restaurant purchased lasagna on the stovetop. As it cools, a knock on the front door startles me. Striding out of the kitchen and through the living room, I twist the knob and pull it open. Georgia and Tony greet me with friendly smiles.

“I’m so happy you could make it!” I step out of the way and Georgia wraps her arms around me in a hug. As she steps away, Tony does the same.

“It smells amazing in here. My stomach’s already rumbling.” Georgia rests a hand on her belly.

“Also, we got you this.” Tony raises a bottle of gin in the air.

“Thank you. This is way better than a bottle of wine.” Tony passes the bottle to me as I take both their coats and they slip off their shoes. I escort them into the kitchen. “This is perfect. I’ll make us some drinks.”

Tony pulls out a seat for Georgia before sitting down himself. I stroll around to the opposite side and set the bottle on the counter.

Georgia rises on her stool to peer over to the stove behind me. “Did you make that?”

Spinning around, I glance at the lasagna, wishing I could make something that delicious. “If by ‘made it,’ you mean ‘picked it up from Le Uve to warm up in my oven,’ then yes. I made it.” My lips upturn into a sarcastic smile.

Georgia laughs, and I join her. “We’ll that’s the hardest part, getting it from the restaurant to the oven without dropping it.”

“Then call me a master chef.” I playfully brush my shoulder. “Since I can’t give you a home-cooked meal, how about a homemade cocktail?” I twist the cap off the bottle of gin.

“I won’t turn that down.” Georgia’s eyes light up as a perfectly curved smile covers her face.

“Is that an Isabella Rossi drink book?” Tony reaches across the counter. His fingers curl around the glossy cover and pull it toward him.

I pour gin, lemon juice, and simple honey into a shaker. “It is.”

Georgia turns to Tony, “Isn’t she the mixologist with the chef husband? You took me to their restaurant in Chicago.”

My eyes widen as my breath stalls. “You’ve been to Poco Grande?”

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