Page 104 of Room 4 Rent

The second half or “last half” of an inning, during which the home team bats, derived from its position in the line score.

SYDNEY

What do I wear? Slutty? Conservative? Fuck, I don’t know.

I decide on the Angels sweatshirt Cason sent me along with a pair of skinny jeans and tennis shoes. Simple is always better, in my opinion.

Tatum wears her usual crazy attire. Dress, cowgirl hat, and boots. Over the dress, she throws on her Angels shirt. “How me look?”

I smile down at her as we get into the van to head to the airport. “You look adorable.”

“I miss our boy so much.” She grins, her cheeks pink with excitement. “I can’t wait to see hims.”

I lift her into the van. “Me too.” I haven’t seen him in person in thirty-nine days, and it’s been torture. Even with our late-night naughty FaceTime calls. If I ever had a doubt on how I felt about Cason, our time away has put all that to rest, and I’m basically obsessed with him. I watch every game, follow him on Instagram just waiting for updates and stalk his location on my phone. That’s right. He set up location tracking on my phone so I’d always know where he was. To be fair, I did the same and it’s a whole new level of trust I didn’t know I wanted until I had it.

I’d say Tatum is too, judging by the way she doesn’t stop talking about him on the way to the airport. “Do you think hims remember me?”

“I’m sure he will. He loves you.”

Her cheeks flush. “I love hims.”

Life looks a lot different for Tatum and me now. Not only do I have a shop in Scottsdale again, I’m—hold your breath on this one—sharing a space with Remi.

Did your eyes bug out? Oh, believe me, when the offer came about, I did too. Remember when I told her to do something great with the life-insurance money?

She did. She opened up her own child’s boutique inspired by my daughter’s gypsy personality. Let’s just say Tatum spends most of her time at work with me, modeling all the clothes—in the same space as my art.

My head may have had a plan for my life, but my heart wants something different. And that’s fine too. That’s what I’ve been telling myself these last few months.

And this is one time I should listen to it since guys like Cason Reins don’t come around very often.

I DON’T REMEMBERmuch about the game—other than a million bathroom breaks and Tatum trying bites of everything at the concession stands. Cason pitches four innings with five strikeouts and makes history. First game in the major leagues, and guess who officially breaks the major league world record for the fastest pitch thrown in a game?

Cason Jarrett Reins. 105.9 miles per hour.

It’s hours after the game before we’re able to see him, and his first words to me as Tatum sleeps in my arms are “Do you believe me now?”

“I got my proof, didn’t I?” Tears roll down my cheeks, and I practically drop my sleeping daughter at the sight of his beautiful face. Thankfully, no mullet or mustache.

He takes Tatum into his arms, sighing as he holds her head gently. “Fuck, I missed you both so much.”

She doesn’t wake up but wraps her arms around his neck.

I reach out and touch my hand to his stomach. He sucks in a breath, his lips clamped together, his jaw firm but his eyes carry so much love. “Not as much as I missed you,” I tell him, watchful of the players exiting the clubhouse. I’m nervous how he’s going to act with all these people around us.

To my surprise, he reacts in true Cason fashion. No hesitation.

Yanking me forward and to his side, his lips press to mine. It’s gentle at first, then his mouth opens to mine and that overpowering urge he provokes inside me takes over. Pulling back, I’m reminded that Tatum is asleep in his arms. He smells like soap and cedar and makes my damn knees weak. “See? I can’t even control myself. I missed you more.”

“I’m barely hanging on here,” he says with a laugh against my lips, nibbling on my lower lip. “But before I show you how much I’ve missed you, I’m starving.”

“I imagine you are.”

We end up going to a late dinner, where Tatum wakes up. She talks constantly to Cason. I swear, I can’t get a word in with her and her boy.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Naturally, through dinner, he’s recognized by half a dozen people congratulating him on his first major league appearance. My heart bursts when a younger woman approaches for an autograph, and he kindly gives her one.

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