21. Willow

Willow

Trying not to obsess about Ronan Sinclair has me exhausted.

Why does the man have to be so freaking perfect in almost every single way? He's respectful, kind, humble, talented, and so goddamn sexy it makes me shiver every time I see him. My uncle adores him. He's the kind of dad every little girl deserves. He loves baseball, possibly even more than I do.

But I can't date a player.

The number of times I've had to remind myself of that fact has grown exponentially over the last few months. It's like having your favourite, most delicious food laid out in front of you and then being told you can't touch it, can't have even one single taste. The longer you sit there, staring at the perfect feast, the more desperate you become to have it. The more willing you are to risk everything.

Ever since the hospital charity event, I've felt my defenses starting to crumble. The temptation to give in to what I know he wants is growing. He wants me. And godfuckingdamn it, I want him, too. But I won't be another woman whose accomplishments are ignored just because of her relationship status. I have always refused to ever be known as Willow Lawson, so-and-so's girlfriend, just like I have always refused to be known as Willow Lawson, the owner's niece.

But Ronan is proving to be harder to resist than anyone else in my life ever has been. He's under my skin, in my head, and he's cracking the walls around my heart.

However, it seems that freaking annoying thing called fate that Ronan insisted was at play in Hawaii is up to something, yet again. The team is playing a home game later tonight, so who do I run into at a park halfway between Ronan's house and my apartment when I'm out for a jog?

The Tridents' new first baseman himself. And his adorable daughter.

I come to a stop, placing my hands on my hips as I try to slow my breathing down to normal. The air is cold as I suck in a breath, and now that I'm not moving, I take the windbreaker off from around my waist and put it back on, zipping it up for some added protection.

Ronan is pushing Peyton on the swings, and I can hear her high-pitched laughter even from the other side of the grassy area. There's no one else here, just a gorgeous man and his gorgeous daughter…and me. The weirdo who can't stop thinking about him.

Peyton spies me first, and I see her twist to say something to her dad before pointing at me. Ronan grabs the swing and pulls it to a stop so she can jump off, and the next thing I know, a miniature version of Ronan only with darker hair is running toward me.

"Finish line!" she yells, her arms open wide, and I look at Ronan in confusion. He crouches down and opens his arms, and I instantly mimic the position. Just in time, thank God, as Peyton barrels into me, wrapping her arms around me, almost knocking me over.

"Hi, Willow, got any Skittles?" she asks as she bounces back out of the impromptu hug as Ronan comes jogging up.

"Pey, it's nine in the morning, you don't need Skittles."

I bite my lips together to keep from laughing at the fond, yet exasperated, tone in his voice. He looks to me with an apologetic expression.

"She's been up since six," he says with a grimace that Peyton misses, thanks to our height differences. "Figured some morning park time would be a good idea, so maybe there's a n-a-p later."

"I know what that spells, Daddy." Peyton pokes him in the thigh, and this time, I don't succeed in fully concealing my snort of laughter.

"Oh, yeah? If you're so smart, then you're smart enough to know that a tired dad is not a fun dad. That nap isn't just for you, missy." The teasing growl to his voice is adorable, but also an uncomfortable reminder of how that growly voice sounds in bed.

Awkward.

"Can we play Maui and Moana now? Willow could be Heihei!"

"Willow's not a chicken." Ronan chuckles as he lifts his cap off his head and spins it around backward.

Goddamn it, why is that seriously the hottest thing a guy can do? Well, top ten, at least.

His gaze darts over to me. "And I don't think she wants to play —"

"Excuse me, but that chicken is the best character in the entire movie," I interject, my hands on my hips. Peyton gives me a toothy grin, and I know that my Disney movie expertise has just won me some points in her mind. "The comedic sidekick is crucial to any good story. How do we play?"

Peyton's eyes light up. As she starts to babble on about how to play her make-believe game, I chance a quick look over at Ronan. To my surprise, he's not watching his daughter, he's watching me, and there's an indescribable expression on his face. A mix of awe, gratitude, and desire. With something else that I can't put my finger on.

Thankfully, Peyton's game seems like a mix of tag and pretend, making it easy to play along, even though I didn't pay close attention to her instructions. For the next short while, we run around the field and playground, my pride taking a beating as I bawk like a chicken and flap my arms. However, Peyton's laughter makes it all worth it.

But when my watch vibrates with a text from Uncle Mike, it sobers me instantly. "Hey, sorry, P, but I gotta get going," I call out, slightly breathless from running around. Four-year-olds should be personal trainers with how high their energy is. Who needs sprints when you can just chase a kid up, down, and all over a playground.

Peyton dashes over and hugs my legs. "Thanks for playin' with us." She looks at Ronan, who's come up beside us. "Can I go on the slides?"

He just nods, and she's off without a backward glance. Fearless and confident in her father's love. As she rushes off to the play structure, Ronan's eyes don't leave her until she's climbing up the steps to the slide. All of a sudden, I feel him shift closer to me, his warm, spicy aroma floating over to tantalize my senses. And then I can't help but suck in a gasp when his fingers brush against mine, one latching onto my pinkie. My pulse races at the unexpected contact. So small, yet, I feel it throughout my entire body.

"Thank you for playing with her like that. The move hasn't been easy; she's missing her friends and her old preschool teachers." The quiet pain in his words makes my heart ache for the man who's clearly desperate to do right by his daughter.

"She'll be okay," I say lamely. Even though I can't know that for sure. I don't remember what it's like to be uprooted from everything you know, having been less than two years old when my mom abandoned me. I was lucky enough to be adopted quickly, and my mind has simply wiped most of those two years from my memory completely. All I remember is love and stability, courtesy of my adopted dad.

He never dated, there was never a parade of men in and out of the house. I knew about his sexuality as soon as I was old enough to understand. For a while, I fantasized about him and Uncle Mike being in love and me having two dads, but it didn't take long to realize that while their preferences swung the same way, all that was between them was a deep-seated friendship. Deeper and stronger than love or blood.

I never got the chance to ask Dad why he didn't date, I guess I was too scared to hear the answer. The last thing I ever would have wanted would be for him to stay alone for my sake. But that's the kind of dad he was, always putting me first.

It's the kind of dad Ronan is, too. And the thought of him being alone until Peyton's an adult makes my heart twist even further in my chest. He's a man with a lot to give, and he deserves to be happy. Even if I don't think I can be the one to give him that.

His finger gently slides up and down mine in a soft caress that draws me back to this moment, this slight physical connection with a man who means far more to me than he should.

"It's really fucking hard to keep my distance from you," he whispers, still looking straight ahead at his daughter, who's now squealing as she goes down the spiral slide. "You've got your walls up, and I really want to know why. But if you can't tell me, then can you at least tell me I'm not the only one suffering? Tell me it's hard for you on the other side of that wall, too." The desperation in his voice is paired with so much wistfulness, so much longing. It takes everything I have not to turn and throw myself into his arms and go back to the blissful few hours when the only thing that mattered was each other.

But I manage to take the smallest of steps to the side, losing the link between our pinkie fingers.

"I can't do that, Ronan." I force the words out past my lips, even though they feel like a lie, despite being the cold, hard truth. "Those walls you talk about are there for a reason, and I can't just take them down."

"Can't or don't want to?" he asks, and there's no accusation in his tone, no anger, just a sad acceptance that somehow hurts even more.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. To me, it does."

I turn to face him. "It wouldn't change anything. I still can't be with you." Taking a step back and then another, I put space between us. Even though I really wish I didn't have to. "Say goodbye to Peyton for me. And good luck at the game tonight."

Then I turn and run.