4. Hit A Tater

FOUR

HIT A TATER

Dessa

My eyelids flutter open, and I blink, adjusting to the light and bringing everything back into focus. Holy shit, that was some intense dream. It was so real. Garrett casually strolled into Porter's as if he didn't have a care in the world. Like nothing changed between us. And then he smiled at me. Not a bright, full smile, but his signature sexy half smirk. One that makes your nipples hard just thinking about it.

"Dessa, are you okay?" Lach's deep voice jolts me back to reality.

Shit, maybe that wasn't a dream. My gaze dances around the ceiling until Lach's face comes into view as he bends over me.

"You okay? You fainted. Here's some water." He unscrews the plastic cap before passing me a bottle .

Shit. Fuck. Is Garrett really here? The deafening sound of my pounding pulse fills my ears, fueling the half-anger, half-panic surging through my veins. I can't face him. If I do, I'll strangle him, and I don't need first-degree murder on my record. Can they read my thoughts? Would they know it was premeditated? Maybe I can get off with second-degree. Better yet, let's not murder anyone today, and I won't have to worry about prison time.

Slowly, I rise to a sitting position and glance at the edge of the bar. Everyone is facing away from me, their attention on the hometown baseball hero—better known as the Home Run Playboy. Now's my turn to run away, well technically not run , more like crawl away so I can bury myself in a hole and pretend he isn't here. Even better, pretend he doesn't exist because those emotions are best kept under lock and key than out in the open.

I scramble to my hands and knees. Lach lifts his brow but doesn't say anything. With my eyes wide, I hold my pointer finger over my lips. Garrett can't see me if I crawl along the back of the bar. All the surrounding noise dissipates as I concentrate on getting to the opening. It's only a few feet away. Then I can escape down the hallway. One hand in front of the other. With each step toward the opening, the pounding of my heart grows louder in my ears. I continue crawling with my head down until my hand lands on a sand-colored canvas loafer. My heart leaps into my throat, and I struggle to take a breath. My gaze lifts from his dark stone-washed jeans, travels to the hem of his white t-shirt, and then lingers on his muscular chest before finally landing on his familiar face, wearing a smug smile I want to slap away.

"I thought that was you." Garrett crosses his arms over his chest, causing his shirt to stretch across his pecs and biceps. If he flexes, the fabric is going to give out .

His voice is as smooth as Macallan whisky. It sends my head into a tailspin. Sure, I've heard him speak on TV, but it's been so long since it's been in the flesh. I'm pretty sure I'm still in a state of paralysis from him being here. In person.

"What are you doing down there?" He tilts his head.

A heavy sigh escapes my lips. So much for hiding. Time to feign ignorance since it's easier than the truth. My heart lodges in my throat as I pat around on the floor. "I—um—I lost a contact." I continue to tap the dirty tile floor, searching for my nonexistent contact.

"If I know anything about bar floors, you won't want to put that back in your eye when you find it," he says smugly.

"When did you start wearing contacts?" Lach asks from behind me.

I twist my head to face him and mouth, "I hate you."

Lach shrugs. "It's a valid question."

"With the way you're crawling on the floor, I suspect you're trying to avoid me," Garrett says.

The corner of his lips lift into a half-smirk. It's hot and sexy and shouldn't affect me the way it does. It's always been his signature look and can still make butterflies take flight in my belly.

Not willing to abandon my contact ruse, I pretend to pluck it off the floor. "Got it." I scramble to my feet, avoiding eye contact with Garrett as I shoulder past him. My footsteps echo off the walls as I storm toward the bathroom and slam the door behind me. I sag against the door, brushing my dirty hands on my jeans. What the fuck was that? I've known Garrett for half my life, yet he's turned me into a blithering idiot. I guess it's the not seeing him or talking to him for ten years that really did me in. Never in a million years did I expect him to show up here. If I had to guess, he got the same wedding invitation I did. Granted, it's his brother, so he would be expected to show, but it's not like Garrett to conform to expectations.

I push off the door and stroll to the sink. Taking a paper towel from the dispenser, I run it under the faucet until it's damp. I press the towel to my face, the icy chill seeping into my heated skin. Too bad there isn't a window so I can Pretty Woman my way out of here. Instead, I hike up my pants, figuratively of course, and give myself a pep talk. I can do this. I'm an adult and can handle the situation like the twenty-eight-year-old I am.

"Dessa?" His voice is deep as it penetrates through the door.

All the previous adrenaline dissipates as a blanket of red floods my vision. Nope. Screw the high road. Fuck him and fuck him for making me feel feelings I was not anticipating feeling today. He can now experience what it's like to have someone walk away. I yank open the door and he nearly topples through the doorway. I shoot him an icy stare as his hand flies to the doorjamb to regain his balance. His signature scent of citrus and amber fills the air, reminding me of happier times we once shared. It's both sexy and seductive. It could possibly be my kryptonite.

His gaze locks on mine. A crackle of electricity fills the air around us. "You dyed your hair."

Instead of bolting past him, I freeze. My eyelashes flutter while I process his words. "After not seeing me, not talking to me, not a single social media message with ‘Hi, how are you? We should catch up!' for ten fucking years all you have to say to me is ‘You dyed your hair'?"

He stares at me without blinking, as he realizes the words he said and how stupid they sounded.

His silence fuels the raging inferno building inside me. He thinks things can go back to the way they were? That's not happening. "Why are you here? Just so you can walk away without a goodbye again? Well, screw you. I'm doing the walking away this time."

I shoulder past him, leaving him standing in the doorway alone. Am I being childish? Probably. Would the adult thing be to talk this out? Absolutely. Do I care? Fuck no. He left the first time, and I'm making sure I'm the one leaving for the last time. Before I reach the end of the hallway leading into the bar, his voice echoes behind me, followed by his footsteps.

"Dessa. Wait. Talk to me," he pleads.

When I reach the bar, Lach glances at me and then to Garrett, who's still behind me. "Everything okay?"

"I can't be here anymore. I need to leave."

Without missing a beat, Lach says, "I'll cover the rest of your shift."

"Thanks. I owe you." I'm grateful he trusts me and doesn't ask questions, even though I'll have to tell him everything later. Right now, I don't have time. I need to get out of here. Mostly, I need to get away from Garrett.

"Dessa! Wait." Garrett's voice trails behind me.

My steps quicken as I continue to ignore him.

"Dessa! Can we talk?"

I pretend to tune him out.

"Dessa!" His hand grips my elbow, and I yank my arm away.

Spinning around, I almost collide into his chest. I drop a foot back to give myself more space. "You had ten years to talk and what did you do? Nothing. You don't get to waltz in here now and demand that we talk." I twist on my heel to leave, but his fingers brush my wrist.

"Tates. It's not what you think."

I freeze. It's like I smacked face-first into a brick wall. I guess I sort of did, and its name is Garrett Dawson. Ten years have passed since I've heard his nickname for me. A name that was once endearing now leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

I remove the "Reserved for Dessa" paper sign left on the metal bleachers behind home plate and fold it before tucking it in my pocket. Every game Garrett leaves a reserved seating sign where he wants me to sit. For the most part, everyone leaves it empty for me. Seated behind me is an older couple talking about baseball, sacks, and taters. My eyebrows pinch together, curious what that has to do with baseball. Until the man explains that sacks are the bases, and a tater is a home run. I chuckle to myself at the comparison.

By the third inning, we're down three to one. Garrett steps out from the dugout wearing white baseball pants and a red jersey with a white number seven stitched below the Trojans name. He casually swings the bat back and forth, loosening up. I scream his name and clap. He glances up and flashes me a half smirk.

"Hit a tater!" I yell.

Before he reaches the batter's box, he halts in his tracks, tilts his head, and shrugs. I laugh and shrug mine as well. He steps up to the plate and gets into position. The pitcher winds up and throws a curveball to the outside. Garrett holds his swing. He has a knack for gauging the perfect pitch. The umpire calls a ball. Garrett takes a step back, rolling his shoulders before stepping to the plate again. A cloud of dust floats through the air as he plants his foot. With his concentration aimed at the pitch he waits like a cat stalking their prey. The pitcher winds up and throws the ball. He swings. A crack resonates across the field as the ball sails to center field and drops outside the fence. I jump to my feet, screaming and clapping, while Garrett rounds the bases. The Trojans came back to win eight to five.

After the game, I meet him outside the dugout to congratulate him on the win. I throw my arms around his neck and without missing a beat, he wraps an arm around my waist. "Congrats! And you got a home run! "

"Thanks." He pulls off his sunglasses. His piercing green eyes stare back at mine. "What was the tater thing?"

I giggle. "I overheard some people talking about home runs being called taters and bases are sacks. I don't know. I went with it."

I drop my arms to my sides, but instead of letting me go Garrett wraps his arm around my shoulder. "I guess I'll have to call you my Little Tater. Tates for short."

My nostrils flare. "You don't get to call me that anymore. You lost that privilege." Anger roars through me like an EF-5 tornado. He can't storm back into my life and expect everything to be rainbows and butterflies. Using my nickname from when we were kids doesn't instantly make things better. What he did hurt. A lot. Maybe one day I can forgive him, but that day is not today.

I reach over to a customer's table and, in a calm, hushed voice, I ask, "Can I borrow this? You can get a new one at the bar. Tell them it's on Dessa."

Before they can respond, I grab the glass of beer and hurl the liquid at Garrett. "No. It's exactly what I think."

He ducks, the bulk of the beer narrowly missing him, but a few droplets wet his shirt. His gaze drifts to mine. Amusement, not anger that I threw a beer at him, etches his features. "I see you haven't been practicing your throw."

Steam billows out as I flare my nostrils. I grab another customer's glass and throw the beer at him. This time hitting him in the face. The golden liquid drips down, soaking into his white shirt. "The first is always practice."

He wipes a hand over his face. "I deserve that one."

I huff, spin around, and storm out of Porter's. What happens when your hot as sin, former best friend, baseball-playing, ex-boyfriend's brother barges back into your life, wanting to talk? You're screwed. Royally and utterly screwed.