Chapter Thirteen: Bishop

The house is exactly as I remember it. Pristine. It reeks of money, excellence, and the kind of perfection those with a big bank account love to flaunt. I remember thinking it was completely unlike Willow the first time I visited. Now I’m not so sure.

She’s shown me she’s not everything I feared she’d become, but I’m not entirely ready to let my guard down. Not that it matters. Not for what I need from her.

What I hope she needs from me too.

Willow led me to her father’s office and left me to wait while she changed out of the stunning off the shoulder purple dress and heels she greeted me in. It accentuated every single one of her sinful curves and left my dick twitching in my pants. That is until she told me it was for another man.

It’s not that I’m jealous.

Okay, that’s a lie. I am. But only because if she’s shackled to another man, there’s no way she can do what I’m about to ask her. It’s jealousy by necessity.

Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night.

Fuck. I don’t need my jackass teammates in my head right now. Not when I know what I’m about to ask is a fucked-up drive into left-center. But I’m desperate for a little control over my life, and this might just be the answer to gaining it.

My eyes drift, taking in the room. It’s impersonal and cold, and not what I expected from our warmhearted former owner, but it sets a precedent. One I’m sure Willow was aware of when she chose it for the setting of our conversation. I was hoping for the comfy sectional in the living room, but wish in one hand and want in the other.

The large mahogany desk looms in front of a wall of bookshelves that holds various law texts and baseball memorabilia. Adjacent to the desk, floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the setting sun on a private beach. The same private beach that each of the monstrous houses in this community boasts. I might be a professional baseball player with a multi-million-dollar contract, but this is more than even I could imagine. I keep scanning until my gaze lands on the bar cart in the corner.

Bingo.

Willow had the right idea. Drinks are going to be necessary. At least for her. I can’t allow myself to indulge. If I do, I might not want to stop and I need to keep my wits about me.

See? I’m trying to do better.

I make quick work of pouring Willow a gin and soda with a twist of lime just the way she likes it.

When I’ve finished, a binder, tucked between the glass shaker and the lip of the drink cart, catches my eye. The leather is worn, a stark contrast to the perfection that drips from every surface in this room.

I’m not usually one to snoop, but curiosity gets the better of me. What could be so unimportant for the immaculate Richard York to leave out for anyone to find? My gaze darts toward the door to make sure Willow isn’t standing there before I pick it up and carefully work the zipper around the edge.

I don’t know what I expect to find, but it definitely isn’t pages upon pages of baseball cards—rare ones at that.

My mouth drops open. It’s the kind of collection any kid would dream of. Hell, any adult would too. There was a time I collected cards like these, but growing up in a house of eleven, expensive baseball cards weren’t exactly a reasonable expectation to show up under the tree.

“Starting without me?” Her voice is hesitant but playful, and I hope that will carry over to the conversation we’re about to have. I need this to go well. If it doesn’t, I’m not sure how I’m going to make it through the coming weeks.

With one hand, I clutch the binder to my chest, like a kid who’s just been caught red-handed, and I pick up the gin and soda I made for her as a peace offering.

I glance up to where Willow stands in the doorframe in leggings and an oversized Renegades sweatshirt. Her hair is no longer down, instead she’s pulled it up into a messy knot on the top of her head with a few stray curls framing her face. It’s a good look on her. Relaxed. Dangerously so. It’s almost like by dressing down she’s taken off the mask of being an owner for this conversation. And while that’s the girl I remember, the girl I once started falling for, I have to remind myself that isn’t who we are anymore. What I have to say won’t change that. It can”t.

“Just making sure you have what you need,” I say, lifting the gin and soda in her direction. It’s not a complete lie.

She raises a brow, and I understand the skeptical line she’s pressed her lips into. I’ve given her every reason to question my motives.

Willow closes the space between us and takes the drink from my hand, her eyes zeroing in on the binder.

“Am I drinking alone?” she asks at the same time I say, “Are these real?”

I chuckle. “Yes. I’m taking a break from alcohol.”

Her brow raises even higher, but she doesn’t pry.

I let the binder fall open in my hands once more and run my fingers over the rare cards, and for a moment I almost pull them back because I have no doubt these should be in a museum. “You know what this is, right?”

Willow leans over and looks at the card I’m pointing at. She huffs a laugh. “Yes, I’m aware. It’s a 1948 Leaf #79 Jackie Robinson rookie card.”

My eyes go wide at the same time my cock takes notice. It’s incredibly hot she’s able to rattle off the card”s name in its entirety. “So, you know what one of these is worth?”

“More than one with your face on it.” She smirks and lifts her drink to her mouth, moaning as the alcohol coats her throat.

The sound is a flashback to the night in my hotel room and is like a lightning bolt to my dick. I shift my weight to hide the evidence of my blood rushing south behind the bar cart.

“Am I in here?” I tease, brow raised as I turn the page and marvel at each of the cards.

“Not a chance.”

I bring my hand to my chest in mock hurt, loving the way her lips tip up in a lively smile. “I suppose even without my presence, this collection is incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“Were they your father’s?”

Surprise smacks me in the face when her face falls and her gaze darts to the floor. “They’re mine.”

“Because you inherited them?”

Her jaw tightens, making me painfully aware I’ve said the wrong thing. “No, they’ve always been mine.”

My mouth gapes, and she laughs. This time it’s genuine. Something I haven’t heard from her in some time.

“Is that such a surprise?”

“Sort of,” I admit.

“Of course. I couldn’t possibly know a thing about baseball, right?”

“I know you better than that.”She knows the game better than anyone gives her credit for, and now that I think about it, so many of the conversations we’ve had tangled in each other”s arms about stats and baseball history make more sense.

Her face scrunches, but she doesn’t elaborate. “Now that you’ve satisfied your curiosity, can we move on?”

Willow turns her back on me and pads toward the desk, but I’m not ready to move on just yet. There’s more to this story, and even though I promised myself I wouldn’t push this beyond what I’m here for, I can’t help but want to know more.

When I don’t immediately follow her, she halts her steps and looks over her shoulder.

I shake my head. “Not until you tell me why you have these.”

She sighs and rolls her eyes, and for a split second, I think she’s going to tell me to fuck off. Which she”s well within her rights to do. Instead, like always, she surprises me. “My father got me some every year for my birthday. First it was guys from the Renegades. Then from every team in the league. Soon we bonded over finding rare cards. Happy?”

No. Not even close.

Mostly because I am trying to reconcile how it’s possible she can be both the woman who frustrates the living shit out of me with her calculated behavior and still be the innocent woman I met on a balcony.

I set the binder down on the bar cart and take a step forward, following as she continues toward the desk. She turns and leans against the front, gesturing for me to sit. As much as I’d rather stand, I choose to pick my battles and lower myself onto the plush leather Chesterfield chair. She looks down at me, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to be scolded in the principal”s office.

Hell, maybe I am.

Willow takes a long pull from her glass, downing half its contents before setting it on the desk beside her. “What did you need to talk to me about?”

I swallow hard and my hand itches to tug at my hair, but I don’t want her to pick up on my nerves, so I fist the fabric of my jeans instead. “It’s not so much a talk as a proposition.”

My eyes don’t dare leave her face, searching for any hint of trepidation. But if she’s surprised, her poker face doesn’t let on and I’m hit with the realization that this is how she operates with the league.

With me, her eyes have always been a window to her soul, just as they were moments ago talking about those damn baseball cards. Right now, she’s on the defense, and instead of allowing me access, she’s hiding all the bits she feels like she needs to protect.

I shouldn’t hate it as much as I do.

Willow nods. “I’m listening.”

I want to tell her I don’t want the business side of her, but the truth is, that’s what I need. She’s right to keep me at arm’s length.

With this in mind, I relax my shoulders and come out with it. “I…I want another night.”

She starts to say “no” at the same time I force “hear me out” from my lips.

“Fine,” Willow grits out and crosses her arms across her chest.

“Last Sunday night was exactly what I needed to get through the next day. What you said, about not feeling, you were right. Sometimes it’s not about moving on, it’s about learning to live. And that night I felt alive.”

She drops her hands to the side of the desk to hold her weight as she leans back and crosses her legs in front of her. “So, what are you asking me for?”

“I’m asking you to make my days easier.”

Her stone facade cracks, and she closes her eyes, shutting me out. “I can’t heal you, Bishop,” she whispers, her voice strangled.

Can’t. Not won’t.

For fuck’s sake, that’s what you heard?

Leave me the fuck alone,I chastise my teammates. You aren’t here and I’m fucking trying.

“I’m not asking you to heal me.”

Willow’s eyes pop open, and what once were stony pools of blue are now a raging storm. “No, you’re asking me to let you use me.”

“No. Fuck. This is coming out all wrong. To be honest, it made a lot more sense in my head.” I run a hand through my hair, and I regret not making myself a glass of scotch. “It’s crazy. I know that, but I’m desperate. I can’t lose baseball, and I can’t—talking isn’t something I want to do. I need action. Something tangible.”

“So, fucking the grief away is your answer? For how long? How long does that last?” Willow pushes off the desk and stands in front of me, her knees now inches from mine. “I gave you one night. I gave you your distraction. All I’m hearing is you, you, you. You think you’re the only one who’s desperate to run from these feelings? Well, let me tell you, Bishop Lawson, you’re not. You don’t own the cornerstone on grief. Some of us don’t get the luxury of falling apart and coming up with half-cocked ideas to cope. Some of us only get the fleeting moments and then have to get up every morning, and put on our big girl panties, and figure out how the hell we’re going to make something of nothing, knowing damn well we’re going to hate ourselves for the bullshit games we have to play. Some of us have to learn to live while playing with one hand tied behind our back. When are you going to realize—” Her eyes go wide, matching my own. Except where I’m stunned into silence, she’s choking on the tears streaming down her face.

I haven’t seen her lose it like this since the morning she showed up on those courthouse steps. Even then, she held it together. First for me, and then for the team when that reporter showed up. Then on the plane, when her panic was as palpable as the air at thirty-thousand feet, she managed to keep it together enough to help me.

Fuck, I’m an idiot.

No shit, Jackson whispers, but I can’t focus on him. Not when Willow has actively let her wall down in front of me.

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” she stammers, her curse hitting me like a freight train. “I shouldn’t be taking this out on you. It’s just been a rough day.”

She makes a move to step back, but I grab her wrist, keeping her in front of me. Her eyes dart to my fingers and then back to mine, and I give her a pointed look.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Willow huffs a laugh. “With you?”

“We used to talk before,” I say with a sheepish shrug, remembering all the hopes and dreams we shared under the umbrella of orgasms and stolen moments.

She yanks her arm and turns away, her eyes locked on the wood floor worn into what looks like a path from pacing. “Pillow talk with you is barely an almost when it comes to talking.”

Hurt aches in my chest, accompanied by the spider web of grief—tangling, suffocating me with every passing moment. “I gave you a piece of me on those nights.”

I did. Before our lives were upended, I gave her more than I gave most because I still had hope.

“And I treasured it.” Willow scoffs, not bothering to hide her own hurt any longer. “Can you say the same?”

I want to say I did, I do, but my actions since then won’t let me. Lost in my own emotions, I’ve failed her on every front since the crash.

The question is, what are you going to do about it now?

I suck in a gasp at the new voice making an appearance in my head. It’s Norah. She was always the voice of reason. The person who never shied away from asking the hard questions. I suppose in death it wouldn’t be any different. But I don’t have an answer for her. I came here with a plan and even though it now seems half thought out, the weight of it still holds true.

One night wasn’t enough to distract us—me—for more than a week. And I get the feeling it’s the same for Willow. She wasn’t joking in the hotel when she said she needed it as much as I did. She’s not keeping it together—she’s falling apart—and even though there’s every reason we shouldn’t do it together, I want to look past every single one.

I slide to the edge of the chair and rest my forearms on my thighs, looking up at where Willow stands. “Let me ask you this. Was your day better or worse after last Sunday night?”

Even though she still won’t face me completely, her eyes slowly track to meet mine. I love that with her walls down, I can see her mind working as she chews on the question. She opens her mouth then closes it, repeating the movement once, then twice.

“Don’t lie to me now, Willow. What’s your gut say.”

She lets out a sigh that feels a lot like she’s trying to rebuild those walls. “That’s not the point. I shouldn’t have lost it on you like that. It’s unprofessional at best and?—”

My words cut off her nervous ramble. “Because me showing up here and asking to fuck the grief away is all sorts of professional.”

Her shoulders slump forward and her curls sway as she shakes her head.

“Willow.” Her name is a plea on my lips.

She throws her arms up and turns back to face me. “Okay, fine. It was better. Better than I’ve felt in a long time.”

“Like you could breathe again. Conquer the shit you’ve been avoiding.”

“Yes.”

Moving slowly, so as not to spook her, I stand and take a step forward. Her head tips back to meet my gaze, and I can’t stop my eyes from darting to where her tongue slips out, wetting painted red lips.

Her eyes track my movement and she sucks in a breath, letting me know she’s just as affected as I am.

I raise my eyes to her sparkling blue ones and will her to hear, not only my desperation, but the plea to let me help her. “So, why wouldn’t we try to feel like that again?”

Her eyes search mine. “Is this what you’ve been thinking about for the last week?”

“Among other things.” It’s a lie. I’ve only had the idea for the past seven hours. Which were spent pacing my hotel room trying to work up the courage to show up on her doorstep.

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s wrong.”

“Says who?” I counter.

Uncertainty flashes across her eyes for a moment before she speaks. “I’m your boss, for one. And we—we’d just be scratching an itch.”

“One that needs scratching.”

“It’s not real.”

“It doesn’t have to be if it helps us learn to live again.”

Willow breaks her stare and glances at the window before taking a step back, which I allow. I might be willing to beg, but if she really doesn’t want this, I’ll walk away and respect her wishes. She turns back to the desk and reaches for her glass. Finishing off her drink, a weary silence fills the space between us.

I wish I knew what she was thinking, but I don’t have it in me to ask, especially if it’s all the reasons why we shouldn’t. I know them. I’ve gone over them a thousand times, and I keep coming back to her words—don’t move on, learn to live. I don’t know the woman standing in front of me. Not like I used to. But I know there’s some part of her that wants the same thing I do. She wants to live.

“I’m going to go,” I say softly, causing her eyes to snap in my direction.

Her face is drenched in a mix of apprehension and guilt, but I could swear I see a hint of longing as well.

“If, and I do mean if, I consider this, what would it look like?”

I breathe a sigh of relief and answer honestly. “Whatever you want it to look like.”

“Can I think about it?”

I nod. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”

Willow presses her lips into a thin line and returns with a nod of her own, though her eyes tell me there’s plenty she wants to say.

It’s probably best to quit while I’m ahead. She might not have said yes, but she didn’t say no and for now I’ll take the win. Because if she does say no, I’m not sure what comes next for me. I don’t want to fall back into alcohol and fights. I need to do better, not only for myself, but I’m not sure I can make it through on my own.

With that somber thought, I turn on my heel and head for the door.

I’m a little surprised when Willow doesn’t follow me out like the good host I know her mother raised her to be, but it’s probably for the best. If she did, I’m not sure I could stop myself from saying the one thing I should have. The one thing I owe her, but I’m not ready to give.

My apology.