10. Scarlet

TEN

SCARLET

"Are you serious? No, absolutely not; put it back."

"It's on the plan, Scar."

"You ate three massive cupcakes just last night," I remind. "We're not exactly being strict with your diet."

"It's called balance, baby girl," he hums by my ear, leaning in and reaching around me to the over-priced alternative I'm blocking. "Can't be clean and wholesome all the time; otherwise, things get boring." Plucking two off the shelf, he adds, "Gotta roll out a little naughty here and there to keep things interestin'." His voice grows heavier and his breath caresses my neck until the fine hairs along my body come to attention, his proximity and words far too subjective for the middle of the afternoon in a grocery store.

Dropping them into the cart and stepping back as my body warms and flushes, he winks at me before sauntering off, yet again without his cane.

Over the last several weeks, those small touches he would give me at The Nest have grown. They're purposeful and lingering, leaving no doubt of his interest. From the moment we left the hospital and he took my hand in his, holding it for nearly the entire drive even as the lingering anesthesia pulled him into sleep, Remington hasn't stopped seeking me out. Each day brings him a little closer to me, hooks me just a little more so I'm left craving him each night.

I never thought I would be the type of girl who plays games. Never had I ever thought of myself as being anything but direct. But when faced with the prospect of making a fool of myself, I realize I'm a bit of a coward. That I let my fear creep in and take over. So instead of asking him outright how much of this is innocent flirting and how much is real, I tease and push back, studying every reaction I receive and then trying to decipher it.

When he reaches over me in the kitchen while retrieving the dishes I can't reach and he places his palm in that tentative place between my waist and lower back, I step into him, allowing the small gap to close and my back to mold to his front. The distance created by him sitting on the couch and me curling up in the armchair while watching a movie boldly closed when I took up the end opposite him. In return, the following night, he set the space up so there was no question about where my new spot would be—on the couch within easy reach of each other. During the subsequent nights, as we continued working our way through the list of movie releases he missed during the season, we mutually drew ourselves closer together. Me no longer hesitating over taking up the space flush along his side, his arm draped over the back where his fingers slowly progressed with the film to play with my hair and massage the nape of my neck. Or how at some point following his sessions, we moved from pointedly not looking at each other while my hands worked up his thigh and around his hip, to his deep hazel eyes holding me captive, making things far more intimate than the detached, clinical assessment it should be. So much so that quality time with my favorite pink dildo, fingers, and other toys I packed for my time in Gatlinburg has become an afternoon staple in my life. A nightly one too. And more often than not, a start to my day that's better than any coffee.

For weeks we've been circling and dancing. Tension simmering and brewing. Every touch and conversation—a moment of connection that leaves my mind spinning with possibilities long into the night. Thoughts plaguing my mind as I waffle between seizing a bold bravery and going for it or staying firmly planted where I am, where I'm safe and comfortable.

When I'm with Remington, near him, I feel safe, at peace. The whirlwind of thoughts inside my head quiets. The ever present feeling of anxiousness turns to a faint, manageable, even ignorable hum. I'm comfortable with him in a way that has never been easy for me. The overanalyzing of my words and actions and how I'll be perceived for them absent.

At the same time, being with him is exciting and thrilling. My heart races when he looks at me. My breath quickens under his touch. He makes my blood heat and my thighs clench as deep in my core things begin to coil and tighten with anticipation. I'm on edge whenever he's around, desperate for his attention, craving his touch, longing for just a bit more. For him to push things further and take what he wants, knowing I'm frozen with fear of the fallout but waiting and wanting just the same. He makes me feel alive.

Pressing the cool backs of my hands to my heated cheeks, I suck in a sharp breath, attempting to banish the sudden cloud of lust that's settling over me. Grabbing my water, I roll the tumbler over my chest, the temperature change doing far less than I had hoped as my nipples draw taut. Glancing down at the peaks pushing against the bodice of my dress, I have to finally concede that Remington has won this round. Again.

I thought the silky, slip-like dress with its low, draping neckline would provide me the upper hand in tempting him. And while the uncontrolled widening of his eyes and the slow way he tracked them over me had been exactly what I wanted, the dress was proving to work against me. Its thin material that flowed and whispered over my body like rippling water left me without armor against his touch, which he was handing out in abundance today as we tackled a mile long list of errands. I had wanted action from him when I picked it out this morning, but I should have been careful in my wish. Because while I opened strong, he's been out maneuvering me all day, leaving me speechless and frustratingly turned on.

The guiding hand at my back when we walked to and from the car; the slight caress of his fingers along my waist before he withdrew; the crowding, engulfing presence of his tall, broad frame closing in around me as we shopped and debated. It's been maddening, and like an addict, I want more despite knowing this is bad for my health. These sexually charged, almost possessive moments with him while doing such mundane tasks are exactly what I mentioned longing for. The constant tease and anticipation is a foreplay all its own. One I hope we will succumb to before long.

Grappling for something to ground and redirect me, I reach into the cart and snatch the coconut aminos. Putting it back on the shelf, I exchange it for regular soy sauce. Then finding the store brand on special and with a coupon, exchange the name brand for generic, his particularities over food baffling to me. Satisfied with the more economic choice, I cross it off my list and begin pushing the cart to catch up to Remington, exchanging his arrowroot powder for cornstarch that's half the price.

Turning onto the baking aisle, I drop a box of funfetti cake mix into the basket and a few tubs of frosting. Still not finding him, I go over one more only to have him steal more of my heart.

There, surrounded by two dozen different kinds of cereal, he's squatting down—a move that would have me chastising him if not for the why. Even as low as he's gotten himself, his six foot five frame still towers over the kid he's speaking to who's on crutches, a neon pink cast circling from her toes to her knee. Hanging back, I watch him as he smiles and gives the child his rapt attention, eagerly following along with the story she's telling.

"That's amazing!" Remi exclaims. "I wish I was that skilled. I slipped and fell down my stairs the first night I was on crutches." Jerking his thumb over his shoulder he asks, "See the pretty girl over there? She still won't let me use them without hovering even though I'm able to get around just fine now without crutches or a cane."

"You're Colt Jones's daughter!" the girl yells.

"I am," I call out, abandoning the cart. Walking up to her and who I assume is her mom, I hold out my hand to introduce myself, noting their matching Nighthawks t-shirts in my signature shade of pink that's been branded by the team. But before I can say anything, Remington answers, "Yeah she is, but she is so much more than that. Do you know what else Scarlet does for the team?"

With awestruck eyes, the little girl shakes her head while her mom takes pictures.

"She designed those pretty shirts you and your ma are wearing and all the other pink Nighthawks merchandise. But what makes her extra special is that she's the best athletic trainer in the whole League. Everyone wants her to come work for their team and keep their players healthy, but we were able to snatch her up. And lucky me, I get to be the first player to work with her."

"You work for the team?" she asks, her curious brown eyes looking up at me.

Gathering the skirt of my dress, I lower myself into a squat and answer, "Kind of, yeah. I'm still in school right now, but that's my dream. Remington is sort of like my class project."

"Like an experiment?"

"Exactly," I laugh. "He's my practice player before the real thing."

With that heated, possessive look returning, he nearly purrs, "Oh, this is very much the real thing."

Looking confused, the little girl's dark brow furrowing as her eyes study me, she says, "But Andy Mitchell said only boys are allowed in baseball and even if girls could join, I can't because I'm too prissy."

"Sounds like someone needs to do a better job at teaching Andy Mitchell how to respect women," Remington mutters, making the girl's mom and I choke on a laugh.

Putting my hand on his arm, I tell the girl, "Well, we don't play, at least not in the MLB. That part is true enough, but that doesn't mean we're not a part of baseball in other ways. The minor leagues have several umpires who are women, a few teams have female coaches, there are women who are trainers like me, and that doesn't even include the ladies who are lawyers, the ones in charge of a team's publicity, or those who are agents and managers to players. So if you want to be in baseball, you definitely can be.

"More importantly though, don't let Andy make you feel bad about yourself." Gesturing to my dress and strappy heels, I say, "Look at me! I'm prissy too. Being a girl is fun, and if you want to dress up and be girly, own it and wear it with confidence. Don't let anyone tell you what you can and can't do just because you're a girl or because you like girly things. You were born to sparkle and shine, and I don't want you dimming that for anyone."

"See?" Remington asks. "I told you; she may be Colt's daughter, but Scar is very special all on her own."

"Can I get a picture with you?" she responds.

Putting my hands on my knees, I start to stand up addressing her mom, "Want me to take it? Then you can get in with your daughter and Remi?"

"I meant with you," the little girl whispers, looking at the ground.

Pointing to myself and looking to Remi to be sure I heard right, I clarify, "Me? You want a picture with me?"

Watching her head nod so fast she looks like an adorable bobble head, my eyes begin to sting and my nose prickles.

Matching her enthusiastic nodding as my lip trembles, I respond just as softly, "Yeah… yes… I… I would love that," my words coming out choked as I kneel down, adjusting myself so my dress falls as modestly as possible.

After snapping several quick pictures, her mom also looking as if she's on the verge of tears, we get Remington in behind us and take several more. Then after helping him get back to standing and balanced, my face scrunching at the loud clicking of his hip telling me we've been out too long, the little girl looks between us and with a very sharp, authoritative nod, decides, "You two should get married."

Not missing a beat, he responds, "Got to get her to agree to go on a date with me first," leaving me flabbergasted as her mom starts to scold her as they walk away.

Biting on the corner of my nail as we walk back to the cart, I can feel my thoughts begin to descend into the hellish space where everything plays on repeat as I look at each minute detail under a microscope of self critical inspection. Looking up at him, I take a breath and murmur, "Remi?" My heart is ready to fall out of my butt over my impulsive decision that this is the opportune time to finally ask him directly if things between us are going where I think and hope they are.

Stopping to give me the same unwavering attention he had shown the little girl, he responds, "Yes?"

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, my skin suddenly feels like a hundred bugs are crawling all over me as my adrenaline starts to spike, and I stammer, "Did you… are we… what's… what I mean is…"

Putting his fingers under my chin, he tilts my head up so I'm forced to return his gaze and slowly instructs, "Breathe, baby girl. It's just me." Stroking his thumb along my jaw, he repeats, "Just breathe. Take all the time you need. I'll wait."

"Do you mean that?"

"Your words and thoughts are important to me; of course I mean it. This shouldn't be scary for you, and I'll wait patiently for however long you need me to so that it isn't. I'm not in a rush—not with you."

Turning into his hand as he cups my face, I gently press my lips to his palm, quietly humming, "Thank you," and his sucked in breath is unmissable to my ears. Lingering for just a moment, I step back and banish all my thoughts as I ask, "You ready to check out?"

Scrutinizing the cart, Remington slowly begins to shake his head, his tongue pushing out his cheek as he repeats my earlier words, "No, absolutely not; put it back," snatching the boxed cake mix as if it's personally offended him. "That garbage is not allowed to walk into our house, Scar."

"But–"

"No."

"That's not–"

"I make fresh, from scratch, inventive cupcakes almost every day. Why on earth would you want this crap?"

"Because it's good…" I ask more than answer.

"We're putting it back. That jarred, runny frosting is going back, too. Jesus, you're trying to kill me by buying that stuff. Let's go."

He marches off with a speed that has me chasing after him with admonishments that don't land as well as they could given how hard I'm trying not to laugh over how affronted he is by the idea of eating cake from a box. Slamming the items back onto the shelf, disgust plain on his face, he sweeps his arm out, demanding, "Okay baby girl, this shit—forgive me but it's the most polite word I can use right now—is a hard limit. You want a certain kind of cake, you ask me and I can make it for you or teach you how, but this artificial, fast food equivalent is not welcome in our kitchen, ever ."

Unable to stop myself, I say, "But it's cheaper. The butter alone for your frosting, while nearly orgasmic and something I could lick off of just about anything and everything, is as much as the box and canned stuff combined. I can also make this one so for once you're not doing it all. And well, it's faster."

"Someone, somewhere has done you a big disservice, baby girl," he drawls, prowling toward me. "Faster is not always a good thing. Some things—say cupcakes—need to be handled with care, treated softly and delicately. You should take your time and not rush through it. Reaching the finish line shouldn't be your only goal. And just because you can satisfy the craving by yourself does not mean you shouldn't experience it and indulge in it when given by someone else—say me, who loves to indulge your cravings—every chance you can."

Clenching my thighs as a wet heat begins to warm my pussy, I breathe, "Holy hell." My eyes flutter closed as I feel Remington across every inch of exposed skin despite not touching me.

"Now tell me baby girl, do you want rainbow sprinkles for your cupcakes or all pink?" he asks, smirking at me as he looks wholly unaffected.

"Pink," I croak.

"Same for your buttercream?"

Throwing in a fresh package of dye when I nod my head, he grabs the soy sauce and cornstarch and says, "Now to put these back and get what's actually on the list and then we're set."

"But the coconut aminos are seven dollars a bottle and two bottles have less than that one," I protest. "It's not worth it."

"Cost and worth are two very different and highly subjective things, Scar."

"Okay, fair point," I concede, knowing full well most would disagree with me thinking my two hundred dollar dress was worth it even with how sexy and confident I feel wearing it. "But you did agree to finally let me pay for our groceries, and I just cannot stomach paying this much for what is essentially rich people soy sauce."

"Mmm, check your facts, Scar. I said you could pay for dinner tonight. Not groceries."

Reaching around him for my phone as he gets in line, I start scrolling through our text thread from yesterday while I was getting my nails done and scowl. Sure enough, right there in a little white bubble, he agreed to me paying for dinner out tonight after going to the movies, not the grocery trip itself.

"I can pay for my own stuff, you know," I sullenly reply. "I have money, and it's not even money from the Bank of D-A-D-D-Y. It's my own. From my own source of income, of which I have several in case you were wondering."

Turning very serious, Remington asks, "Is this important to you?"

"I don't want you to think you have to support me, Remi. I don't need or want your money. I may not have a guaranteed 65 million dollars over five years, no trade clause contract, but I do well for myself between my brand with the team and endorsements. Yes, I still live at home, but to be fair, so does Ro. We do that by choice since we're always gone, not necessity. I'm not a little girl you have to take care of. I can contribute and be a partner. So yes, this is very important to me. I want you to see me and treat me as your equal."

"Scarlet, I don't think that. I have never thought that. I'm sorry if I've been making you feel that way. I'll do better, but please, tell me. I can't meet your expectations and fulfill your needs if you don't communicate them to me."

"You're right; I'm sorry," I say, my words muffled as I hug him and speak into the soft cotton of his black t-shirt.

Caressing his fingers along my spine, he murmurs, "It's okay, Scar. We're still learning each other; it's bound to happen." Squeezing me in closer before letting me go, he shifts back to a more carefree demeanor as he says, "Now come on, my hip's startin' to lock up on me. I need to stretch it out before the movie in a couple hours."

Beginning to load the items onto the conveyor belt, I absently offer, "I'll do a massage if you want when we get home."

Slowly trailing his palm along my lower back, the stretch of his pinky just touching the top of my butt, he quietly drawls out, "If you're lookin' for a reason to touch me, you don't need one. Just help yourself, baby girl."