12. Scarlet

TWELVE

SCARLET

On the list of things I never stopped to consider would be sexy: a man baking me cupcakes. Maybe it's just a Remington thing and that's why I never considered it. I don't know but I'm pretty sure watching him in the kitchen shouldn't leave me drooling. At least not for the ridges of his abs and the V along his hips that disappears into the low waistband of his sweatpants.

Now that I'm staring at it, all I can think about is whether or not he's wearing underwear. His pants are indecently low, making my head cant to the side as I study him while trying to pick out a boxer line.

Is that his dick?

Shit, it's getting hot in this damn kitchen. Never mind the still open doors to the deck letting in the gentle fall breeze.

"Scar?" he calls, a smile tugging at his lips

Quickly righting my head, I plaster on a smile that I'm sure looks as manic as it feels and respond, "Yeah?"

"Did you finish?"

Slowly shaking my head as my eyes drift back down his body, I murmur, "No, but I probably could," my eyes zeroing in on the bulge in his pants, confirming that it is indeed his dick. After all the recovery massages I've given him over the last six weeks, I would know the outline of that half erect cock anywhere.

Reaching out and tugging my lip free of my teeth, then tilting my chin up so I'm looking at the luminescent amber flecks in his eyes, he teases, "Eyes up here, baby girl. That's an entirely different sort of lesson from what I'm teachin' you."

"I like learning new things," I absently retort, snapping myself out of my lustful haze. "Did I just say that out loud?"

Running his finger over my lips and pulling on the bottom one, Remi's voice is thicker, rougher.

"Yes, and for the record, I would like to teach you."

Then releasing me and pointing to the sieve in my hands, he asks again, "Did you finish?"

Unable to recall but finding it empty, I nod, "Yep, all set."

"Good. Then come here."

Hopping down from the marble countertop, I stand between him and the mixing bowls, the difference in our size more obvious than usual. I see it when our shoes are lined up next to each other or I'm separating my clothes from his while folding the laundry after he's washed it. Feel it when my fingers slip into his palm and disappear or when I line our hands up and his fingers can fold over mine. But standing in front of him, back to chest, barefoot, and his arms reaching over mine to control the pour of flour into the soft egg whites, I notice just how much he engulfs me.

The size difference teases me, making me feel extra delicate and feminine. It's a feeling I love, having always been surrounded by smelly, sweaty, dirt and grass covered men. I feel even more safe tucked against someone so strong and formidable, knowing he can withstand a physical threat and is more than capable of helping shoulder the emotional burdens I carry. Comfortable, yet incredibly aroused as all sense and understanding of anatomy and physiology leaves my head when confronted with the long, thick press of his cock against my back and the knee jerk reaction of excited trepidation over wondering if he'll fit and how much he would need to prep me so he could.

"Are you listening, Scar?"

"Uh-huh… down the middle, sweep the sides, slow and gentle," I breathe.

"Good girl," he croons, making a shiver race down my spine as he lets me go. Reaching for the all pink sprinkles, he asks, "How much do you want?"

"What do you usually do?"

"Two tablespoons."

Not able to visualize that amount, I shrug. "Sounds good to me." Though when he adds them to the bowl and I fold it in, my lips turn down.

"Hey," he admonishes. "Put that pout away. We can add more; just tell me when."

Slowly folding with each scoop he adds, I keep nodding my head for more until the sprinkles dominate half the batter.

"Perfect," I declare upon seeing the abundant flecks of pink.

Laughing as he pulls the cupcake tin across the counter, he says, "It's gonna be more sprinkle than cake."

"Is that a bad thing?" I ask, suddenly worried I ruined it.

"If it makes you happy, not at all."

Hoisting myself back up on the counter as he measures out the same amount of batter per liner, I tell him, "I'm very happy."

Swiping his pinky through the streaks of what's leftover batter, he dots my nose and says, "Good. That's all I want," taking the tin over to the oven and sliding my pink creations inside.

"In this oven, they bake for exactly seventeen minutes," he informs me, putting his hands on my knees.

Watching every inch of my face, he starts to part my legs, stepping into the space as I lift my thighs up to widen my hips and invite him in. Scooting closer to the edge of the counter and into the bracket of his arms, my hands come up to his chest, hovering over his bare skin.

Somehow touching him and mapping every plane of his body when he's on my table is easy. Even when it makes my heart race and my fingers itch to explore the hidden places, I can work without hesitation. Every touch and press sure and confident. Remove us from that setting, however, and I stall.

Curling and flexing my fingers, I start and stop several times, my teeth sinking into my lip as my stomach knots.

"Tell me what you want, Scar," he guides. "Words… a touch… I just need a sign, baby girl. Give me something and I'll take over, but ya gotta help me. Can you do that?"

Nodding my head once before rapidly shaking it, I drop my hands. Without a sound or change of face, Remington steps back and softly reminds me, "Take your time, Scar. I'm not going anywhere."

"Why?"

"Why, what?"

Why are you single? Why are you so patient? Why me? Why now?

There are a million whys I could ask, each of their answers words I would covet from him. Instead, I keep things safe, a sinking feeling of disappointment over not being able to follow through on the smallest of steps with him.

"Why Gatlinburg?"

I can see it in the way he looks at me, he knows. He has that same assessing, calculating stare with me that he wears when behind the plate. The one that has him peeling back the layers of the opposing team, ferreting out their tells and weaknesses, allowing him to successfully cut runners off the moment they decide to go for the steal. I've never been studied so closely by anyone in my life, and it makes me squirm and sympathize with every player who has ever stood opposite him. Because Remington Tate knows. He knows I'm hiding something. That there's something more keeping me so firmly planted at the crossroads.

Whatever he senses or reads from me though is enough. His easy smile comes back out as he leans against the counter opposite me, arms crossed over his chest. For the time being, I'm safe. The unwashable smudge inside me is still hidden.

"My ma used to take me on vacation here," he answers, looking almost wistful as he remembers. "She loved the mountains and being outdoors. Always said she wanted to move out here one day. That she felt closer to God surrounded by all the untouched beauty.

"Mind you, we didn't come often. Four, maybe five, times growing up. Even a cabin with only a pullout sofa for a bedroom and a twin air mattress we picked up from GoodWill was a luxury for us. While I never went without a meal and always had everything I required, even for baseball, money was uncomfortably tight until I was drafted. But for the few days every three or so years we would be here, it was magical. As exciting to me as any kid seeing Disney World. And I loved how free Ma looked while here.

"So, when I got called up from the Minors and started making Major League money, I bought this house. Well, the cabin she used to rent for us and its land. It was supposed to be for her…"

Jiggling the foot that's crossed over his ankle, he looks past me and out to the deck and mountains beyond.

"I should have had the demolition and rebuild begin right away, but I thought we'd have time. Instead I got her out of that trailer, paid off her debt, helped her get enrolled in college like she always wanted, finished my psychology degree like I promised and then, I don't know…"

Scrubbing his hands over his face, he sighs and confesses, "My biggest, probably only, regret in life was thinking we had time. When she died, I swore I would never wait to go after what I wanted again. That I would never, ever make the same mistake of putting something off thinking I would have time for it later. She wasn't even 41… she should've had another 30, 40, 50 years of life to live. I don't want to bank on having those years because I might not."

Seeing his eyes turn to blood shot glass, I don't even think. I jump down from the counter and step right into his space, wrapping my arms around him, my nose runny and tears rolling from my cheeks onto his chest.

I can't even imagine what it would be like to lose my dad. Like Remington, my entire life has always been just the two of us. An entire world shrunk down to just two people until the inevitable circle of life rotates through and that world shrinks even more to just one.

Curling forward so his chin rests on my head, his arms a welcome cage around my back as he pulls me in, trying to melt me into him, Remi continues, "The day she died, she wouldn't let me call the hospice nurse. I was so angry because I felt like she was giving up. So fuckin' desperate to make her stay with me, I tried bargaining with her, tellin' her she had to keep fightin' and let me make the call because who else would live in this stupid house."

Feeling the catch of his breath through my skin and the weight of his rushing sigh move through my hair, I hold on tighter. The raw pain that still pulses within him palpable, the ache echoing within myself. I want to fuse myself to him, burrow inside, and get as close as possible. Close enough so he doesn't feel alone any more. So the grief and regret are no longer crushing. Find my way so deep inside him that I can sure up his foundation and provide the support he needs when things feel as though they're crumbling.

Silence hangs around us. Thick and heavy as the numbers of the timer tick down. But as the minutes pass, it slowly recedes. Each of his shuddering breaths blowing it away until all that's left are his lips lingering along my crown and his fingers counting each vertebrae from the nape of neck down to the top of my hips.

Uncurling from me as he clears his throat, Remington turns me to lean against him, his arms wrapping over mine and bringing both to cross over my stomach.

"And as if I was missing the most obvious answer in the world," he starts again, his voice a bit raspier, "she told me, ‘Your wife, silly. You're gonna build that house and have it waitin' for the day you meet the woman who makes you think of her first and baseball second. It'll be where you raise your babies and make your own memories as precious as the ones I have with you. Now promise me she'll be the only one you bring home and I'll let you call the nurse.'

"So I did, and honestly at the time I was too focused on trying to get her help and hadn't really meant it as deeply as I should've. It took me 30 seconds, a minute tops, to retrieve my phone. I was dialing the nurse on the way back and in that time away from her… she'd passed. So that's why Gatlinburg."

Pressing a soft kiss to my temple, he whispers, "And that's the why for any other questions you have. Because when I got injured, you were what was on my mind and how my time with you is what I am most afraid of losing if I can't return to the game." Letting me go as the timer for the cupcakes goes off, he finishes, "So take all the time you need to be sure, Scarlet, because this won't be a one time thing. This isn't something convenient for me or a fling that'll only last until I'm cleared for training. This, you, us—there's nothing more important to me than that. I don't mind waiting, and unless you tell me otherwise, I'll be here reminding you of that as often as you need me to." Pulling the cupcakes free with little baseball hot pads, he looks down at them as he tries not to laugh, setting them on the cooling rack.

"What's wrong with them?" I ask, peeking round him to find them short and stumpy and not at all as tall and fluffy as when he does it.

"My guess," he says far too smugly, "you got distracted and didn't sift the flour mixture as many times as you should have."

Curling my lips in as I blush, I nod several times before busting out in laughter.

"Yeah that… that sounds about right."

Opening the fridge, he tosses several sticks of butter onto the counter and just as casually answers my earlier question, "And no Scar, I'm not wearing boxers," walking without his cane down the hall and toward the room he's staying in until I deem stairs safe once more.

Following suit, I pick up Winnie who's been staring with the saddest eyes at the fridge where the dough for her cookies has been chilling, cooing, "Looks like you and I have a lot to talk about, sweet girl. I mean, what am I supposed to do with all that?" At her whining huff as I heft her up the stairs, I respond, "I know, right? Only a man would confess something like that and then throw out that he isn't wearing any underwear as if he didn't just completely knock my world off axis."

Setting her down in Remington's room, she skids across the wood floors to her dog bed as I fall back onto his massive bed. Wrapping up with the faux fur throw blanket that appeared at the foot of the bed one day after I gushed over it in the store while Remington and I ran errands, I gaze out the floor to ceiling windows that showcase an unobstructed view of the mountains.

Could I do it? Am I even capable of it? His touch has never been anything more than welcome, but can I accept more? Or would it terrify me? And realistically, how far could things go if I can't? How long would he try before leaving?

"Winnie," I sigh, my eyes growing heavy despite it not yet being noon, "what am I gonna do?"