Barrett is everything I knew he would be. Intense, mesmerizing, and at the end of the day, a bit arrogant. Who is he to think I would just roll over for him? Or under him?
I fan my face at the thought of being beneath his hard, chiseled body.
Damn it!
Even now, days later and with the knowledge that he has the same conceited vein I hated in Hayden, I can’t stop thinking about him. Arrogant or not, I’d be lying if I said he didn’t make me feel alive, that he didn’t make me feel like switches were turned on in my life.
Up until he opened his mouth right before I left, I could’ve been convinced there was a chance that he was different. But he’s not. And while I guess that kind of behavior is somewhat normal for men of his caliber—how could it not be when they always get what they want?—it’s a deal breaker for me, plain and simple.
I dig my fork into the goopy pile of cheese and try not to let my spirits sink. I’m doing things the right way, building a future for Huxley. Protecting him from men that will only do damage to our lives . . . like his pathetic excuse of a father.
My chest pangs a little as I remember the life I thought we had. The comfortable, stable life that showered him with love and confidence. But his father went up the ladder and left us ducking the consequences of his activities as he scaled higher. Now, here we are in this little house hundreds of miles away, starting over.
Starting smarter.
I want to build a future for my son. I want to fall in love. I just want to do both things in a cohesive manner . . . which means staying away from men that have the potential of landing me and Hux right back where we started.
Groaning at the sound of the doorbell ringing, I scramble to my feet and glance down at my t-shirt, hoping it’s clean.
“Who is it?” I call through the heavy wooden frame.
“A delivery for Alison Baker.”
Curious, I pull open the door to see a local courier on my stoop with an envelope in his hand. “Are you Ms. Baker?”
“I am.”
He smiles. “I have this for you. Sign here, please.”
I give him a loopy signature and take the envelope. There’s no return address, no indication who it’s from or what’s inside.
Once the door is shut tight and I’m back on the couch, I rip open the top. Pulling out a letter on Georgia Hornets, the professional baseball team in Atlanta, letterhead, I gasp.
Dear Ms. Baker,
It is with great pleasure that we inform you that we’ve set aside season tickets to all of our home games next season. Two passes will be available for you and a guest in Will Call before each and every game. If you’re unable to attend, you’re more than welcome to send someone in your place. Please give us a courtesy notice prior so we can have them appropriately saved.
We look forward to seeing you in the stands!
Go Hornets!
Peter Capinella, CEO
Oh my God!
I squeal a little, imagining Huxley’s face. He’s never been to a professional game before and—season tickets? Getting to see every home game? He’ll be over the moon. Even I’m giddy about it and I hate baseball. We’ve been to a handful of minor league games, but never a professional one. I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out.
And then reality hits and I have no idea why we now have season tickets to the Hornets’ games. I dig through the envelope for another letter, an indication of what we won or how this happened, but it’s empty.
Before I can think it through, the doorbell chimes again. Jumping up, I speed to the front door and pull it open. A bouquet of roses and a smiling delivery girl are waiting for me.
“Ms. Baker?” she chirps, thrusting the elaborate design at me.
“Yes.”
“These are for you. Have a super day!”
I take the flowers with a shaky hand and go back inside. My head is swimming, my heart clattering in my chest, as I sit on the sofa and place the vase next to my food.