She high fives me. “Yes! But I’d actually rather play on a girls’ team than a boys’ baseball team,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Or maybe I’ll play hockey someday too. We’re going to see the Bombshells next fall. Mommy is taking me.”
“Ooh, I love them,” Valencia chimes in.
“You and your wife have a crush on the goalie,” I say to her as the kiddos return to the field to pick up their bats and gloves.
“We have good taste in our crushes.” Valencia gathers her purse as I snag Rosie’s backpack from the bleachers behind me. “Gimme. I’ll take that for you.”
“You don’t have to do that. I can bring it along with me.”
She shakes her head, emphatic as she grabs Rosie’s bag. “You’re not taking a Peppa Pig backpack into Angel Sanjay’s showroom. I will not allow it.”
I let her have it. “Thanks again for taking Rosie to dinner with you so I can go to a . . . best man fitting,” I say, my tone a little heavy.
“On a scale of one to tax audit, that sounds like you’re looking forward to it?” Valencia asks with the lift of a well-groomed eyebrow.
“If you think trying on clothes is fun,” I say, groaning in over-the-top misery. “I don't. Especially because . . .”
Because of Asher St. James. It’s impossible to explain in a rational way how difficult it is for me to keep my cool around him.
Tomorrow begins five days with him, including the travel day. The dread is strong in me now.
She shoots me a concerned look. “Are you okay, Mark? You look like you swallowed a grapefruit. Do you hate trying on clothes that much?”
The tension in my chest cranks tighter. “The other best man and I are polar opposites. But even that’s generous. It’s more like we’re poles of poles of polar opposites. I’m not sure how I’m going to survive the next week.”
Or the pent-up lust that rears its head when I’m around the former soccer star. But I keep that tidbit all to myself.
She hums, like she’s deep in thought. “Is he hot?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately. “But also smug.”
She laughs. “Then when you return from Miami, maybe you’ll need to do something fun. A little self-care in the form of dating again. You should finally let me set you up with my friend Gwen from my Zumba class. And if you’re not into her, then the creative director at my agency is smoking hot, too. Josh has got the whole cute nerd vibe working,” she says, waving a hand in front of my face, gesturing to my glasses. “It’s a smorgasbord out there for you, Mark.”
“Possibly,” I mutter. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
But will I ever be? This past year, I’ve been concentrating on Rosie. She took the divorce hard. I’ve just wanted to be there for her, not running around dating strangers. I don’t have the time. Bridget and I had agreed to parent fifty-fifty. But she has a job with her new wine merchant beau that requires travel.
So guess who does at least two thirds of the parenting? This guy.
That makes dating tough. But even if it didn’t, the prospect of dinner and drinks with someone new sounds equal parts exciting and horrifying. The last time I dated, I lived in a dorm.
Although I’m definitely eager to get back in the sex saddle.
It’s been a while.
A long, long while of just me and my hand.
If dirty thoughts were an origin story for a superhero, I’d be Captain Filthy Mind. But there’s a big difference between entertaining my long list of sex wishes alone at night and going out and getting them.
What would Asher do if he knew I had a spreadsheet buried on my laptop, with nearly a hundred lines dedicated to various fantasies?
He’d laugh his ass off, that’s what.
Good thing that sucker is password protected.
“When you’re ready, I’ll be your matchmaker,” Valencia says as Rosie rushes over, Alba by her side, the bats, balls and gloves all neatly sorted.
“We cleaned up, and now I’m ready for a burrito with my bestie,” Rosie announces.
“And fro-yo. Can we go to that new shop?” Alba asks.
“Yes! We have to try the pineapple-mango-coconut cake flavor.”
“With Gummi Bears and Sno-Caps on top,” Alba adds, intensely serious, and I have a feeling they’ve been planning their dessert all day. Goals.
Then, before I can remind her, Rosie remembers her manners and turns to Alba’s mom. “Thank you for taking me with you to dinner.”
“And thank you for taking care of Blackbeard while I’m gone, too,” I tell Valencia.
Rosie lifts a finger, all six-year-old bossy, as she sometimes is. “He gets two-thirds of a cup of cat food a day. That’s sixty-six percent of a cup. Well, almost sixty-seven.”
With an eyebrow arch, Valencia stares daggers at me. “This is your fault, Mark. All this mathing.”