Quit Your Pitchin' (There's No Crying in Baseball 2)

“She was coming over to talk to us.”

“How did she know where I lived?” I questioned. “And why was she coming over?”

“Rhys,” he answered. “And she was coming over here to tell me and you about what your brother, her father, and your grandmother were doing.”

“And that was what?”

“That they were working together to get a news story,” he answered quickly. “Your brother wanted a photo for his magazine. Your grandmother and Melanie’s father were working together on a domestic abuse—”

“On the porn industry’s domestic abuse problem with their female lead porn stars, and directors.” I finally understood, remembering the memo that had crossed my desk a few weeks ago. “Her dad is wanting to shine light on the problem because his new girlfriend is being targeted by her ex-pornstar boyfriend. And grandmother is just a money hungry whore who will do anything to get a check. Shit.”

My grandmother had gotten a new sponsor, and that sponsor was an older male porn star that was trying to bring attention to the injustices in the porn industry. We were set to have a conference later this month that was centering on how to find help, and what to do when you felt that something or someone was forcing you to do something you didn’t want to do.

I had wondered why this had all started so fast. Normally we all agreed on which organizations we chose to help, and a porn industry really wouldn’t have been my cup of tea if I’d been given an option.

He nodded.

“And my brother is just a douche,” I finally decided.

He nodded.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

“Yeah.”

“Why was she kissing you in my apartment?” I took a hefty sip of my wine.

I was now down to a half a glass.

“That was her saying goodbye,” he said. “We’d waited for you for over an hour and a half, and she had an appointment to be at.”

My brows rose. “And you think it’s okay to spend an hour and a half with a woman, in my apartment? Then kiss her?”

I took another swallow and swirled what was left of my drink in the glass.

I’d need more. There wasn’t enough there to even take a sip.

I poured more into my glass, then set the bottle down a little too hard on the counter.

I took one more hefty swallow, then had the cup taken out of my hand.

“I didn’t want to kiss her. I didn’t even want her near me. But she was very influential in getting her father to donate money to your charity, so I didn’t want to be a fucking dick to her and tell her to stop touching me when there was half a million dollars set to go to your charity thanks to her.”

I pursed my lips.

“It was never my intention to make you hurt,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

I turned to him. “I’m so tired of the freakin’ media knowing shit about you faster than I do.”

He grunted. “That is never under my control. My feelings for you aren’t under my control either.”

My brows rose.

“It’s not easy loving you,” he informed me.

I bared my teeth at him. “I never told you, you had to love me.”

He moved then, pressing me up against the counter.

“Just shut up.”

My mouth opened to contradict him, but he slammed his mouth onto mine, making me burn for him all over again.

“And stop crying,” he ordered against my lips. “It fucking hurts to see your eyes red, and know that the reason they are is that you were crying over me.”

I looked away.

“And stop turning away from me,” he pushed, turning my chin back toward him.

I didn’t look away this time. “I’m a jealous hag, George.”

“Well, I’m a goddamn moron who only ever sees you.”

I looked down at my hands. “I say things, and act irrationally…I’m never going to change.”

“I retaliate by doing stupid shit, and say things I don’t mean, too.” He paused. “I think we’re two peas in a fucked-up pod.”

I laughed, then dropped my forehead to rest on his chest.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” he countered.

I looked up. “You do?”

He winked. “I do.”

***

George

I scooted closer, ensuring Wrigley and I were as close as we possibly could be with the dress that she had on.

It was the same one she’d worn to our first wedding. My grandmother’s dress.

It fit a little tighter, and she had way more cleavage this time than she did the last time—at least from what I could tell from our wedding photos—but she was even more beautiful than she was back then.

Why?

Because she showed signs of bringing my son into the world. The best possible gift anybody could ever give another human being.

“And do you, George Hoffman, take this little lady, Wrigley Hoffman, to be your lawfully wedded woman?” the Elvis impersonator asked with a grin.

I looked down at my soon-to-be wife.