Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

Making Gracie laugh, though, when she’s clearly hurting?

I’m prouder of that than I should be, all things considered.

Jake, the bartender, slides our drinks across the bar. I reach for them with my right hand, feeling a now-familiar stiffness in my shoulder. It’s been a year and a half since I had rotator cuff surgery. While the pain is mostly gone, I still got some lingering stiffness and soreness to deal with. Nothing I can’t handle.

Total bummer, that surgery. It was obviously a blow—I was never the same, and my ball career came to an end not long after. But I always had a plan for what I’d do when I retired.

I wanted to be a farmer.

Happened a little sooner than I wanted. But now that Rodgers’ Farms is up and running, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I love farming just as much as I loved playing baseball. Maybe more, because I get to do it forever and ever. And I can do it living close by to family and friends.

Clasping bottlenecks and glasses between my fingers, I turn toward Gracie. She’s making her way to the sofa, back turned to me.

My word does she make that tank top and those shorts look good. She’s got a great ass and hips for days. Long, tan legs. The muscles in her calves harden as she walks, shapely ankles disappearing into the low-top sneakers she’s wearing.

Bless.

She sits on the end of the sofa, her shorts riding up to reveal even more of her shapely thighs. I sidle up beside the chair to her left, setting everything on the low table between us, and then I sit. My knee tapping hers.

She doesn’t move it. Instead she reaches for her shot and holds it up.

“Cheers. This is an unexpected treat. Thank you, Luke.”

I grab my glass and tap it to hers, the whiskey sloshing onto my fingers.

“Thank Trisha. And my tractor.”

“Be honest. How much has that tractor gotten you laid?”

“Not as much as you’d think. Apparently tractor porn only appeals to a very small segment of the female population.”

Gracie grins. “You’re full of shit.”

I grin, too. “Yeah.”

“Shameless.”

“Always.”

We take the shots. I have to bite back a wince as the astringent burn washes over my tongue and down my throat. Gracie screws an eye shut and immediately reaches for her beer, dimples popping as she puckers her lips.

She’s so damn cute I can’t fucking stand it.

“All right?” I ask, bringing my hand to my mouth to lick the whiskey from between my thumb and forefinger.

Gracie watches me do it. Gaze locked on my mouth. Transfixed.

I grin harder. Run my tongue along the length of my thumb, because I can.

Because I like to tease her.

Her gaze follows that, too.

“Yeah.” She blinks. “Yeah. I needed that.”

I grab my beer and lean back into the chair. I take a sip, washing down the whiskey, and then I wait. I’m here to listen if she wants to talk.

Grace sits back, too, and brings her beer to her lips.

I would pay good money to be that beer right now.

“So, question for you,” she says.

“Shoot.”

“You had to start over after you hurt your shoulder—you had to pivot when things didn’t go according to plan.” Looking down, she digs at the label on her beer with her thumbnail. “How did you learn to let that plan go? Like, how did you know what to do next when the future you thought you’d have didn’t work out?”

Taking a breath, I think about my answer for a minute. Think about why she’s asking the question. What isn’t going to plan in her life? Last I checked, girl had everything she wanted. Successful business. Gorgeous downtown condo. Boyfriend.

What am I missing?

“I had to grieve the loss of my baseball career, sure. I’ll always love the game. But all the shit that came with it—the press, the attention, the lifestyle—it wasn’t very me. Farming, though? That is me. So I knew that was what I wanted to pursue after I retired. I feel at home out on my property. At home in my own skin.”

Gracie looks up. Brow scrunched. “Sounds nice.”

“It is.” I tip back my bottle. “What isn’t going to plan for you?”

“I’ve just always had this list in my head, you know?” She sips her beer. “Things I thought would’ve happened by now. I’ve made some of those things happen, like open a coffee shop and grow a community. I’m really, really proud of that stuff. But other line items—well. No matter how hard I try, they aren’t panning out. I can’t help but feel like something is wrong with me. Like I’m missing some essential…something that would make my perfect future click into place.”

I look at her. She’s not telling me everything—there’s more to this story than she’s letting on. But I’m not about to push her. She’s being vulnerable in a way she usually isn’t with me just by telling me this much.