Page 66 of Sterling Touch
Somehow that sounds even heavier.
You worried about me, Coach?
Yeah, you need a better nickname than that. Makes me feel like a creepy old man, and I’m already older than you.
Could call you beekeeper.
You’re the beekeeper, not me.
You’re beekeeping age. An attractive man in his forties. Like a DILF. A beekeeper.
I stare down at my phone, shaking my head, feeling like this conversation is proof that I’m older than her. Maybe too old. I have no idea what she’s talking about.
Gotta take care of my bee.
I hit send before I realize I’ve called her mine.
Always available to be tended to.
Not only is she flirty, she’s fun, and turning me the fuck on when I have work to do.
Beehave.
Good one.
Then moments later.
I’ve got to buzz off. Next client is here.
I snort, shake my head once more, ignoring the pang of concern that Vale might be attracted to another client of hers. Another man who’s of beekeeping age. Or maybe someone more her age without so much baggage.
“What’re you smiling about?” Clint’s voice startles me, and I stand from my desk in our shared office, tucking my phone into my back pocket.
“Nothing. Mind your own business,” I snap.
His expression is instantly stricken before he slowly smiles. “You gotta girl, big brother?” His lips roll into a huge grin, knowing I haven’t been with another woman in any serious manner since my divorce twelve years ago.
“Like I said, mind your own business.”
“Geez. Who put a bee in your bonnet?” Clint counters referring to my unnecessary irritation.
He sounds like a geezer with such an old-fashioned saying, and yet I don’t want him to have any idea that thereisa bee buzzing around my head. A beautiful queen filling my thoughts with hope. “Okay,grandpa. Get to work.”
“Yes sir,” Clint salutes me and stands as well to go our separate ways for the day.
I set Vale’s number in my phone under Bonnet, hoping to keep her a secret for a while longer.
During the week,we have a Haven Hitters game. Our pitchers are on a rotation, because their young arms can only handle so many pitches per game. Hudson Sylver is in the middle of our mix.
The pressure to perform well at such a young age comes from multiple places, including the drive within a kid and pressure from a parent. In the case of Atticus Stanton, his ambition is derived from his father.
Typically, I tune out the cheers or jeers from parents on the sideline. I’m here for the boys, like my father was once there for me. Like I hadn’t been enough for my own son. But Henry Stanton takes pressure to a whole other level.
“Come on, ump. That was clearly a strike,” Henry hollers at the man behind home plate, making calls against Hudson’s pitching.
Which clearly was a strike.
“Maybe you need your bifocals checked,” Henry continues taunting the official.
