Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Natasha dropped a hand against her chest. The sincerity on her face almost undid me. I’d take her now. Keep her … forever.
Have you lost your mind, Enzo? She’s a mark!
“I miss her …” My breath caught, a hitch. My eyes glassed over—not for Rain. For me. For Mama. Nah, not for Mama. It was hard to cry for her anymore. I was eight when she took her life and left me to foster care.
For Jamie, maybe. For the part of us that had survived the firestorm in Helmand when our four-person assault team almost got annihilated clearing a compound booby-trapped by child soldiers. That memory choked me more than fake grief ever could. In the end, our four-person team transitioned into two.
Natasha shifted closer. Her fingers brushed mine in the dirt. She hesitated, glanced at her gloves, removed one, then touched my cheek with her bare hand. Her eyes searched mine, soft. Vulnerable.
I caught her wrist and held it. Not hard. Not yet.
“You’ve got such a good heart,” she whispered.
Actually, you have all the heart between us, Natasha. That’s why it’s gonna hurt me when I tear it out.
Borya cleared his throat behind us. He’d have done more if he could read my thoughts.
Natasha pulled away and sank back onto her knees again. She’d be this way again for me soon since I’d planned this with precision. On her knees. Begging. Other emotions flitting across her face.
I watched her while we worked. The small, telling movements. She wouldn’t realize it, but this—fragile hesitation, the way she retreated inward—was what I’d intended. She’d come undone for me, soon. I’d timed everything down to the hour. But even now, other emotions flickered across her face—grief, confusion, a hint of guilt she couldn’t name.
All useful. All part of the unraveling.
29
LACHLAN
Bottom of the ninth. It might not end the way I hoped, unlike the movies.
Sure, I’d had my moments—clutch hits, big saves. Win or lose, I carried it. Every loss sat on my chest, as if I’d let every man on my team down. And yet here I was.
Bases loaded.
Tied game.
Two outs.
I strolled out of the dugout—adjusting my gloves, jaw tight—my mind nowhere near the strike zone. But on her.
Natasha.
She was planting trees this evening. And I knew damn well that tree was for Lorenzo.
That guy rubbed me the wrong way the second I laid eyes on him. Slick. Smiled too easy. Spoke too smooth. If he hadn’t served with Jamie, I wouldn’t buy that he was a soldier either. Vassili, you targeted the wrong guy!
Every part of me screamed Ferri was hiding something.
I gripped my bat tighter as I walked toward the plate.
I didn’t pray for home runs. Didn’t believe in manipulating God like that. But tonight, I burned with hope.
I needed to pull this off. Not just for the team. For me. For everything I couldn’t say to Natasha. For every inch of distance she’d put between us after telling me how some bawbag harmed her. Because I loved her, and she was out there—right now—with someone who didn’t deserve to breathe her air. Her cologne.
Our cologne.
A humorless laugh choked my throat.
I stepped into the batter’s box.
The crowd was electric—sixty thousand strong, shaking the stadium walls with adrenaline.
Montana stood on third. My brother’s glare warned me to get in the game. Shohei at second. A hotshot rookie just walked to first. The lineup had stacked perfectly.
This was my shot.
The Giants’ closer stood tall on the mound, sweat beading his neck. I glared at him. Ice in my veins, though my heartbeat was a thundering Scottish drum in my ears.
The count climbed fast—strike one, two.
The umpire called a questionable ball.
Hyper focused, my vision blurred the dugout, the fans. Somewhere in those stands, I imagined Natasha chose me tonight.
Even if I was wrong … this was for her.
I locked eyes with the pitcher, my powerful limbs settled into a stance, and I waited.
He threw.
Fastball.
Too low. Too quick.
But I saw it.
Crack.
The sound of connection echoed like a fighter jet.
The crowd surged as I ran.
Montana crossed home to the chants of “Big Country!” Shohei at his heels. The rookie a step after. I rounded third.
By the time my cleats stomped home plate, the dugout had emptied and swallowed me whole. Montana threw an arm around me. Another hoisted me halfway into the air, water bottles exploding.
We won!
A grand slam walk-off.
I was breathless, pumped, laughing.
The jumbotron flickered. The crowd screamed louder as the Kissing Cam rolled across the stands.
I glanced up. And exhaled. Because there she was.
Natasha.
Center frame. Solo. Curls tucked behind one ear. Her skin glowed under the lights.
In her hands—firm but shaky—was a sign. Black Sharpie. Plain white cardboard. The words in Gaelic read, Only you.
She held it high, no embarrassment, no hesitation. Placing her palm over her heart, she pointed at me and mouthed, Only you.