“Did I break him?” Bree shouts again.
“What do you say, Bells?” he asks cheekily. “Did she break me?”
His voice, warm and with arrogance-straddling confidence, shakes me out of the shock of seeing him. Reality blasts back in one swift, somewhat awkward moment.
“He was broken way before you hit him with the ball,” I tell Bree over my shoulder. “He’s going to be fine.”
Coy chuckles as he leans against the doorframe. His hair is a wild disaster of a mess. There’s more than a hint of stubble dotting his stupid jawline. His shoulders are strong and thick, reminiscent of his high school sports days, and for the briefest moment, I wonder if his neck still pops when he rolls his head around his shoulders.
But then I catch myself.
What the hell do I care?
He grins. “Did you come over here just to see me?”
“Hardly. I came for some sugar.”
As soon as I say it, I know it was a mistake. A mischievous shadow sneaks across Coy’s face.
“I can totally help you there,” he says, lowering his voice. “But preferably not in front of the kid.”
Bastard.
My stomach releases a kaleidoscope of butterflies, and I feel unable to stay strong and unaffected by him. Luckily, the rest of me manages to recall survival instincts.
I narrow my eyes. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I can think of worse ways to spend the afternoon.”
My bottom lip tugs between my teeth. Logic cuts through the flurry of Coy-induced hormones, hitting my blood like a shot of heroin, and I recalibrate.
“You know what? Me too,” I say. “I can think of worse ways to spend the afternoon.”
I fire a grin his way. It’s a purposeful attempt to lure him in and play on his ego.
Not surprisingly, it works.
“Really?” he asks.
“No.” I pivot toward Bree. “Tell your mom I was here, please.”
“What? Where are you going?” Amusement plays in his tone. “Are you just going to leave now?”
I march down the walkway and toward the fence that separates my house from Coy’s parents’ house. Bree stands up from her perch on a planter as I approach. I ignore the commotion rioting inside me and reach for Bree’s hand.
“Bells,” Coy calls after me.
“Let’s go,” I tell Bree, grabbing her little palm.
“But the man is talking to you.” She stumbles alongside me. “Shouldn’t we say goodbye?”
“We don’t talk to strangers. Remember?” I say.
“But …” She looks over her shoulder as I nearly drag her toward the gate. “I’m sorry, Mister!”
My brain screams at me to get back on my side of the fence. And to forget Coy’s ripped jeans and washboard abs.
My body pleads for me to just hear him out. And to forget the things he can do if given time, a tie, and a bottle of honey.
My heart, however, wants me to find a way to erase this entire morning. And to lock the gate when I get to the other side.
“That’s a good arm you have there,” Coy says, cutting through the racket in my head. He’s much closer than I anticipate, and I wonder if it would look ridiculous if I picked Bree up and ran.
I don’t get to find out because Bree stops dead in her tracks. I nearly yank her arm out of the socket.
“Bree,” I insist, my words nearly a plea. “Let’s go, kiddo.”
“Thanks,” she tells Coy, ignoring me. She takes her ball from him. “I’m trying to decide whether to go into the major leagues or be a pianist. It’s a tough choice.”
I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sky. “I’ll help you decide your nine-year-old life’s choices at my house. Now let’s go.”
My teeth grit together. It’s as if I clench hard enough, it’ll keep Coy from coming closer.
It doesn’t.
I sense his proximity well before I see him. His cologne—a scent that reminds me of both cedar and pineapple—invades the air. The cells in my body lean toward him in the same ridiculous way they always do when he’s around.
“Did you know that I play the piano?” Coy asks from just behind me. “And I hold the record at St. James High School for the most strikeouts in a season?”
“What are you doing? Trying to charm children now?” I ask without looking at him.
“Why not? It’s more of a challenge than charming you.”
I flip my eyes open and turn around. Coy’s gaze snatches mine up before I even face him all the way.
It’s a tactic of his that I’m well acquainted with. He knows his strengths, and he plays them well.
His eyes fix on me. It’s a heady feeling whether you like him or not. Coy doesn’t just see you. He sees you. He makes you feel like the only person in the entire universe … when he wants to. Apparently, he wants to now.
His gaze issues a challenge—for what, I don’t know.
All I do know is that I’m not getting drawn into whatever it is.
“Oh, please,” I say, ignoring the way his abs flex in the sunlight. “There’s not one thing about you that I find charming.”
He rolls his tongue around his mouth, letting his lips smack together at the end. “I think you lie, Miss Davenport.”
Bree moves at my side, slapping my thigh with her softball mitt. The sound pops through the air and breaks the tension between us.
“Can you teach me to throw a curveball?” she asks Coy. “I’ve been watching videos on YouTube, but I can’t figure it out. And since the last one I tried ended up hitting you in the face, I think it’s safe to say I can’t do it.” She looks at me disapprovingly. “But I do think it was catchable, Bellamy.”
Coy lets his gaze linger on me for a long, irritating second before looking down at Bree. He crouches down to her level.
I blow out a quiet breath and consider that mini-interaction a victory.
“I’m not sure the best way to throw a softball,” he tells Bree.
“That’s fine. I don’t want to throw a softball. I want to throw a baseball,” Bree says with her hand on her hip. “My cousin, Michael, plays baseball, and I want to do that too. He says girls can’t do the same things as boys, and I think that’s a bunch of junk.”
Coy laughs. “Well, I think that’s a bunch of junk too. Let me see your ball again.”
Stop being nice to her.
“Bree,” I say, trying to figure a way out of this. “We really should talk to your mom before you play with boys. You know she’s not sold on you playing baseball.”
Bree looks up at me, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “True. But he’s not a boy. He’s a man. I think Mom would be okay with it.”
Coy looks up at me with a twinkle in his eyes too. “Yeah, Bells. I’m a man.”
“Maybe anatomically,” I say, hoping that the only thing he sees in my eyes is a lack of entertainment with this whole thing. “Bree, since we don’t have any sugar, and it’s clear we aren’t going to get any, what if we go home and get out the glitter?”
She gasps. “I thought glitter was evil?”
Coy stands, his grin getting wider.