“What title do you want for the sidebar?” he asks.
“Just put skin care for now. It’s my mom’s niche.”
“She has a niche?”
“You have to. Lots of people sell essential oils, so you need a specialty. Cleaning products, or health care, or oils for moms with new babies.”
He wiggles the mouse and a box pops up. He starts typing. “So what’s your niche?”
“Skin care. I just told you.”
“That’s your mom’s thing.”
“Her thing is my thing. It’s going to be our business.”
“You can’t take her niche. You gotta pick something that matters to you.”
“Like what?” I ask drily. “Essential oils for baseball players? Healing rubs that regrow elbows and cartilage?”
His hand freezes. “They have that?”
“No!” I smack his shoulder, and then point to the computer screen. “Save that before the power surges.”
“The power isn’t going to surge.” But he saves it, and then finishes creating the sidebar. “There has to be something you love about AromaTher. Otherwise it’s just a job.”
“That’s the point. It is a job. And it comes with a paycheck.”
He shifts back in his seat. “That’s…sad.”
“What’s sad about doing a job well and getting paid well? Not everyone has a passion, Blondie. If you ask me, you’re better off if you don’t.” I can see he wants to argue, so I speak before he can. “I grew up with a dreamer, and he surrounded himself with other dreamers. I saw it play out a hundred times. All you’re doing is setting yourself up for failure.”
“Jeez, Walters. You sound like my dad.”
“Is he really so bad?” I ask. “He wants you to have something to fall back on if baseball doesn’t work out.”
“He doesn’t want baseball to work out.”
He’s getting angry, and with all I’ve been through with my dad, I’m having a hard time feeling sorry for him. “At least he wants you with him now. He wants you to come and work with him.”
“Now, when it’s convenient for him.” His eyes narrow. “You think you were the only one without a perfect father? When I was little, my sister Felice was in and out of hospitals. The three of us kids were under seven and my mom was barely holding it together. That’s when I needed my dad, and you know what he did? He left. He quit because it was too hard for him.”
His words land on my lungs like bricks. In his eyes, I see a reflection of everything I still feel. Anger. Sadness. Betrayal.
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
He turns away a second, his voice rough. “It’s not something I share. Not usually.”
The words seem to cost him something. Maybe that’s why I’m able to open up. “It was easier for my dad to leave, too. He didn’t even consider staying. And when he got to Japan, he told reporters that he would have made it to the major leagues if he hadn’t had the distraction of a family.”
His head shakes with the same sense of helplessness I feel. “That was one of my dad’s tricks, too. Blame it on us. On the kids.”
Our eyes meet. We’re sitting so close I can see flecks of green in his blue irises.
“How does a parent do that?” he says. “Make a kid feel like they’re to blame. What are we supposed to do with that? Feel like shit every time we open our mouths or need a Band-Aid?”
“You think if you’re good, if you’re worthy, it’ll be okay.”
“And then they leave anyway.”
His words are followed by a heavy silence. The fronds of a bush brush the window glass. The wind must have picked up while I’ve been here.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Not your fault.”
“I mean that I keep bringing up your dad.”
That causes a small smile. “You didn’t know.”
“Do you…” He pauses. “Do you talk to him?”
The computer screen flashes black and then the screen saver comes on. A swirl of baseballs in a field of green. They bounce from corner to corner, locked in a never-ending loop.
“I haven’t in about two years.” In my mind I see my suitcase toppling down the incline. Yankees blue and covered in fading baseball decals. Side over side, dust shooting up as it bounced and skidded and tore out of my life. I’m shocked to feel tears dangerously close to the surface. I blink hard, my eyes stinging.
“I did it again,” Garrett says. His hand rises to smooth back loose hairs over my ear. “Sorry, Josie.” I shake my head, and I know I should pull away, but I don’t. It feels good, this connection. I’ve never talked about my dad with anyone who really got it.
“It’s their loss,” he says.
“Damn right.”
His eyes roam over my face. I start to smile, but my breath catches as his gaze settles on my mouth.
All the emotion, so close to the surface, slowly shifts, bubbling into something new. Heat rises in me—sudden and hot as if it’s been simmering there and the look in his eyes has brought it to a boil.
His thumb moves over my cheek, but it’s not comforting.
It’s questioning.
It’s wanting.
His eyes are so dark I think he’s boiling, too. “Josie,” he says, barely audible, and yet my name is a roar in my head.
My face lifts, my breath fast, but not as fast as his. Our lips are close. So close we’re sharing the same air. So close I can almost taste him.
Can taste how much I want to kiss him.
Want him to kiss me.
Stupid bad idea. Oh God. Kiss me. Please kiss me.
No!
I yank myself back with a sharp breath of sound that breaks the mood. He
