Swing and a Mishap

by Tara Sivec

  “Let me know when you’re finished with the books Bodhi gave you,” Tess pipes up from her spot next to Bodhi in the row behind us. “And you better not have un-dog-eared all the dirty pages. I refer to those when I need extra inspiration before sex.”

  While Tess and Bodhi argue behind us about how he’s the only inspiration she should need, I look over at the scoreboard and calculate how much time is left in the game. After practicing my phone sex skills and quite frankly just being anywhere near Shepherd, I can’t wait to go home and be alone with him.

  Home…

  Good God, just saying that word makes it seems so small and insignificant when the ginormous mansion Shepherd bought for us is so big I could drive a car through the entryway. Miss Abigail and her husband hadn’t been living in the home for a few months, so it was completely empty and just waiting for us to move in. Which we did, the same day Shepherd made the offer, at the insistence of Miss Abigail, who just couldn’t handle having the home her husband built for her when they first came to Summersweet empty for even one more day while the paperwork went through. She was so happy the house would be going to a Summersweet local, especially when we told her they were more than welcome to stop by and see the place whenever they were in town, that she hired a gourmet chef to cook dinner for us every night our first week there as a special thank you. The fact that her home is now mine, the castle that always starred in all of my fairytale fantasies growing up, and I’m living in it with the man of my fairytale dreams was seriously thank you enough, but good God that spicy shrimp pasta the chef made on night two almost gave me an orgasm at the dinner table.

  At the very southeastern end of the island next to SIG, the 6,000 square foot, three-story, fairytale home with light-gray siding and white pillars sits right on the water with its own private dock for Shepherd’s boat. And Owen’s jet ski—although he’s still not allowed to ride that damn thing without an adult. With four bedrooms and five-and-a-half baths, we have stunning, panoramic views of the ocean from all of the floor-to-ceiling windows, a gourmet kitchen, a theater room, an insane pool with waterfalls and a freaking grotto, and one of my favorite parts: Huge, white, wraparound porches on the second and third stories that I plan on curling up with Shepherd and watching many, many sunsets together. Of course he’s already planned to put a flat-screen television out there by the electric fireplace so we can watch baseball games, and Owen has already invited the entire freshman class for a pool party in the heated pool next weekend.

  But my absolute favorite part about the whole house? It’s definitely the archway from my cottage that Shepherd had a contractor remove and install in the entryway of the kitchen at our new house, with fifteen years of height markings for Owen. Including the most recent marking yesterday of goddamn five-foot one after, of course, a sleepover at Aunt Birdie’s.

  I look up at Shepherd and smile right before he tilts his head down and presses his lips to mine. It’s a soft and gentle kiss while the crowd around us cheers when the Dukes fumble the ball, and it’s picked up by a Wildcat for a fifty-yard run before he’s tackled. But there’s no such thing as a gentle kiss with us. As soon as I feel his tongue push past my lips while we stay seated in the bleachers as everyone around us jumps to their feet when the Wildcats score another touchdown, I seriously consider leaving the game early or kicking Birdie and Palmer out from under the bleachers like Shepherd suggested.

  Every morning I wake up, I have to pinch myself that this fairy tale is really my life. And every time Shepherd kisses me like this, like there’s no one else in the world but the two of us, I can almost forget that only a few months ago I thought I would be alone and miserable forever. It’s not all unicorns, and glitter, and Lisa Frank stickers all the time. I still have days when I feel like I’m not doing enough when Shepherd does so much for us, but those days are getting fewer and farther apart, and I’m getting more and more used to being spoiled, thanks to him. I’m not gonna lie; going to the mall now is a freaking blast when you don’t have to take a calculator with you and decide if you’d rather have a new pair of shoes or buy groceries that week, and you can just have your boyfriend pop you right over there on his boat.

  “Will you two stop sucking face? You’re missing the game,” Murphy complains, forcing Shepherd and me to end our kiss when he flops down onto the bench in front of us as everyone else in the crowd sits down when we make the two-point conversion.

  “Did you get me my Twizzlers, Snickers, Nerds Rope, and KitKat?” Bodhi asks excitedly from behind us as Murphy hands him back a hot dog.

  “Tess said you’re not allowed any more sugar tonight,” Murphy reminds him, while Bodhi throws a small temper tantrum.

  “Hey, Shepherd, can I get one of those Wildcat football hoodies in a large?” Alan, one of the football parents, asks as he pauses in the aisle by our row.

  “You want your last name in glitter letters or just regular?” Shepherd asks, pulling his phone out to make a note of the order.

  “Dude, do you even have to ask? Glitter me up.”

  Alan gives Shepherd a fist bump before continuing to walk up into the bleachers with his nachos while I just smile and shake my head at my man.

  Did I forget to mention our monstrosity of a home has a monstrosity of a craft room? It looks like Belle’s library from Beauty and the Beast, except every shelf is filled with basket after basket of craft supplies, and yes, there is a damn ladder on wheels. Deciding to continue practicing his Cricut skills on my family and friends, Shepherd started making Wildcats gear for everyone to wear to the games. T-shirts, long-sleeved T-shirts, hoodies, sweatpants, and rally towels, he made everyone a pile of things to test out and make sure the vinyl decals didn’t come off when they were washed. Parents and fans at the games immediately went nuts for them the first time we went to a Friday night football game, and Shepherd has taken so many orders in the last few weeks that he’s decided to run a small business out of his new craft room, donating all of the profits right back into the school’s sports programs.

  He’s so perfect I almost want to puke. But I won’t. Because he’s mine and I love him.

  And exactly one week after Kevin ran away from Summersweet Island with his tail tucked between his legs, an envelope from a law office in North Carolina was delivered, filled with the paperwork Kevin had already signed, denouncing all rights to Owen. It broke my heart for exactly three seconds, until I looked out the window of my cottage to my front yard and saw Owen and Shepherd playing catch. Owen already had a father, and it definitely wasn’t Kevin Stratford.

  There’s only one thing missing from this perfect life of mine. Well, one person. But she’s living her dream on the other side of the world, and no matter how much I miss her, I just have to continue being happy for her.

  My phone rings from the pocket of my hoodie, and I quickly pull it out just in case it’s Owen with an emergency. Shepherd saw him talking to a… girl by the concession stand during halftime when he went to the bathroom, and I keep hoping my baby will call me and tell me she’s gross and I need to come save him. Even though it’s not Owen calling me for an emergency out from an icky girl trying to take my baby away from me, I can’t keep the huge smile off my face when it’s like my best friend just knew I was thinking about her.

  “Hey, Em, how’s—”

  “Wrennyyy! I love you so much!”

  I wince and pull the phone away from my ear for a second she screams so loudly. The crowd goes wild when our wide receiver makes an interception, and I press the phone closer to my ear when I hear Emily shouting a bunch of stuff I can’t understand, plugging my other ear with my finger.

  “I can barely hear you! I’m at the football game!” I shout, mouthing to Shepherd who’s on the phone when he sits back down beside me after cheering with everyone else.

  “I said I quit, bitch!” she shouts again, this time without so much ear-piercing screaming and with a whole bunch of giggles. Emily never, ever giggles unless…

  “Oh no…
how much tequila have you had? Is there bread near you? Eat some bread. Fucking carb up! Are you alone? You better not be alone or—”

  “Wrenny, baby!” Emily cuts me off with more giggling. “I love how you alwaysh… Alwayshhhhh…. How you all the time make sure I’m okay. I miss you sooo much, but I’ll be home soon! I quit, bitch! I’m not gonna cheer anymore! I’m moving back home tomorrow, baby!”

  Her slurred words finally register in my brain, my eyes widen in shock, and my heart starts pounding with nervous excitement, hoping this isn’t just some drunk rambling and she’s really saying what I think she’s saying.

  “You didn’t try out again?”

  “Fuck no, I won’t go!” she shouts, and then giggles more before sobering. But you know, not actually sobering, sadly. Just moving on to the sniffling and crying portion of her night. “Nope. Emily Flanagan is officially an old, dried-up, has-been cheerleader. Tryouts started two weeks ago, and I just realized I don’t have the heart for it anymore. And I’m too old for this shit, Wrenny. My knees locked up when I was sitting on the toilet peeing last month after a four-hour practice; did I tell you that? I was stuck on the fucking toilet, sad and alone with cramped knees. I don’t want to be sad and alone on the toilet anymore, Wren!”

  “Okay, sweetie, calm down,” I tell her as gently as possible at a high school football game when I have to talk so loudly just so she can hear me over the noise.

  “Anyway, I handed in my resignation. I’ve already packed up my apartment, and I wanted to surprise you once it was all finalized, and now it is, and now I’m celebrating that I’m finally moving back home with some of the girls at… fuck, I don’t even know whose house, but I think we’re in the Valley. It’s a really pretty house. Anyway, guess who just walked in who is no longer off-limits and I’m going to kiss the shit out of?” Emily rattles almost faster than I can keep up. But keep up I do.

  Oh, good God, no…

  “Emily, do not make out with the quarterback of the Vipers when you’re shitfaced!” I scream, right when the crowd goes quiet during a timeout.

  Murphy glares at me, Shepherd laughs and wraps his arm around my shoulder, and I just smile and wave at everyone around me and go back to my best friend in her time of drunk need.

  “Goddamn, that man is hot,” Emily says through the line.

  “Emily Jean Flanagan, no!” I scold, but I already know it’s too late.

  “Dude, I’m moving back home to Summersweet Island tomorrow. This is my one shot to show him everything he’s been missing the last four years. YOLO, motherfucker! See you bitches tomorrow!”

  “Emily, you are going to regret—”

  The line goes dead before I can finish telling her she’s going to regret kissing the guy she’s had a massive crush on all four years she’s cheered for the Vipers, when she probably won’t even remember it tomorrow.

  Holy shit, Emily will be back home tomorrow!

  “You okay?” Shepherd asks as I slide my phone back into my hoodie, and he pulls me tighter into his side as a cool breeze blows through and I shiver.

  “I’m more than okay. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “You can tell me about it while we discuss interviewing a cleaning person for the house,” he tells me, giving me a quick kiss while I scowl at him as the players take the field when the timeout ends.

  “We are not hiring a cleaning person, Shepherd. That’s taking the spoiling thing a bit too far.”

  “Whatever you say, my queen,” Shepherd says with a wink and a smirk, and I just shake my head at him, knowing I’m going to put my foot down about this. Because I have a voice, and a backbone, and we don’t need a damn cleaning person.

  Narrator: Wren did, in fact, hire a cleaning person, declaring after two days of cleaning that monstrosity and only making it through three rooms that “This is some bullshit. Hire whoever you want!” And they lived happily ever after surrounded by love, noise, unicorns, glitter, and Lisa Frank stickers.

  The End

  Stay tuned for Emily and her quarterback!

  First and Tension (Summersweet Island #3) coming soon!

  Did you miss Birdie and Palmer’s story?

  Check out Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island #1)!

  Check out all of Tara’s books:

  www.tarasivec.com

  Acknowledgements

  BIGGEST THANK YOU IN THE WORLD TO KAYLA ROBICHAUX WHO IS AMAZING AND WONDERFUL AND PERFECT AND EVEN THOUGH I DIDN’T DEDICATE THE BOOK TO YOU I PUT THIS IN ALL CAPS AND WITHOUT PUNCTUATION BECAUSE I KNOW HOW MUCH YOU LOVE THAT!

  Thank you to Pamela Carrion and Gina Behrends for once again saving my sanity while I wrote this book and for helping me make it less of a dumpster fire. I love you more than words.

  Thank you to the queen of baseball romance, Jenn Sterling, for letting me borrow Jack Fucking Carter, the OG of baseball heroes.

  Thank you to every single Troublemaker whose name I borrowed for this book. You’re welcome for not giving any of you herpes. Except for April Miller. But there is no April Miller in Troublemakers right now as I’m typing this, so there’s that. If you’re out there, April Miller, I’m sure you are a very lovely person and this is in no way a reflection of your wonderful, herpes-less character.

  Thank to my readers who continue to follow me on this crazy, word vomiting journey.

  And a great big thank you to all the baseball moms out there. The ones who have more team T-shirts in their closets than regular clothes. The ones who never forget to pack the cooler with drinks and snacks, who are always vacuuming sunflower seed out of their trunk, who will throw down with any parent from the opposing team who even thinks about saying one negative word about their baby, who curses the person that decided on white baseball pants that never come clean while washing them at midnight the night before a game, who live in their cars driving back and forth to practices, and who eat entirely too much take-out during the season because fuck cooking. And who never, ever complain because they know someday soon, there won’t be coolers to pack, or sunflower seeds to vacuum, or a little boy with floppy hair swinging with all he’s got behind the plate. You’re amazing. Sleep is overrated anyway.