Marry Me by Cheryl Holt Page A

time. I'd like to do the same with you. Why can't you let me?"
    "There's something going on between us."
    "In that fantasy inside your head maybe, but not in real life."
    He frowned, as if debating whether to kiss her or shake her.
    "I get to decide"—he poked a finger at his chest—"when we're through. Not you. Me. I decide."
    "Oh, I see what this is about. I'm not interested, and you can't stand it."
    He was ready to throttle her, and he might have, but Bryce poked his nose in.
    "Faith, we gotta go."
    Lucas could have been an actor. His enraged expression vanished, and instantly, he was all smiles.
    "Sorry, Bryce," he said, "I didn't mean to make you wait."
    "It's okay."
    "I don't know where the field is," Lucas told Faith. "You drive, and I'll follow you."
    She leaned in and heatedly whispered, "You are not coming with us."
    "Yes, I am," he whispered back.
    He whipped away and went over to Bryce.
    "Hey, Bryce, have you ever been in a Porsche?"
    "No."
    "You can ride with me."
    "Cool!"
    They left—new buddies—with Lucas flashing a snide grin of triumph as they strutted out to his macho car.
    Faith hurried out onto the porch and called, "Bryce, I don't want you to go with him."
    Either they didn't hear her, or they were ignoring her. Bryce got in, then Lucas. He revved the motor and squealed the tires as they raced down to the corner.
    Gracie sauntered over, staring down the street to where they were idling, waiting for Faith to pass them and lead the way to the park. Concern marred her brow.
    "Should we let them head off together?"
    "I don't see how we can stop them."
    Gracie studied them, then mused, "It's all right. He'll never figure it out."
    "Let's hope not."
    Faith muttered several unrepeatable words, then stomped to her car.
    * * *
    Lucas had purchased snacks at the concession stand, and he stood by the third base fence, sipping a soda as Bryce's team took the field. The second inning was about to begin. Faith, Gracie, and Peanut were in the bleachers behind home plate.
    He'd join them in a minute, but he was receiving such a huge dose of pleasure from watching the boys throw the ball around.
    As a kid, he'd loved baseball, and he'd been so good at it. He'd played all through school, and he probably could have gone pro, but he hadn't tried.
    He didn't have the kind of cut-throat ambition that would have propelled him into the big leagues, and he'd convinced himself that if he couldn't be the best, it wasn't worth doing. But now, as he remembered the simple joy of the game, it occurred to him that he'd missed something important by abandoning the sport.
    He peered over to where Bryce's family was sitting, cheering him on, and he suffered a virulent wave of envy. In all the years he'd played, his parents had never come to a game. When he was little, he'd asked his father occasionally, but as the seasons had sped by, he'd quit asking.
    His grandfather, Harold, had frequently attended, but after the falling out between him and Lucas's father, Lucas had been on his own.
    What would it be like to be a child with a family that cared? What would it be like to be at shortstop, to glance over and see your mother—even if it was your adopted mother—smiling and clapping for you?
    For the first time ever, it dawned on him that he might have kept on at baseball if he'd ever received the slightest bit of support. The realization was like a slap in the face.
    He turned his gaze to Bryce again, as he snagged warm-up balls and tossed them to the first baseman. He was such a good-looking kid, and he had the lanky anatomy of a great ballplayer.
    Lucas had been a shortstop too, and a flutter of excitement curled in his belly. If he continued his relationship with Faith, he could be a mentor to Bryce. The poor guy lived in a house full of females. Lucas could work on his skills, could drive him to practices, could encourage and advise him as his own father had never done.
    The pitcher was ready for the batter, and the catcher