Page 3 of The Score We Never Settled

“You never asked me out on a date.”

“I don’t do dates. I doyou.”

Oh, I want to slap the crap out of his face.

God sent him to this Earth to test us against the devil, and the devil ishim.

Not only is he infuriatingly good-looking, cocky, and confident in himself, but he also believes I should just take those things and use them to resolve our issues.

Again, hard pass.

“And I do dates, Briggs. I like flowers and cute notes. I like being told someone misses me and that they look forward to seeing me?—”

“I do miss and look forward to seeing you.”

I scowl and pluck the cornstarch I need from his hand. “Yeah, and when was thelasttime you’ve seen me, Briggs? When I showed up for you to?—”

“The Troy art fair. You were trying to sell country folk brioche bread.”

He looms closer, eating up the space I put between us, and my feet don’t move. They feel like they’re encased in dry cement, and I’m drowning in the smell of nutmeg and cedarwood off his skin.

Yep, I’m going to die.

“All they wanted was your cupcakes, Short Stop,” he utters ever so softly, his voice brushing up my skin and making me break out in an outward shudder. “Most of the men just wanted to get close to you to see if you’d offer them anything else, I bet. But what’s cute, Short Stop, is that you thought brioche bread was going to be a big hit. You know, shit out of the norm scares these people.”

That was lastmonth.

“How…were you there?”

“Had a free day.”

“You mean you took it tostalkme.”

He hits me with an exasperated look. “I was admiring. See…you like that shit.”

“Not when I don’t know it’shappening.” I mindlessly throw my cornstarch at his chest, and he catches it irritatingly with ease. “You think you’re cute, but you’re not, Briggs Kerrigan. I don’t know what you’re doing here now, but you may as well go back home?—”

“This is home.”

“Really?” I spit out because he’s maddening. Everything about him has always driven me insane. “Because you haven’t been at yourhomesince you bought it. It’s just been sittin’ there like an eye sore.”

“You don’t like our house?”

My head rears back because, just as I suspected, he’s had too many baseballs hit him in the head. Sometimes by accident and, I’m sure, sometimes on purpose.

In the league, you either hate Briggs Kerrigan, or you love him. There is no in between. When he was the bad boy in Magnolia Ridge, he carried on with that tradition and brought it with him to the big leagues.

Teams despise him. Reporters love him. And fans are split.

Even Magnolia Ridge is drawn down the middle when it comes to him and his professionalism.

And the ones that don’t like him usually cheer for his rival.

A rival that keeps us split down the middle, as well, and used to live here.

Cruz Weston.

“If you plan on spendin’ your suspension here, Briggs, good luck. You know how this town gets, and honestly, maybe it’ll keep you out. Give you a fresh little reminder of why you left in the first place.”