Drive Me Wild - Melanie Harlow Page 0,3

next door to each other and had been best friends from the day we met. His family had moved in when we were six, and he was the closest thing I had to a brother. He was also the best human being I’d ever known, straightforward and honest, even if he was slightly in denial about our team’s ability to crush the Mavs.

Not that he was the only one.

“Fuck yeah,” agreed Moretti, lifting his beer bottle. He worked for Moretti & Sons, his family’s construction business, and we’d been buddies since his family had moved to Bellamy Creek when we were in middle school. “We’re gonna decimate ’em. And I’m gonna steal home just like I did the last time.” He shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “Hope my groin injury is better by then.”

I laughed and took a long pull on my beer. “Don’t fall apart on me now, assholes. We looked decent tonight. Solid hitting. Good pitching. The Mavs are tough, but I like our chances—if you don’t turn into a bunch of old ladies in the next two weeks.”

“Where’s Beckett tonight, anyway?” said Cole, reaching for another slice of pizza. “He think he’s too good for practice or what?”

Beckett Weaver was the only guy in our childhood foursome who’d left Bellamy Creek for college and hadn’t come back—not right away, anyway. It didn’t surprise any of us, since he’d always been the book-smartest in our group—straight A’s, Valedictorian, scholarship to an Ivy League school. He’d gotten two degrees, moved to Manhattan to work in finance, and fucking hated every second of it. He’d grown up on a farm and decided he missed it too much, so three years ago, he’d left the Big Apple behind and moved back home to help run his family’s cattle ranch.

It was awesome for the team, since Beckett had always been the biggest hitter of any of us. I was a close second, and a damn good first baseman, but against the Mavericks, we’d need all the muscle we could get.

“Nah, he just had something he had to get done tonight,” I said.

“Move his cows, probably.” Cole laughed and shook his head. “That guy spends more time moving his cows around his land than doing anything else. I don’t know how he stands it.”

“Beats being stuck behind a desk all day,” I said. “I don’t know how he did that as long as he did.”

“I do—he was making millions of dollars,” Moretti said, trying to catch the server’s eye to order another beer. It wouldn’t take long—his looks pretty much guaranteed him the eye of every female in the room between the ages of twelve and ninety. He’d always been the charmer of the group, able to flirt his way out of trouble with anyone—teachers, principals, coaches, girls. Even the mothers adored him. “It’s those dark eyes,” my mom said once, a little too dreamily. “They smolder.”

Sure enough, the server, a pretty twenty-something with long blond hair and a shy smile, came rushing over to ask what she could do for him. Moretti gave her the smolder and asked for another beer, and she sighed before saying she’d be right back with it, hurrying inside the pub before anyone else could order anything. Cole and I exchanged an eye roll.

“Hey, has Beckett said anything to you about his dad?” Moretti asked.

“His dad?” I squinted across the table at him. “No, why?”

“My mom said she ran into him at the grocery store the other day, and he seemed confused. Like he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there.”

“Huh. That’s not good.”

Cole moved the ice pack on his shoulder again. “Getting old sucks.”

“We’re not that old,” Moretti said. “We’re barely thirty.”

“We’re thirty-two,” I pointed out.

“Okay, we’re barely over thirty. But what’s so bad about it? We still look good.” He smiled at the server as she set down his beer.

“Could I get one more too, please?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said, before glancing at Cole. “How about for you, Officer Mitchell?”

He thought about it and shook his head. “Nah, I better get home.”

“Okay. I’ll get your check.” She gave him a smile and picked up his empty plate.

“I think she likes you, Officer Mitchell,” I said, laughing as I tipped my chair back on two legs.

Cole rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.”

“No, Griff is right,” Moretti said with a grin. “She didn’t call me by name. Maybe you should ask her out.”

“No.” Cole was adamant.

“Why not?”

“Well, besides the fact that she barely looks older than Mariah, I don’t