“What word?”

He takes off his hat, and I immediately regret prompting him to make this movement.

His hair is wild, with soft, thick waves. It’s tousled and sexy and does absolutely nothing to help me keep my head clear.

“Oh,” he says, twirling the hat in his hand. “Coach?”

He presses his lips together as if the word is a kiss. A kiss of death, maybe.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here,” he says, grinning. “You weren’t expecting to see me today.”

“Cole, what are you doing here?”

He slides his hat back on, shoving his dark locks up and under it. “Turns out that the league didn’t have anyone to coach this team.”

So?

I squint as I try to make sense of whatever is happening. “So you’re filling in? Is that what this is?”

“Yup. I’m the new coach.”

“For the whole season?”

The baseball moms on the bleachers turn toward us. I recognize some of them from Ethan’s school—the PTA moms who seem to have infinitely more time, energy, and money than I do. They’ve formed a group bound together by Pinterest secrets. Either they know I don’t have that app or they’ve heard me lament “farmhouse chic,” but something has prevented the natural progression from a simple hello in the hallway to group monogramming-our-towels night.

I’m never getting that invitation now.

“Does it bother you that I’m the coach for the whole season?”

Cole sweeps my gaze up in his. His eyes are so bright that I can nearly see my reflection in them.

For a moment, everything around us stops. The baseball moms and their overt gawking don’t exist. The boys’ chatter on the other side of the dugout ceases. My anxiety about staying impervious to Cole’s charm for six damn weeks slinks away, and in its place is . . . calm.

I hate that he can do this to me, that he can take my breath away with nothing more than a steady, sturdy look. I hate it even more than I like it.

But of course I like it. I always like it from men who are inaccessible.

“Does it?” he asks, prompting me to answer his question.

“I thought you were headed back to California?”

“That was the plan.”

Was?

I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

“No, that is the plan,” he says, correcting himself. “I’ll just wait until this is over.”

Oh.

He grins. “That’s the beauty of retirement, right?”

I don’t realize how quickly my mood’s shifted until he puts things in the present tense. The gray skies hide the sun in my soul that was starting to peek out from behind the clouds.

Don’t. Don’t do it, Palmer. Don’t set yourself up for failure. Again.

I find my footing—this time, steeped back into reality.

“I don’t think I’ll ever retire,” I say, shivering. “I’ll probably add on a greeter job at one of the big-box stores when I’m seventy.”

“You say that like it’s a dream of yours.”