The Last Strike by A.R. Henry

Chapter 7

“Courtney!”

Ugh, this is not what I need today.

I’m currently unloading bags full of ice cream from my car. I had a shit day today and needed some chocolate chip cookie dough to drown my sorrows. I bought every flavor the store carried. Unfortunately, it seems my sorrows will have to wait since Mrs. Winslow is calling my name.

“Hi, Mrs. W!” I wave at her. “I’ve gotta get these groceries inside! See ya later!”

“Oh, no Courtney! I need you, dear! You can just run those inside then come over.”

Damn it. “Okay, be right back.”

Fifteen minutes later I’m knocking on Mrs. W’s door, wishing that I was spoon deep in some chunky monkey right about now. And when the door opens, I’m really wishing I would have had at least a bite of ice cream before I came back over to check on my elderly neighbor. I did not plan on this.

“You!” I blurt because it’s the first thing my idiotic brain can come up with.

Seriously brain? Not a “hello” or “hi” anywhere up there?

Mr. Bell gives me a look that’s partly confused, and partly amused at my apparent brain fart. “Hello, Miss Lonsdale. Apparently, you and my grandmother are neighbors.”

What?

What the actual fu-

“You’re kidding me, right? This is a joke? Is Ashton Kutcher in there with you waiting to tell me that I’ve been pranked? Because this is not a very good joke. You need to work on that, but I’m not actually surprised that your pranking is only subpar.”

He just continues to look at me like I’m the most amusing thing he’s ever seen. Right when I’m about to tell him that he can watch funny videos on his phone if he wants something amusing to look at, Mrs. W comes up behind him.

“Bugsy, are you going to let Courtney in? Or are you going to make her stand outside all night?”

What the hell?

Bugsy? I mouth.

Mr. Bell must see my obvious confusion at the nickname, and he gives me a blazing smile.

Holy shit. No wonder this guy never smiles. I get it now. He literally can’t smile, or the world would come to an end. If he smiled at people while they were driving on the highway there would be pile ups everywhere he went.

He finally lets me in the door, and we stand awkwardly for a minute just looking at each other, until he says, “Nana, are you sure you want her in your house? She looks like she’s been in a fight.”

Ho-ly shit. He made a joke.

I didn’t realize that when my day had gone to such shit that it was actually because it was the second coming of Christ. Give a girl a warning.

Also, Nana? Who is this guy?

I smirk and try not to show how much of an effect he’s having on me. “Ha ha, your grandson is the reason my face looks like this, so I wouldn’t listen to him.”

This gets her attention, and she whips around from where she was headed towards the kitchen. She points a glare at Mr. Bell and says, “You did what? Don’t think you’re too old for me to whip your bottom Bugsy. I raised you better than that.”

I can’t stop my snicker and decide to take pity on Bugsy.

Ash is going to lose her shit over this.

“It’s okay Mrs. W, it wasn’t actually Bugsy that hit me. It was a foul ball, but he was the reason I was standing in the line of fire.”

He scoffs. “I think you can call me Weston now. Considering you are standing in my grandmother’s living room. I’m a little worried you might actually be stalking me. Do I need to call my lawyer? He’ll be thrilled to file another restraining order.”

Wait.

Another?

“I think it might be me that needs the restraining order considering I was minding my business about to drown myself in some mint chocolate chip before I was summoned over here. Your Nana practically twists my arm to come over every time she catches me outside.” I murmur the last part low enough, so Mrs. W won’t hear. She may be nosier than my own mother, but I like her well enough, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

Weston (that sounds weird in my head) motions for us to follow her into the kitchen with a smile and speaks softly, “She must really like you then. Usually when we have dinner, she’s telling me all about her pesky neighbors trying to rub their noses in her business.”

I stop following him into the kitchen, afraid that Mrs. W might overhear, and unconsciously grab his forearm to stop him too.

“Oh, I know. Last week she complained for an hour about how Mr. Gardner had the nerve to ask her if she needed help carrying her groceries in. You would think the man asked her to show him her underwear drawer; she was so red in the face about it.”

I laugh, recalling her being so flustered. Mr. Gardner lives directly across the street from me, and is about the same age as Mrs. W. If I was a betting woman, I would say there’s more to that story than Mrs. W is letting on.

As if reading my mind Weston says, “Oh, he’s been after a date with Nana ever since she moved here. She won’t admit it, but she’s sweet on him. I feel sorry for the poor bastard because if I know Nana, she’ll let him chase her forever without returning the favor.”

“What! But that’s so cruel!”

Something in my mind registers that I’m still holding onto Mr. Bell—ah, Weston’s—forearm while I’m looking up at him smiling. He’s looking down at me smiling too, and a small, small part of my brain has completely given over to him at this moment.

Standing in the middle of his grandmother’s living room, talking like we’ve been friends for a long time, just looking into each other’s eyes, conspiring about two older people falling in love. I’m in so much trouble because if I’m not careful this man who, until now, has only been grumpy and quiet towards me could continue to take small pieces of my heart with each new side of him that he opens up to me.

“Are you two going to eat dinner with me, or am I eating alone?” Mrs. W’s voice breaks the moment, and we jump apart like two teenagers that have been caught doing something they shouldn’t. We don’t say anything else and shuffle towards the kitchen, but right before we pass the threshold Weston looks over his shoulder. I look up to meet his eyes and he flashes me a blinding smile and shakes his head.

When I walk back inside my house an hour later, I realize that I didn’t even find out why Mrs. W called me over.

It’s official.

I’m screwed.