The Baseball Card Boyfriend (Starrycard Creek Bachelors #3)

Chapter 8

Chapter

Eight

CHRISTIAN

Christian’s body went rigid. Shame burned through him. His skin prickled with a fiery heat, and his stomach twisted in a painful knot. His gaze darted around the space, seeking an escape, but his humiliation held him in place.

Crusty plates were piled high in the sink. A greasy pizza box with a congealed slice sat on the table like a frat house centerpiece. The large island in the middle of the room was a disaster zone. Wrapped gift baskets, hastily tossed on their sides, were scattered among takeout containers, crumpled napkins, and a box of cereal with more than half its contents spilled onto the floor. Empty prescription pill bottles added a disconcerting pop of orange. It wasn’t just the unsightly mess; the air was thick with the mingling smells of stale food and something faintly sour.

Lucky whimpered.

Even the dog knew this was an utter clusterfuck.

“I forgot I left it like this. I’m not usually…”

“Living in a pit of despair, completely at a loss for what you’re supposed to do now that you’ve lost your ability to play baseball?” Maggie supplied, nailing it.

He sighed. “That’s pretty much it.”

“We’re two peas in a pod. I’m completely at a loss for everything, also. Literally everything .” She squeezed his hand. “It’s a messy kitchen, Christian. No biggie. It can be tidied up. We’ll do this together. That’s what you said to me in the hospital, right?”

He nodded, shame still gnawing at his heart. “I don’t usually need help,” he confessed. It wasn’t a lie. He’d always been the best at whatever he set his mind to accomplish.

“Well,” she said, theatrically dusting off her hands, “I’m here, and there’s no sense crying in your pie.”

Crying in your pie? He’d never heard that expression before.

He cocked his head to the side and watched as she padded into the room.

“Do you have trash bags and a recycling bin?” she asked casually, like she’d just breezed into the local coffee shop and not the place where moldy takeout containers went to die.

He regained his bearings. “They’re under the sink. I think they’re still there—or around there. I’m not sure. I used to have people come to clean and do the?—”

“Laundry. I know,” she said, surveying the scene like a general assessing the battlefield.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and felt the cool stone, but it brought him no comfort. “I forgot it was this bad. I didn’t want anyone to see this—especially you.”

She removed a green recycling tub and a large black plastic bag from the cabinet and held them in the air. “But I’m not simply anyone. I’m your housekeeper and glorified washing machine technician.” She set the bin on a stool and secured the trash bag to the back of a chair. “But this is a two-person job.” She glanced at the dog. “No, it’s a two-person and one-dog job. Lucky, you’ll tackle the cereal on the floor. All-Star, you’re going to fill up this bag. Think you can lift that pizza box?” There was no judgment in her eyes, no moment of doubt in her movements. She acted with determination, her presence ushering in a sense of calm like she did in his dreams.

His anguish ebbed. “I can manage, All-Star ,” he said, tossing back the curious term of endearment—one he knew well.

“I called you that, didn’t I?” she replied.

“You did. Do you know baseball?”

She shrugged and turned a gift basket right-side up. “I know what it is. There’s a pitcher. He tosses a ball to a guy with a bat. He hits it, and then he runs. Ask me something technical. That’s how we’ll know.”

“Do you know what it means to…sit on a pitch?”

She scrunched up her face like he’d asked her to eat the congealed slice. “Sit on a pitch? Like, sit on the ball once it’s thrown? How would you even do that? Do players flip around and let the ball hit their butt? That sounds insane and painful.”

He laughed, and fuck, it felt good. “It’s safe to say Pre-Amnesia Maggie was most likely not a hardcore baseball fan.”

Maggie schooled her features and projected an aura of strength, and damn, the woman looked invincible. “You know what I bet Pre-Amnesia Maggie was really good at?”

“What?”

“Organizing and tidying up,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “I’ve got a whole system of attack in my head. I know just what needs to be done and how we’ll do it.” She pressed her hands to her hips. “Enough talk. I need you to clear off the table, then hit the island. I’ll take the dishes and wipe down the counters. We’ll worry about the floor tomorrow. This space is massive. It’s like a chef’s dream kitchen. And look, our Lucky is a natural,” she added, gesturing to the dog happily hoovering Cheerios like a vacuum. “You make plans for exiting hospitals, Christian Starrycard. I forge the path through domestic challenges.”

Domestic diva Maggie was a sight to be seen.

“Yes, ma’am, that appears to be the case,” he said, knowing he had to be starry-eyed as he watched her start in on the dishes without an ounce of hesitation.

Again and again, she was the sun slicing through his shroud of darkness.

“Tell me about Seamus, Kathleen, and this mountain lion,” she said over her shoulder, her voice rising above the swish of water and clinking plates.

With a spring in his step, he tossed the pizza box into the trash bag. “Seamus Donnelly and Kathleen Conners met in Ireland and fell in love. On their journey to find land to settle across the ocean, they came across a young Spanish girl. She’d been separated from her party, and when they found her, she was cornered by a mountain lion.”

“Oh, no!” Maggie chimed. “What happened?”

He broke down a few boxes and added them to the recycling container. “Seamus was a big guy, like all the men in my family. Without a second thought, he stepped in. He diverted the beast’s focus from the child, and the mountain lion pounced on him with savage fury.”

Maggie caught his eye. “How terrifying!”

Christian settled into the rhythm of tidying up. “Yeah, terrifying…for the mountain lion.”

She flipped a dish towel onto her shoulder. “The mountain lion?” she repeated, confusion coating her words.

He grinned from ear to ear. He loved telling this story. “It’s said that Seamus rushed the creature, wrapped his burly arms around him, and flung it against a boulder. With one crack of his head, the animal died instantly.”

Maggie leaned against the counter, wide-eyed. “That sounds like something straight out of a movie. What happened to the young girl? Was she okay?”

“The kid didn’t have a scratch on her. Kathleen spoke a bit of broken Spanish and was able to learn the girl’s name was Mariana Salidoro. She and her mother were part of a group en route to meet up with her father, a Spanish nobleman. Sadly, everyone in her party, save for her, grew ill and died. Her mother included.”

“How awful! What happened to Mariana? Did she ever find her father? Could Seamus and Kathleen even help her?”

“Seamus and Kathleen were good people. They’d never leave a kid to fend for herself. And they were superstitious folks. They believed it was a sign that their path crossed with Mariana’s—that the child would lead them to a place that would be safe for all of them. Mariana had a rough map, and Seamus was able to follow it and safely deliver her to her father. The man was overcome with gratitude and was also the Spanish crown’s agent for dispatching land grants. He bequeathed this plot of land to Kathleen.”

“To Kathleen?” Maggie repeated, now arranging the litany of gift baskets and organizing their contents.

“Seamus insisted. You see, Kathleen was content to stay in Ireland. It was Seamus who craved land and adventure. When he proposed and shared his plan to seek a new life abroad, he promised she’d always be protected and in control of her destiny. He lived by this motto. G ive what you love everything you’ve got . Seamus loved Kathleen, so this land was hers.”

“That’s very romantic and progressive. When exactly did they arrive here?” Maggie’s cheeks warmed to that sweet shade of pale pink that made the breath catch in his throat.

“1813,” he answered, unable to take his eyes off her.

“What is it?” she asked, the color intensifying.

Again, he wanted to kiss her, wanted to gather her in his arms, set her ass on the edge of the counter, and lock lips with the woman until he couldn’t see straight.

“Christian?”

Calm down, man.

He shifted his stance and gestured toward a wooden hutch. “Check out the little weathered wood framed box over there.”

She wiped her hands on a dish towel, then peered at the old keepsake. “Is that the mountain lion’s tooth?”

He joined her. “It sure is. Seamus and Kathleen kept one canine and gave the other to Mariana so she could remember how brave she was when she was alone. Kathleen cut them out of the cat’s mouth. She used to wear the tooth on a bit of twine around her neck. Thanks to one unlucky mountain lion and one lucky little girl, this land belongs to my family and is now considered unincorporated Starrycard Creek.”

“That is an incredible tale,” Maggie remarked as she eyed another framed photo near the box. “Who are they?”

“That’s Brian—Seamus and Kathleen’s son—and Brian’s wife, Martha. She’s holding their baby, Michael.”

“The parents of Fiona, too, right?”

“Yes.”

“What’s their story?”

“Sadly, Martha died in childbirth when Fiona was born. Michael passed away seven years later.”

“How old was Michael when he died?” she asked, returning to the counter.

Christian studied the trio. “Seventeen.”

“Was he a sickly child?”

Christian kept his gaze trained on the photo. “No, the opposite. From every account, he was an athletic guy. He set up hunting, fishing, and shooting competitions, and even though baseball was in its infancy in the 1860s, he’d heard about it from people passing through.”

“Baseball?” she said with a coy twist to the word.

“Yeah, I guess that’s where I got it.”

“How did he die? Do you mind me asking?”

“He was mending the roof and fell.”

“I can’t imagine how hard that had to have been for them,” she replied, her voice carrying genuine sorrow.

He nodded, listening as the refrigerator opened and closed, soothed by the gentle taps and thumps of Maggie’s movements. Lucky came to his side. He knelt and scratched the dog above the little scar over his left eye. “It’s why Brian was so protective of Fiona. His daughter became his entire world. It’s said he turned away twenty suitors asking for her hand.”

“Why was he okay with William Starrycard marrying her? Was it the Starrycard charm?” she asked with a sparkle in her eyes as she flitted around the kitchen.

He chuckled, gave the pup one last pat, then placed the last of the takeout containers into the garbage bag. “Something like that. That’s how the folklore behind Starrycard Creek paper was born. William Starrycard was a papermaker from England who came to America to make a name for himself. He never planned on marrying, but when he met Fiona, it was love at first sight for both. Knowing Fiona’s father was a tough but fair man, he made a special paper using botanicals from the ranch and creek water and wrote to the man. After receiving the letter, Brian agreed to the marriage, but no one knows exactly what he wrote on that paper—only that it was written on handmade Starrycard Creek paper.”

“You don’t have the letter? How do you even know it exists?”

“We have William’s journals, and he recorded the story there. But nobody knows the location of the physical letter. Still, I don’t think it was just the letter that won over Brian Donnelly.”

“What do you think it was?” she asked, back to opening and closing cabinets.

He gathered the empty water bottles and filled the recycling bin. “A combination of what William wrote and the craftsmanship of his paper.”

“He showed the man what he was capable of with his actions,” Maggie supplied.

“That’s my guess,” he agreed.

Maggie drummed her fingers on the counter, seeming to mull over his theory. “Give what you love everything you’ve got. The Donnelly motto. William Starrycard gave Brian Donnelly the fruits of his labor to prove his love for his daughter.”

“Yeah, that’s what I believe,” Christian answered, so entranced with the woman of his dreams who’d become his reality.

She walked the perimeter, surveying the scene. “We’ve made a pretty good dent getting this place in order. Sit, please.”

“Me or Lucky?” he asked, sliding the recycling bin back in place.

She gestured to a stool at the island. “You. Lucky’s got a few more Cheerios to take care of. Get to it, boy.”

He—and Lucky—complied.

“What are you doing?” he asked as she plucked items from the island he didn’t even know he had.

“I’m making a quick bite to eat.” She glanced at the clock on the microwave. “We deserve an eleven o’clock-ish snack.”

He shifted in his seat. “I’m not sure I have much to snack on. I’ve relied heavily on takeout—if you couldn’t tell.”

“You’ve got more than you think,” she replied, presenting a tray covered with a clean dish towel. “Ta-da!” she sang. With a flourish, she whisked off the cloth to reveal a platter adorned with bite-sized delicacies and petite pies. The spread looked straight out of a high-end specialty market.

His jaw dropped. “When the hell did you put together a charcuterie board?”

“While we were tidying up, and you were talking. It’s mostly stuff from the gift baskets. I don’t know how good the pre-packaged mini pies will be, but they don’t look terrible. You had a few things in your fridge. The orange marmalade pairs beautifully with the nutty Gruyere cheese. It’ll taste delicious with the multigrain crackers.”

He smiled, taking in her masterpiece. “My grandmother makes the marmalade.”

Maggie bit into one of the cheese and marmalade crackers, closed her eyes, and sighed. “Utter perfection in one bite.”

She passed him one, and he devoured it. “Damn, that’s good. You know your flavor combinations.”

“I sure seem to, huh?” she replied, eyeing the tray, then looked up and gave him the once-over.

“What is it?”

“I do have a few questions about your pickle consumption.” She plucked a spear from the medley of deliciousness and pointed at him. “I’m a little concerned about how many giant jars of pickles you’ve got stashed in this place.”

He took the pickle from her and knocked it back in two bites. “The pickles belong to my brother, Finn. He needed somewhere to keep the extras. He bought every jar in town back in early June.”

“Why?” she asked, laughing.

He shrugged. “Love. Hailey likes them.”

“And there’s four frozen cakes in your freezer. Are you a cake fanatic?” she continued.

“I’m not one to turn down cake. I keep them around for when Kenz stays with me. They came from my brother Kieran and are here because of love…again. His wife, Izzy, is crazy about cake. He brought in a ton for his proposal, which turned into their wedding day. They’re definitely meant for each other. I helped him win her back. Actually, it was a team effort with the whole family pitching in.”

She smiled, but the emotion didn’t reach her eyes.

Was it his mention of love?

“Here, eat some more,” she said, making him another loaded cracker.

He ate the bite-sized treat and watched as she ignored the platter. She peered out the window that framed Starrycard Mountain beneath a sea of stars.

“You’re not eating. I figured you’d go straight for the pie,” he said, trying to uncover what had caused her darkened demeanor.

“I’ll pass on the pie. I might be a fresh-pie-only kind of gal,” she answered, gaze trained on the inky sky.

“Maggie, look at me,” he said gently.

She turned, and the tears in her eyes damn near broke his heart.

He reached across the island and took her hand in his. “What is it?”

“Your family…they’re good people, aren’t they?” Her voice trembled like a leaf in the wind.

“They are,” he said, treading carefully. “They can meddle and drive me insane, but they love me, and their intensions are always in the right place. I wouldn’t trade them for the world. But tell me what’s going on in your head. Did I say something? Did you remember something?”

“No, it’s not you, and I didn’t remember anything, but…” Her bottom lip trembled.

“Maggie, talk to me.”

A tear trailed down her cheek. “What if I’m a terrible person?” she whispered, her distress palpable.

He came around the island to be closer to her. “Why would you think that? I met you saving a dog. You were risking your life.”

She touched the edge of the platter, tracing a wobbly line along the curve of the dish. “You said the items I had with me were rare, valuable even—things not many people could get. Do you have them with you?”

He removed the card and stone from his pocket and slid them toward her.

She focused on the stone. “What’s important about this rock? I noticed the way you look at it, the way you tap your pocket to make sure it’s there. It means something to you.”

“I carry it for luck. It’s starry quartzite. They’re only found in the creek in this part of Colorado. But the lines are what make them valuable to me.”

“Why?”

“Because of my family’s paper company. We use special drums and beaters to prepare the pulp to become paper. Every so often, a rock slips past the sorting process. The beaters have divots. When they hit the stone just right, they carve a line. It was uncommon to strike once, but it was extraordinarily rare to happen twice. And when that happened, it made the number eleven. That’s always been my number. Before my first game, back when I was a kid, I was so nervous. I loved baseball and wanted to grow up to be a Major League player. Starrycard Creek is a superstitious place. We write our hopes and dreams on paper. But I needed something more, something that was completely mine. I saw the eleven on the stone, took it as a sign, and put it in my back pocket. I hit my first home run that day. I’ve never played a game without one—well, almost never.”

“You must have known one was missing?”

“Not really. I’ve lost a few over the years—especially in college when life was pretty chaotic between school, practice, and games. When I hit the majors, I had a little pocket sewn into my uniform. I’ve got three here at the ranch: one that I chucked behind my bed last week and two in my top drawer. When my shoulder started hurting, I thought they’d protect me from whatever was happening with my body.”

“What did happen? Do you mind telling me?”

“No, I don’t,” he said and meant it. Unlike when others asked, he wanted her to know—to understand. He gestured to his affected side. “The blood flow to my shoulder joint got messed up, and the bone started breaking down. I had to get surgery to fix it, but the damage was already done. I’d felt the pain for years, but I didn’t want to acknowledge it. Still, a part of me knew it was more serious, but it’s…”

“Scary to acknowledge that you have no control over what happens,” she supplied, reading his mind.

He nodded.

She held the rock, turning it in her hand to allow the inclusions to glitter in the light. “Does anyone know about your lucky rocks?”

“No, I’ve never told anyone—not even my family. I’m superstitious like that. I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it.” He gazed into her hazel eyes. “Only you know what they mean to me.”

She placed the stone on the island’s white marble surface. Pain flashed in her eyes as if a heaviness clung to her heart. “What if I stole it from you? What if I got it by some shady means and wanted to get you to pay me for it? I can’t figure out why I’m here with it. I worry that my intentions weren’t good. What if that’s who I am? What if I crave being bad? I have amnesia. How would I know if I’m that type of person? A person the people in your family surely wouldn’t like or trust.”

While he’d bet the ranch that she wasn’t a bad person, he couldn’t deny he was curious about how she’d gained possession of the stone. He glanced at the platter, zeroed in on the three sad little pies, and recalled how he handled issues on the field.

Focus. Plan. Execute. Succeed.

That’s how he’d make it better for her.

“There’s only one way to find out if you like being bad,” he said, lowering his voice as a plan formed.

“And what is that?”

“Maggie…last name to be determined, also known as Maggie TBD,” he continued, borrowing Bob’s ridiculous moniker, hoping it would lift her spirits.

“Yes?” she replied, the tears in her eyes giving way to a twinkle and a smile—that smile he saw in his dreams, the smile he knew by heart.

He glanced at the clock.

11:11 p.m.

The universe just weighed in on his plan with a big thumbs-up—a sure sign of success.

Emboldened, he gently tipped up her chin and inched toward her. “Let’s be bad. Let’s be very, very bad .”