The cheese oozes down the side of the bowl, inching slowly down the china before it globs on the plate below.

It looks divine.

I carry the leftover macaroni and cheese to the living room and sit at the coffee table, stretching my legs out in front of me. The television is playing a soap opera that my grandma used to watch growing up. I always find it hysterical that I can not watch it for months at a time and tune in and feel like I didn’t miss a beat.

Glancing at the clock, I still have a few hours before Huxley gets home from school. After paying bills this morning and doing oddball household chores, I decided to indulge in my favorite food before taking a long bubble bath ... the one I haven’t had a chance to take since my missed opportunity three days ago.

My chest tightens at the thought.

So do my thighs.

Barrett is everything I knew he would be. Intense, mesmerizing, and at the end of the day, a bit arrogant. Who is he to think I would just roll over for him? Or under him?

I fan my face at the thought of being beneath his hard, chiseled body.

Damn it!

Even now, days later and with the knowledge that he has the same conceited vein I hated in Hayden, I can’t stop thinking about him. Arrogant or not, I’d be lying if I said he didn’t make me feel alive, that he didn’t make me feel like switches were turned on in my life.

Up until he opened his mouth right before I left, I could’ve been convinced there was a chance that he was different. But he’s not. And while I guess that kind of behavior is somewhat normal for men of his caliber—how could it not be when they always get what they want?—it’s a deal breaker for me, plain and simple.

I dig my fork into the goopy pile of cheese and try not to let my spirits sink. I’m doing things the right way, building a future for Huxley. Protecting him from men that will only do damage to our lives ... like his pathetic excuse of a father.

My chest pangs a little as I remember the life I thought we had. The comfortable, stable life that showered him with love and confidence. But his father went up the ladder and left us ducking the consequences of his activities as he scaled higher. Now, here we are in this little house hundreds of miles away, starting over.

Starting smarter.

I want to build a future for my son. I want to fall in love. I just want to do both things in a cohesive manner ... which means staying away from men that have potential of landing me and Hux right back where we started.

Groaning at the sound of the doorbell ringing, I scramble to my feet and glance down at my t-shirt, hoping it’s clean.

“Who is it?” I call through the heavy wooden frame.

“A delivery for Alison Baker.”

Curious, I pull open the door to see a local courier on my stoop with an envelope in his hand. “Are you Ms. Baker?”

“I am.”

He smiles. “I have this for you. Sign here, please.”

I give him a loopy signature and take the envelope. There’s no return address, no indication who it’s from or what’s inside.

Once the door is shut tight and I’m back on the couch, I rip open the top. Pulling out a letter on Georgia Hornets, the professional baseball team in Atlanta, letterhead, I gasp.

Dear Ms. Baker,

It is with great pleasure that we inform you that we’ve set aside season tickets to all of our home games next season. Two passes will be available for you and a guest in Will Call before each and every game. If you’re unable to attend, you’re more than welcome to send someone in your place. Please give us a courtesy notice prior so we can have them appropriately saved.

We look forward to seeing you in the stands!

Go Hornets!

Peter Capinella, CEO

Oh my God!

I squeal a little, imagining Huxley’s face. He’s never been to a professional game before and—season tickets? Getting to see every home game? He’ll be over the moon. Even I’m giddy about it and I hate baseball. We’ve been to a handful of minor league games, but never a professional one. I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out.

And then reality hits and I have no idea why we now have season tickets to the Hornets’ games. I dig through the envelope for another letter, an indication of what we won or how this happened, but it’s empty.

Before I can think it through, the doorbell chimes again. Jumping up, I speed to the front door and pull it open. A bouquet of roses and a smiling delivery girl are waiting for me.

“Ms. Baker?” she chirps, thrusting the elaborate design at me.

“Yes.”

“These are for you. Have a super day!”

I take the flowers with a shaky hand and go back inside. My head is swimming, my heart clattering in my chest, as I sit on the sofa and place the vase next to my food.

Spotting a card buried in the foliage, I pull it out and open it.

Alison,

Camilla said I shouldn’t send flowers as a form of apology, so I sent you something else instead. I hope it’s something you can do with Huxley. I know he’s a big baseball fan and I still have hope that you can find your love of the game.

I would appreciate the opportunity to apologize for my behavior. I’ll leave my number at the bottom if you’re willing to hear me grovel. Trust me, not many people have heard me do that before. And it would mean a lot to me to be able to do it for you.

It was very nice seeing you the other day.

Barrett

Sure enough, his number is printed very carefully at the bottom of the card.

I look from the glass popping with oranges and pinks to the envelope from the Hornets. My jaw hangs open at the over-the-top gift. I can’t fathom how much season tickets to the games would cost, let alone the fact that he remembered I have a son that likes baseball and I’m not a fan.

I laugh out loud. I can’t help it. The entire thing is ridiculous in the most spectacular way. I find myself wondering if this is real or a well-practiced charm.

But if it is charm, if you’re him, why bother if you don’t mean it?

My phone mocks me from beside the flowers, my fingers itching to dial the digits.

I need to be reasonable.

He went out of his way to send these things, and I’m seriously touched that he remembered Huxley. That deserves a phone call.

Calling him doesn’t mean anything specifically, just having the manners to say thank you and giving him the opportunity to apologize for being an asshole.

I can do that. Besides, hearing him humble himself will be fun.

Dialing his number, a grin slips across my lips. The line rings twice before he answers.

“Landry,” he says, his voice as smooth and delicious as I remember.

“Hi, Barrett. It’s Alison.”

I can feel him smile through the line. “What a nice surprise.”

“Is it really?” I laugh. “I’m pretty sure you expected this call.”

“There’s nothing I expect of you. Believe that,” he mumbles.

A pause extends between us and I can imagine him cringing, knowing what has to happen, trying to think of a way around it.

Not happening.

“So ...” I say, giving him an opening.

“So ...”

I blow out a breath in exasperation even though I’m smiling. “You know, I expected more groveling.”

“Yeah, about that.” He chuckles under his breath. “Alison, I would like to apologize for acting out of line the other day. I ... I was wrong.”

I know he’s wincing as he says this and it makes me smile wider. “How’d it taste to say those words?”

“Like vinegar.”

Laughing, I settle back on the sofa with the letter from the Hornets in my lap. “Well, thank you for saying it.”

“Thank you for calling me and allowing me to say it.”

“Did I have a choice? You softened me with beautiful flowers and Major League baseball, both of which were unnecessary, for the record. I had to call and thank you.”

He takes a deep breath. I close my eyes and imagine his face, the way the lines crinkle around his eyes before he speaks.

“You are very welcome,” he says softly. “I know ‘sorry’ is an overused term, but I am. I just ... I suppose I normally don’t have to jump through a lot of hoops to get a woman to agree to spend time with me. And I just figured ...”

“You figured I would cave to your charm and be an easy lay?”

“No,” he rushes, but stops in his tracks. “Well, maybe. Obviously I was wrong.”

“Obviously.”

I hear papers shuffling in the background and the sound of an incoming email dinging. Wondering where he is and what he’s doing, I catch myself.

I’m calling to thank him. That’s it.

“Alison,” he begins, his voice a little shaky, “can we start over? Well, not start over, exactly. I think I did pretty well at the event. I’d just appreciate having another opportunity to ...”

“Not be an ass?” I suggest.

“To win back your vote,” he volleys back cheekily. “I’ve regretted letting you leave the Farm without apologizing to you a million times these last few days. For not remembering who I was dealing with and treating you accordingly. Like a respectable woman that is honoring me by giving me her attention.”

I smile. I swoon. But I don’t lose my head. “You know what that sounds like?”

“A good idea?”

“A perfectly executed line.”

He sighs into the phone, the sound of his breath rapping against the speaker making me shiver.

“My son will be home soon,” I say, stretching the truth, “and I have a few things I need to do. So, if you don’t mind, I need to be going.”

“Sure.” His tone is dejected and it tugs at my heartstrings a little bit. I have to resist the urge to do exactly what he wants and bend to his will, to agree to whatever proposition he puts forth. “I hope you and Huxley enjoy the tickets.”

“Thank you again,” I reply, my voice softer, lacking the spunk it had a few seconds ago. “It was entirely too kind of you.”

“It was my pleasure.” He waits a beat, to see if I actually end the call or give him something else to go on. “If you ever change your mind about dinner, the invitation stands.”

“Thank you. Have a good evening, Barrett.”

“You too Alison.”

I end the call and settle against the cushions. In another time and place, maybe I would take a risk with the dashing politician. He makes me laugh and our banter is so, so easy. I can’t ever recall feeling quite like this. But fear is a powerful emotion, maybe the most powerful of all, and I can’t get around the risk of losing everything I’ve built. Again.