“Who’s winning?”
“I don’t have a f*cking clue nor do I f*cking care.”
Echo’s head ticks back.
“Back off, Beth.” I cross the room, drop a kiss on the curve of Echo’s neck and whisper in her ear, “She’d rip me to pieces, too, right now. She’s a b*tch when the Yankees play.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Is she a Red Sox fan?”
Isaiah chuckles and we both throw him a glare, but he doesn’t notice as he’s absorbed in a car manual.
“Beth hates baseball.”
Echo’s eyes dart from Beth to the television to me then she waves her hand in the air for an explanation.
“She watches,” I explain. “Yankees only. It’s what she does and there are some things we don’t question about each other.”
“Just the Yankees?” Echo whispers.
“Just the Yankees,” I repeat.
“And she hates baseball?”
“With a passion.”
“That’s...” Echo says in a hushed tone. “That’s messed up.”