Yet. I will find a choice, because I don’t think I can do this for long.
Especially not when his gaze dips to my mouth oh-so-briefly, and I get that same flutter in the pit of my belly that I got the night we met.
The I’m into you vibes are still there.
His jaw flexes as he snaps his gaze beyond my ear. “Not so long as we both want what’s best for the Fireballs.”
What’s best for the Fireballs.
Something tells me that’s not the two of us working together.
Question is, which one of us will break first?
And by break, I don’t think I mean quit.
I scramble straight and take two steps back. “You can report to human resources in the morning for paperwork and salary negotiations.”
He studies my eyes like he’s looking for the catch. “Or we could do negotiations right now.”
“No kissing.”
It slips out without conscious thought, and my whole body whines a protest while one side of his mouth quirks up and heat floods his eyes. “That’s your first stipulation?”
“Considering how we met, yes.”
“Considering how we met, I’d think your first stipulation would be no wearing smoothies on your head.”
“Very funny, Mr. Wilson.”
“Tell me, Lila. If I hadn’t said I was Levi, would you have still gone into that bathroom with me?”
Yes. Yes. “Of course not.”
His eyes call out my lie, and when he pushes off the door, all of my erogenous zones shout a hallelujah at what they know is coming, even as my brain screams that there’s a stop sign we’re ignoring as we fly head-first into an intersection we can’t walk away from.
He’s going to kiss me again.
I’m going to let him.
And I’ll regret it in the morning. Probably sooner.
“In that case, Ms. Valentine,” he says, low and throaty as he reaches a hand to me, “we’re going to be able to work together just fine. Happy to serve as the president of operations for the Fireballs. Welcome to the home team.”
Oh, hell.
He’s not reaching for me.
He’s holding a hand out.
To shake.
I hold my head high and put my hand in his, bracing for the electric shock that I know is coming.
Except there’s no spark. No jolt.
It’s all liquid heat spiraling out from our connected palms, spilling up my arm and making my breasts tingle. Touch me there too. Lick me there. Suck me there. And then get your hand back in my panties and finish what you started two weeks ago.
“Same to you, Mr. Wilson.” I withdraw my hand as delicately as I can. “I look forward to working with you.”
And I do.
Way, way more than I should.
8
Tripp
I’m getting an early-morning workout in at the office gym on my second official morning on the job in late October, trying to put the stress of finding a new nanny behind me—or rather not finding a new nanny, considering my last three candidates have either failed to wash their hands before touching my kids, didn’t bring proof of insurance for driving my kids to the park, and—in the last instance—asked if she’d get to meet all of us from Bro Code, or just me.
I had to fire the nanny agency I was using as well after that last one got through.
Adding to the stress?
Emma’s decided that the only place she’ll sleep is under the kitchen table, naked, while cuddling a rock and using a pile of pilfered underwear as a pillow.
At least I know it’s all clean.
Unfortunately, the workout isn’t doing anything to relieve the combination of anticipation and irritation at knowing Lila’s back in town for the first time since the duck incident. I might also be working out so I don’t throttle her during our nine AM meeting after all of the emails I’ve gotten from her.
The only thing we’ve agreed on since the night of the great duck penis is that we both know how to say that we want what’s best for the Fireballs. However, her vision needs bifocals, while she thinks I’m operating with sunglasses in the dark.
Mr. Wilson, I asked for a plan for the team, not the list of repairs for the stadium.
Mr. Wilson, please copy the front office staff on all correspondence.
Mr. Wilson, please advise your planned work hours.
I’m beginning to suspect that her master plan is to drive me insane so that I quit.
I’m grabbing a dumbbell that’s twenty pounds heavier than what I usually use for curls when Cooper Rock, second baseman for the Fireballs, bursts in with panic overtaking his usual I am a baseball god and the ladies love me swagger.
Which is true—he could’ve been a gymnast for the stunts he pulls at second base, and his bat’s second in the league only to Brooks Elliott.
Not that either has helped the Fireballs win.
I’ve known Cooper for a few years. He grew up in Shipwreck, and he loves playing for his home team. We cross paths. So long as he plays good baseball, doesn’t embarrass the organization off the field, and neither one of us turn into dicks over this new arrangement, I don’t foresee a problem.
Until he opens his mouth.
“Beversdorf’s niece fired everyone.”
I drop the dumbbell I’m holding, realize my arms are the consistency of overcooked broccoli, and subsequently finally admit to myself that I might be holding on to some tension over having to answer to Lila. Actually, my teeth hurt too.
Great.
I’m I need a mouth guard to stop grinding my teeth years old now.
“What?” I say to Cooper.
“She fired everyone. Everyone from Salazar on down the line to Flannery.”
Salazar. The team’s manager. Head of the coaching staff.
Talking to him was on my to-do list.
But—“Flannery?”
“Clubhouse manager. You don’t know Flannery? Dude. Everyone knows Flannery. He stocked gummy dicks in the opponents’ locker room and made sure we always had the dartboard updated with the other team’s logo before the games.”
I blink at him while my triceps twitch. “If that’s how you prepped for a game—”
“Everyone, Tripp. She fired everyone.”
“You?”
He shakes his head, but it’s a grim shake. “She hasn’t touched the team. Yet. Just the coaching staff and support staff at the stadium. I only heard because—” He stops himself, grins like he’s reliving a very good memory, then sobers quickly. “Not important.”
Jesus. “Don’t bang the coach’s daughter, Rock.”
“Dude. Give me some credit. She was the travel coordinator’s niece. And we didn’t bang. We explored a few of the other bases.”
“You need to stop talking.”
“And you need to stop Lila Valentine before she trades all of us away and leaves the Fireballs with a team that couldn’t beat a Little League team.”
I don’t bother pointing out that a Little League team probably could’ve beaten this year’s team. Nor do I bother with a shower before hitting the elevator. It’s not even seven AM, and I’m only here this early because my mom slept over and is watching my kids so I could get an early start.