“I need to burn it all to the ground.” I yank the drawer out of its tracks and march it out of my office, phone tucked under my ear, because I didn’t think to put myself on earbuds since I wasn’t planning on redecorating Uncle Al’s office quite yet.
And then I stop short.
Parker grins at me. She’s behind the receptionist’s desk with her feet propped up on it, strawberry blond hair tied back in a ponytail, clad in jeans, boots, and an ugly Christmas sweater decorated with tacos, even though Christmas is still two months away.
“Matches,” she says. “I’ll add them to my list. What’s in the drawer?”
My jaw slips, and I can’t blink for fear she’ll disappear.
“Lila. Your uncle died. You’ve never talked about other relatives. Or other friends. I know about thirteen things about baseball, and you’re one of my best friends. Where else would I be right now?”
I’m standing here holding a drawer that’s full of stuff that could give a forensic investigator a very clear picture of my uncle’s sexcapades in his office, and I’m about to cry because I’m suddenly not alone and mildly panicked about it.
“Thirteen?” I sputter.
That’s where I am. Stuck on her knowing thirteen things about baseball.
She grins bigger, and her hazel eyes sparkle. “My baby brother does play professionally, and I might’ve been responsible for getting him to seven million games when he was growing up. So possibly more than thirteen. Seriously. What’s with the drawer?”
“My uncle kept his cock ring in it.”
She goes seven shades of purple and red and makes a strangled noise.
I sigh. “Yes, it’s disgusting. But so are you and Knox, and I was there at your bridal shower when you got a whole set of unicorn-themed cock rings, so can we just—”
She’s making desperate shut up hand gestures, and I realize she’s not actually looking at me.
She’s looking behind me.
And is that—
Sweaty male.
Yes.
That’s sweaty male.
I briefly squeeze my eyes shut again and turn, drawer gripped firmly in hand, to find Tripp Wilson has returned.
His eyes are onyx. That muscle in his chiseled jaw is ticking again. And he’s staring directly at my mouth.
Again.
I square my shoulders, which makes the contents of the drawer shake, and something random inside starts vibrating.
Parker whimpers.
Pretty sure she’s sinking through the floor right now.
“Can I help you?” I ask Tripp.
He visibly swallows. His gaze twitches like he’s trying very hard to not look at the contents of the drawer I’m holding between us, and he finally looks past me to Parker.
I glance over my shoulder.
She’s gone goldfish. Eyes bugging, mouth floundering.
“Please tell Denise all calls from the media need to come to my phone,” he says. Slowly. And carefully.
Then his gaze lands squarely on mine, and fuck.
How long do you have to know a person before you can tell with any certainty that he’s silently asking if I can handle the media as well as I handle a rabid duck with a terrifying penis?
“If you’re having trouble accessing your email so that you can start going through that list of coaching resumes that I sent you, then you should call tech support,” I tell him. “I’ll handle media inquiries.”
“You appear to have your hands full already, Ms. Valentine.”
One phone call, and Uncle Guido could make this problem go away. “All I need is a large trash bag, Mr. Wilson.”
For the contents of Uncle Al’s drawers.
For disposing of a body.
Take your pick.
His brows slant together, and my vagina fans itself and invites my nipples to the party.
Dammit again.
“You sure you wouldn’t rather get a shadow box? Family heirlooms and all.”
“Don’t be crude.”
He reaches into the drawer and lifts a ring, dangling it for me to get a good look.
But it’s not a cock ring.
No, it’s a championship ring.
Which makes zero sense, since the Fireballs have never won a championship.
“What in the hell?”
“As I said, Ms. Valentine, you appear to have your hands full.” He drops the ring back into the pile of wrappers, condoms, whatever that thing is that’s vibrating, used tissues, and a book of motivational quotes. He turns away from me and walks straight to the desk, hand extended. “Tripp Wilson. We haven’t met.”
Parker squeaks again. “I played with your brother,” she manages to get out.
“In her band,” I clarify quickly. “With musical instruments. And clothes. The real Levi was kind enough to join Parker’s band for a performance they did with Half Cocked Heroes over the summer, which I unfortunately missed.”
He ignores the real Levi dig. “You’re not the drummer, are you?”
Her face is glowing brighter than a stoplight at midnight, but she still bursts out laughing. “No. Guitar. I play guitar.”
Tripp’s smiling at her now like he wasn’t just growling at me while he pulls his hand sanitizer out of his pocket. “Heard you all were great.”
“I’m team Lila,” Parker blurts. “I don’t actually work here. I’m just in town to help clean up her uncle’s messes. And I’m with my husband. You’re not on my freebie list. But can we take a selfie?”
And now he’s smiling bigger. And kindly. Like a freaking superstar who knows just the right way to tilt his lips and just the right warmth to put into his eyes to keep his boundaries and not lose a fan.
He’s handling Parker.
And I want to hate him for it, but more, I want to hug him, and wanting to hug him makes me mad.
I’m here for the challenge of putting my family’s baseball team back together.
Not to get attracted to a man I shouldn’t want in the first place.
“I’m tossing this junk,” I tell Parker.
She leaps to her feet and steps around Tripp, who looks like he was on the verge of asking her a question. “I’ll get trash bags. Or rubber gloves. Or both. Whatever you need.”
She’s what I need.
A solid, dependable friend, who doesn’t have any agenda beyond being here to be a friend.
“Thank you,” I whisper as we duck back into the office.
“Sisters before misters,” she whispers back, and the impossible happens.
I stand there in the Fireballs’ owner’s office, and I burst into laughter.
Friends are the best.
10
Tripp
After four hours of fielding phone calls in my office below Lila’s, where I refuse to admit how much time I spent straining to hear the subtle sounds of the two women going through Beversdorf’s things, I head to my buddy Beck’s place for a much-needed decompression meeting. He lives in the penthouse of Shuler Tower, a high-rise apartment complex in downtown Copper Valley. From the floor-to-ceiling windows in his living room, I can see both Reynolds Park and its landmark fountain, as well as the Blue Ridge Mountains beyond the city.
The mountains are extra blue today, like they know it’s been a bloodbath and they’re mourning the loss of my well-constructed plan to bring fans back and to make the Fireballs into a team that likes to win again.