Caught. “Anymore,” I confirm.
Her lashes flutter and she looks down. “Everyone has secrets. I have secrets, Tripp. But I don’t have any more that can hurt you.”
I squeeze her arm softly. “How do I earn them?”
“You want to earn my secrets?”
“That’s usually what people do in relationships.”
Her shoulders are quivering, and I realize I really don’t know how hard this is for her. But she straightens her spine, and her eyes meet mine again. “My first week in boarding school, I booby-trapped my own room because I didn’t know if it was the kind of boarding school where I’d have to defend myself against the pre-established bully groups, or if it was the kind of school where everyone was so oppressed that no one bothered.”
I start to smile. “And?”
“And the school’s principal ended up with blue ink stains all over her face for a week because my ink bomb pen malfunctioned and shot the wrong way. Apparently someone reported me for sneaking marijuana onto school grounds, so she went through my stuff.”
“So it was that kind of school.”
“Not after the head ringleader got two straight weeks of packages with dead fish heads on dry ice in them.”
I choke on air, because I didn’t see that coming.
She sighs, and when she leans her head onto my shoulder, it’s instinct to wrap my arms around her and protect her. “They couldn’t prove it was me, because it wasn’t, and all the packages came from all around the world. One return label was from Antarctica. Another from California. One from somewhere in Russia. You get the point.”
“She…pissed off the CIA?”
“No, she pissed off Uncle Guido, who then pretty much ruined all chances of me making friends with half the school. So when I started suspecting what had happened, I got in touch with him and told him I never wanted to see him again, and that he had to let me handle things on my own, because that’s what people who were on their own did.”
“He didn’t leave you alone,” I guess.
She loops her hands around my waist. “No, he started sending me massive care packages. Pop-Tarts and candy and Sweet Dreams snack cakes and multiple copies of Teen Vogue and Seventeen and People. So then certain groups hated me for being spoiled, but most of the rest of the school was bought off when I shared.”
“That’s…” I trail off, because nice isn’t quite right. And I don’t know if devious is an insult, a compliment, or both.
“It’s a secret I’ve never told anybody,” she says. “Not the part about Uncle Guido being responsible for the fish heads, anyway. Also, consider this your warning that he’ll probably try to get back in my good graces very soon. And possibly yours too.”
I press a kiss to her hair. “I’m both honored and disturbed.”
Her hands trail lower until she has two handfuls of my ass. “I could make you forget the disturbed part.”
“You could, couldn’t you?” I’m on board with this plan.
“Want to know another secret?”
“Absolutely.”
“Uncle Al won that championship ring that you found off of Atlanta’s head coach in a poker game.”
“That’s not a very good secret.”
She presses her pelvis against my growing hard-on. “I know, but I’m distracted. I sent it back to him. And I used hand sanitizer before I touched it.”
I wince. “The hand sanitizer thing. It’s—”
“Understandable,” she finishes.
“It’s letting paranoia rule my life.” Saying the words out loud comes with guilt, but also with a sense of relief.
If Lila can trust me with what makes her vulnerable, shouldn’t I do the same? We can face our fears together.
“Do you know how sexy you are when you’re doing your dad thing?” she whispers as she nips at my ear.
Holy hell.
If this is the reward for facing my fears, sign me up.
I growl and twist to capture her mouth with mine.
“Ms. Valentine, Carlos Santiago is on line two for his phone interview,” Denise’s voice says.
We leap apart like we’ve been caught, and Lila reaches for the intercom button on the phone between the two chairs while running a hand over her hair as though Denise can see us. “Tell him we’ll be with him in five minutes,” she says.
“You got it. Also, catering reports lunch will be ready at noon, and notifications have been distributed throughout the building.”
“Thanks, Denise.”
“Happy to be useful, Ms. Valentine.”
“Catering?” I ask while I take a seat and tell my dick to remember we’re at work.
“Morale lunch. Free for everyone who writes their favorite Fireballs memory on a slip of paper at the buffet entry line.”
“That’s…brilliant.” I don’t need to know what she’s doing with those written memories to know they’ll go to some kind of public relations campaign. She’s always two steps ahead, fearless about diving into change, and even when it gives me heartburn to have a mound of work that I’d planned on spreading over a year instead of a month, she’s spot-on.
She flashes me a cheeky grin, grabs a notebook, drops into the other round red chair, and kicks off her stilettos. “I know.”
She reaches for the phone button on the round glass end table between us, but I grab her wrist. “Lila. How are you paying for all of this?”
And there’s that stubbornness that both irritates the shit out of me, and also turns me on.
Determination is sexy. Can’t deny it.
“That’s filed under not your concern, Mr. Wilson.”
“I know Al died broke. Even his house was mortgaged to the hilt.”
“That was never a secret.”
“Trust fund?” I guess.
All I need is a yes.
Instead, I get the drop it glare. “I liked you better when you were hugging me.”
“You’re borrowing from your boss.”
“It’s time for this interview.”
“We still have three minutes. Let me buy into the Fireballs. Minority stake. You know I love this team. We have our hiccups, but we work well together, even when I want to throttle you. We’ll get all the terms in writing. Sign the legal paperwork instead of doing behind-the-scenes deals. And then you don’t owe anyone anything back.”
“No.”
Did I say stubborn was sexy?
I changed my mind. “Lila—”
“My mom left the family business because she had a higher calling, but I used to catch her using technology that I’m not supposed to know existed to listen to Fireballs games on the radio. In Germany. So while I didn’t grow up with the stereotypical heiress to a baseball team, I also knew they mattered. I’ve. Got. This. If they fail, it’s on me.”
“They’re not going to fail, and you don’t have to do this alone.”
“I’m not doing it alone. I have you.”
“I haven’t been at work in almost a week.”
“The world didn’t fall apart, did it?”
“For one week, no. But either of my kids could come home tomorrow with pneumonia or a contagious rash or a puke bug, and trust me, when germ season hits, it doesn’t let up.”