“No. I’m not breaking up with you. You’ll have to break up with me.”
Her eyes widen. “Your fiancé cheated on you! I can’t be the evil witch who breaks your heart again.”
“You’re so sure my heart is taken already, are you?”
Her smile is as tangy as vinegar. “Of course I am. Did you feel that kiss? It made my toes curl, Captain.”
I arch an eyebrow, trying not to give away how much I like hearing that. How much Ineededto hear that. But I can’t admit that out loud. I shouldn’t even admit it to myself. “Captain?” I ask.
She winces. “Too much?”
I let my eyes roam over her face, taking in her dark auburn eyebrows, her long black eyelashes, her wide, high cheekbones. Everything about her is classy and effortless, and I don’t know what idiot in the world would suggest a few fake dates to smooth over some awkwardness with a woman of this caliber.
Except me.
“Captain?” she repeats.
“I’ll allow it.”
She exhales a laugh. “I really am sorry for the mess.”
Be brave!that buried part cries.For once in your life, go after something!My heart hammers in my chest like I’m staring down a breakaway in overtime.
“Is it bad if I’m not that sorry?” I ask.
She drops her head again, her long, reddish brown waves cascading in front of her face. But then she puts a hand in her hair and throws it out of the way as she meets my eye.
“I’ll allow it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
KAYLA
Ishould be watching the game—Mudflaps vs. Sandcats (yet another team with a better name than ours)—but my mind keeps going back to last night, and my finger keeps skimming over my bottom lip. If I keep this up, I’m going to chap my own lips.
Focus. And not on Sean.
On the field, a Sandcat hits the ball, and the second baseman catches it and throws the other runner out. That’s what they call a double play.
See how much I’ve learned about baseball? I could practically write a book at this point.
A picture book.
All 1492 of the fans in attendance cheer.
A wave of laughter spills from the stands only a handful of rows down from my box. Serena must have chosen these seats on purpose for her and her squad of single socialite sirens. She’s wearing a pastel halter dress that makes her look, frankly,precious. She’s so pert and tiny and adorable. I bet my ballet company would have loved her. She never would have been on the receiving end of hushed whispers, judgmental eyes, and coaches whispering about weigh-ins and calories?—
My phone buzzes, and I eagerly pull it out to stop my brain from brain-ing too hard.
And then I groan.
It’s from MiLB’s PR team.
Subject: ”New Ownership Spotlight Photo Schedule”
I’m a great businesswoman, even without inheriting anything from my family. I cannot for the life of me figure out how exploiting a public breakup is going to sell tickets.
Can you really not figure it out?a cynical voice inside me says.You were a power couple. They don’t simply care about the breakup, they care about the awkwardness. Pain. Heartbreak.
