He lets out a low hum, a sound that feels entirely too physical, and reaches out his hand, gently tugging the zipper at my throat. He pulls it up the final half inch, and his fingers brush against my jawline. I freeze, my breath hitching. His touch is surprisingly gentle for a guy who spends his life catching ninety-five-mile-an-hour rocks between working with horses and farming the land.
“Tell you what,” he says, his voice almost a purr. “I’m starving. My knees hurt, I’m tired, and I don’t feel like driving back to my empty apartment just to eat cold pizza.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, unsure of where this is going.
“Earl’s is open late,” he continues, his eyes locking onto mine with this strange intensity that makes my knees go a little weak. I wonder if he saw me sitting near his mom and aunt. “They have terrible lighting, great burgers, and the beer is cold enough to numb my shoulder. You want to pitch me this big, savior-of-my-career PR campaign? You can do it over a basket of fries.”
I blink.
“Are you . . . asking me out?”
I feel ridiculous saying those words out loud, but damn if my mind didn’t go right there. I can’t go out with a player, especiallythisone. But dinner sounds nice. And if I can just keep the dialogue going, maybe . . .
Jake chuckles.
“I’m asking my very persistent PR director to join me for a late-night meeting. What happens after the fries . . . well, we’ll see how good your pitch is.”
I scowl, but damn if my insides don’t heat up at the same time.
“Nothing happens after fries.” My tone is firm, as is the straight line of my lips.
Jake gives me a decidedly ungrumpy and entirelyprovocative look before turning and walking toward the stadium exit.
“Don’t make me wait,” he calls over his shoulder without looking. “I’m not very forgiving to people who stand me up.”
I remain on the warning track for several seconds, staring after him, my face burning hot despite the freezing wind. I look down at my tablet, then back at the empty exit tunnel.
“Earl’s it is,” I mutter to myself.
I hope like hell Daisy didn’t head back to work after the game. I don’t think I can handle navigating more than one member of this fucked-up little family at once.
FIVE
JAKE
The neon sign for Earl’s is buzzing like a cicada. The pale pink used to shine brighter, and the blue cowboy hat used to glow all the way around. The dead spots in the neon make it hard to tell it’s a hat from far away. I wish my mom would let me fix it, but she says she likes it how it is. I think she’s just afraid I’ll break it and we’ll need to buy a new one. My mom’s not great with change. Or rather, she likes to take life’s waves as they come and simply ride them instead of taking the proverbial bull by the horns and drive her own destiny.
Look where that got her. She’s never left Sweetwater, except for the very rare vacation. And her business has a depressing, faded sign out front that she clings to for sentimental reasons.
I suppose I’m one of those curveballs life threw her way, so I should be grateful that she embraced my arrival with the same enthusiasm she gives to the ever-changing neon. Despite her nostalgic streak, I have the best mom on theplanet. She’s always in my corner, even when I’m not in my own.
Damn, do I wish she’d let this recent new life wave go—the one that walks, talks andismy father. Why couldn’t the man just retire on some beach in Florida and leave us alone? If this place is so special to him—his only true home as he says it is—then why the hell didn’t he come back to it sooner, or at least more often?
I kill the engine of my truck but don’t get out right away. Instead, I simply sit, staring at the Earl’s entrance while I rub the sore spot on my right shoulder. I just need a good day of rest. I’ve been going pretty hard. I have a day off in two days, and I’m sure I’ll be fine after that. I lean over and pop open the glove box, then pull out a bottle of ibuprofen and snap open the lid before pouring what I estimate to be three . . . maybe four pills into my mouth. I scan the truck cab for a stray water bottle, but no such luck. Looks like I’ll be dry swallowing these fuckers. Hell, I’d rather swallow glass than admit I’m hurting to a trainer, let alone to the woman currently occupying my mind.
Campbell.
I lean my head back against the headrest and curse under my breath. I shouldn’t have told her to meet me here. It’s a bad idea wrapped in a pretty, fast-talking, city-slicker package. I don’t need a savior, and I sure as hell don’t need a public relations campaign making me out to be some kind of charity case in the bullpen. I’m a ballplayer. I let my glove and my bat do the talking.
But then I remember the way she looked at me under those fading stadium lights, chin tucked, eyes blazing, utterly convinced she could fix my life if I just let her. And worse, I remember the way her skin felt against the backs of my knuckles when I tugged at her zipper. Smooth. Warm.
It was all I could do not to tug that thing the other way.
“Get a grip, McKinney,” I mutter to myself, shoving the truck door open.
I need to remain focused on one thing only—my game. I’m twenty-six, and sitting on the bench in Sweetwater isn’t going to get me to Texas. As much as I want to dig my heels in just to prove a point to the world, I’m not stupid. Campbell is right. The front office listens to the noise.
Good press gets people talking, and chatter equals dollar signs. As much as I love this game for the purity of it all, I’m not naïve. It’s a business. Thing is, even if it weren’t one, even if there weren’t a damn dime to be gained, I’d still give this sport everything I’ve got. It’s in my blood, and the way I feel when everything goes just right?Oof!Only one thing can compete with that feeling, and it comes from being between a pair of gorgeous legs.
