Heat flares deep in my stomach. It’s a terrible idea. An inappropriate, unprofessional, career-ending bad idea to be staring at his lips right now—especially after the way he held me under those dim lights at Earl’s. I can still feel the ghost of his palm against the small of my back, the tickle of his voice in my ear.
Get a grip, Campbell. You have a job to do. You are not a groupie!
“McKinney,” I call out, my voice coming out a little tighter and a bit higher than I intend. I clear my throat, forcing my professional mask into place as he stops, blinking down at me.
“Campbell,” he says, a slow, lazy grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.He’s enjoying this too much.
I straighten my spine, rolling my shoulders back and lifting my chin. He slings his duffel bag over his bad shoulder, the one he was rubbing the other night. “Didn’t expect to see you lurking by the showers. Looking for another dance?”
I roll my eyes, ignoring the somersault my stomach does.Dammit.
“Uh, no. I’m here to collect, actually,” I shoot back, though the tingling sensation creeping up my neck is fucking annoying. I step into his path, forcing him to halt completely in the concrete corridor.
“I’m here because I’ve been working on my end of the deal.”
His cocky smirk falters a bit, and while part of me likesthrowing him off his game, I also need him on board for this interview. It’s not going to fly if he doesn’t play along and show the media his best side.
“I managed to lock down an interview for you with an up-and-coming digital content creator. His name is Connor, and his platform has a huge national reach for younger baseball fans. He wants to get some b-roll of you—stuff beyond your time on the ball field. Show your roots, your grit, that whole angle we discussed.”
Jake’s smile fades another fraction, his brow furrowing. He looks over my shoulder, and I glance behind me. Nobody is there. He’s looking for an escape.
I jet my gaze back to him and shift my weight, clearing my throat to force his attention to me.
He sighs as his gaze falls back to my face.
“All right. When?” His mouth is a hard line.
“Tomorrow morning. Monday.”
He lets out a short, scoffing laugh and shifts his weight. “Tomorrow? No can do, Campbell. Monday morning is early work. I’ve got batting practice, and I need to spend some extra time with the training staff. A media circus is going to cut right into my routine.”
“It’s not a circus, it’s one guy with a GoPro and a bunch of phones,” I counter, refusing to let him dig his heels in. “And we can work around your schedule. What if Connor and I meet you for your early morning routine? Before you even head to the facility?”
Jake stares at me for a long beat, his eyes tracking the intensity in mine. A knowing smirk suddenly plays on his lips. “Myearlymorning routine? You sure about that, city girl?”
“I can handle an early morning, McKinney.”
Pffft. I get up early to run most days.
“All right.” He chuckles, leaning in just a fraction closer, sending a wave of that clean, soapy scent over me. “If you want to see grit, I’ll show you grit. Meet me at my mom’s property. It’s just outside of town. I’ll text you the address. I’m out there every morning before sunrise tending to the horses, goats, and chickens she keeps. If your camera guy wants b-roll, he can film me shoveling manure.”
“Perfect. Authentic country boy charm. The algorithm will love it,” I say, pulling out my phone and handing it to him to type in his number. He sends himself a text then replies back to my phone with the address. And the fact we now have a text chain sits in the pit of my gut for some reason. It feels like trouble. But also . . . itismy job.
“Oh, and one more thing,” I say. “Since this is supposed to be the joint feature we agreed on . . . I’m going to invite your father there for the interview too. If that’s all right with you?”
Jake’s chest expands with a rough, dry chuckle. He shakes his head, looking down at his boots before meeting my gaze again.
“Sure. Invite Roddy. Bring him on out.” He shifts his duffel bag, his eyes hardening just a fraction. “Just make sure your boy Connor catches the part whereI’mactually doing the work. My dad bailed long ago to go be a superstar ballplayer. I’m the one who handles the heavy lifting around here.”
“Tomorrow morning. Don’t be late,” I say, ignoring the sharp edge in his voice and bitter commentary about his dad. I hope he can drop that grudge long enough to get through an interview.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, boss,” he murmurs, giving me one last lingering look before he turns and walks down the corridor.
The gravel crunches loudly beneath my running shoes as I step out of my Mercedes, the air biting and crisp in the pitch-black minutes before dawn. The sky is a bruised shade of deep purple, not dissimilar to the color that was branded on Jake’s forearm after yesterday’s game. The stars are faint overhead, and I squint to capture them before they disappear completely. Daisy McKinney’s farmhouse is storybook adorable. She might come off as a tough woman ready to throw down anyone who gives her shit at her bar, but at home, she’s all flowers, green grass, and a literal picket fence.
A faint golden light spills from the kitchen window, lighting up the profiles of Roddy and Connor, who are waiting for me at the top of the driveway.
Connor’s a young guy in his early twenties. I did my homework on him to make sure he’s the real deal. And I’m glad I did now that I spot him in a trendy beanie and holding a stabilized camera rig, shivering. He seems rather out of place, but he is wearing an old McKinney jersey, so at least he’s smart enough to dress the part of an expert. Roddy looks entirely in his element, a denim jacket thrown over his broad frame, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand, and boots that match his son’s on his feet. I wonder how Jake feels about that.
