“You have such a brilliant legal mind?—”
“I’m not joining the firm,” I cut in, irritated that he’s doing this in front of Richard.
My father holds up a palm, his sharp glare a nonverbal warning to let him finish. I’m twenty-six and still being scolded.
“Go on,” I hum, dropping my attention to the straw coming out of my icy pink and white drink.
My father clears his throat.
“As I was saying . . . you have a brilliant legal mindandan incredible knack for public relations.” He leans forward, his hands clasped on the table. “You’re wasting your talents babysitting a minor league baseball team. Come work with us at the firm but do ityourway. We’re handling massive land acquisitions, and a lot of these deals need precise, sophisticated messaging. You could make a lot of money, sweetheart. More than you’ll ever see in sports marketing.”
I take a slow sip of my beverage, letting the cold liquid temper the fire kindling in my chest. “I make plenty of money, Dad. I like my job. I like the autonomy I have here, and I love the team. Plus, this is just a stepping stone on my way to bigger markets.”
My dad sighs, exchanging a look with Richard that screamsshe’s just being stubborn.“We’ll talk more about it later.”
I breathe in silently through my nose, and I don’t put my foot down like I should. Because our roles are ingrained—he’s Dad, and I’m always a little girl. Even if I tell him the conversation is over, he’ll renew it the next time we speak. This debate of ours will never end.
The rest of the lunch is a blur of billable-hour talk and real-estate jargon, with maybe a question or two about how the team is doing this season thrown in by Richard. I think he feels bad because I’m just sitting here picking at my food. When we finish, my dad insists on driving me back to the ballpark. I’d rather walk, but since I swapped out my shoes, I take him up on it. Richard climbs into the back seat this time, and he’s tapping away on his laptop while my dad navigates his way into the stadium parking lot.
Just as the SUV clicks into park near the front offices, the heavy glass doors of the clubhouse swing open, and Jake walks out.
Of course he does.
He’s wearing a gray fitted T-shirt that hugs his shoulders perfectly. His worn cowboy hat tilts just right against the midday sun, and his gear bag is slung over one shoulder.
“Thanks for lunch, Dad,” I say quickly, reaching for the door handle to make a swift exit.
“Who’s that?” my dad asks, his eyes narrowing through the windshield as he spots Jake walking toward us.
Shit.
Not swift enough.
Before I can answer, Jake hollers my name and begins to jog toward us. His stupid, fucking grin is so perfect. He’s perfect. My father is going to hate him.
“You get lunch without me?” Jake’s making a joke, but my father doesn’t know that. Richard’s nose is buried behind his laptop. I’m sure he senses how unamused my dad is right now.
“Hey, Jake,” I say, my voice wavering and my cheeks warming. I turn to the open car door, forcing myself to be professional. “Dad, this is Jake McKinney, one of our catchers. Jake, this is my dad and his associate, Richard.”
My dad doesn’t get out of the car. He just waves me out of his way and leans over the console, assessing Jake with his cool, corporate glare. “Nice to meet you . . .Jake.”
My dad somehow makes a clicking sound at the end of Jake’s name. I’m so embarrassed, but Jake doesn’t flinch, instead leaning one arm casually on the top of my open door, entirely unfazed by the tension radiating from the driver’s seat.
“What brings you to Sweetwater, Mr. Hines?” His Oklahoma accent is layered on thick, and I dare say, I think Jake is toying with my father.
“Tying up some loose ends. We’re handling a prettylucrative land deal, actually.” My dad’s showing off as if Jake gave two shits. This man hit a hundred-mile-per-hour fastball for a triple a few days ago. I don’t think land swaps and deed negotiations are going to wow him.
“A land deal, huh? What kind?” Jake tips his hat up a bit, giving my dad a better view of his face.
My father’s posture stiffens slightly. It’s a strange reaction from him. He’s not one to be tight-lipped about his work. And whatever he’s working on is clearly something he wants to brag about.
“Just some state land and ranchers swapping acreage. Standard bureaucratic shuffling,” he says quickly, shifting his gaze almost as a way to push us off the topic.
Jake nods slowly, a knowing glint in his eye. “Right. Well, if you want to see the real town while you’re here, sir, you should stick around and come to Earl’s tonight. The whole team will be there. It’ll give you a real flavor for the place. Plus, word is, your daughter can really cut a rug on the dance floor.”
Jake shifts his gaze to me, his brown eyes dancing with mischief. He drops his chin a fraction and throws me a wink. “There’s always dancing at Earl’s. Right, Campbell?”
Oh my God.I mentally scream at him.
