Sarah,
Following up on our meeting last night. To effectively counter my father and his client, we need to bypassthe legal avenues where he holds the financial advantage. We must construct a public relations wall.
Step 1: The Personal Angle.We need to document the historical significance of the properties south of the apartment complex and around the ballpark. I need family histories, old photographs, and testimonials.
Step 2: Legal Pressure Point.I am reviewing the county zoning filings Winnie provided. Summerhill Executives is vulnerable on their traffic impact assessments for the access roads. If we choke the logistics, we stall the timeline.
Let me know your thoughts on a town hall schedule.
Best,
Campbell
A sudden rustle of sheets catches my attention. I look over the top of my screen to see Jake stirring. He blinks against the morning light, his dark eyes unfocused for a second before they find me. A soft, lazy smile touches his lips, his face still lined with the sleep of a man who caught for nine innings and then spent the night owning my body.
He doesn’t say a word at first. He just stretches, his long torso lengthening as he rolls onto his back, yawning. He slides his legs out of the bed, reaching for his jeans on the floor and pulling them on, followed by a faded black T-shirt he snags from his wardrobe.
“Don’t move,” he grumbles, his voice raspy from sleep. “My coffee machine is completely non-existent, and you look like you’re about to sue someone. I’m going to run down to the convenience store and get us a couple of cups.”
“You’re a lifesaver, McKinney,” I say, not taking my eyesoff the screen as my fingers continue to fly across the keyboard.
Ten minutes later, the door clicks open, and the precious aroma of fresh, dark roast coffee fills the room. Balancing two paper cups and a brown paper bag that smells faintly of cinnamon, Jake walks over to the bed and hands me a cup before setting the bag on the bed next to me. He hovers, one hand shoved into his pocket while he leisurely sips from his cup.
“Are you always up this early?” I ask, taking a grateful sip of the scalding liquid. “The sun isn’t even officially up yet.”
“Always,” he says, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I have to be at my mom’s by five-thirty to care for the livestock. Toss some hay, check the fences. And then I hit the hills for a good four-mile run before I have to report to the stadium for practice.”
I look up from my laptop, staring at him over the rim of my paper cup. I stare long and uninterrupted. He lets me. He’s this sturdy, disciplined, completely dedicated man, care given to even the smallest pieces of his life, and a profound sense of admiration washes over me.
“I used to run early, too,” I murmur, a nostalgic smile touching my lips.
“I remember,” he says. That’s how you met Willie.
I let out a short, sudden laugh, shaking my head. “Willie 2.0.”
Jake’s laughter fades into something softer, something incredibly warm. He steps to the edge of the bed, leaning over me, his shadow falling across my laptop screen and then my face. I lift my chin as his mouth hovers just an inch above mine, the heat of his breath mingling with the steam from the coffee.
Several seconds pass, and he doesn’t close the distance. He just looks at me, his eyes scanning my face, my messy hair, the oversized shirt that belongs to him. The expression on his face is so entirely devoid of his usual grumpy exterior that it messes with my heartbeat, or at least, I imagine it does.
“I admire you, Jake,” I say softly, the honesty slipping out before I can filter it. “Your drive. Your passion for your family, for this town. The fact you work this hard even when nobody is watching.”
The corners of his mouth turn up, morphing into a beautiful, tender smile that brushes against my lips as he finally closes the gap. The kiss is brief, and tastes faintly of black coffee, but it sends a shiver down to my toes.
“I simply admire you, Campbell,” he whispers at my ear. “Now get back to work. We have a town to save.”
TWENTY-ONE
JAKE
Nashville’s Broadway is visible from the windows of the team bus, a blur of corporate-sponsored honky-tonks and tourist traps that makes my stomach churn. Any other weekend, a road trip to Music City is a welcome distraction from the monotony of the minor-league grind. Tonight? It takes every ounce of restraint in my body not to smash my fist through the glass, drag my dad out of the row ahead of me, and steal a rental car.
Hines & Associates’ corporate offices are less than three miles from our hotel. I know the exact address because I looked it up on my phone three seconds after we crossed the Tennessee border, and I haven’t stopped staring at the little blue dot on my map since.
Campbell’s father is here, in this state, in this fucking zip code . . . right now. Campbell told me as much before we left, her voice tight with a mixture of warning and residual anger. It’s strange to care so much about the man’s daughter but absolutely detest everything he stands for otherwise. My mind keeps zooming in to the future, to a time whenCampbell and I have been together for a while, when it feels appropriate to meet her family, and I just can’t wrap my mind around it. Truthfully, I’m not sure she’ll want to have a relationship with them either.
I can feel the phantom weight of those grotesque blueprints pressing down on Sweetwater from across the city, and the urge to march into his glass-and-steel fortress and lay him out is a physical ache in my jaw. The only consolation is that I am certain my dad feels the same.
When the bus jerks to a halt outside our hotel, I grab my duffel and step into the aisle, only to find Roddy already standing there, blocking my path. He doesn’t look at me. He just keeps his eyes fixed on the exit doors, his broad shoulders squared, his knuckles white where he’s gripping the headrest of the seat next to him.
