Page 161 of Hiding in the Outfield

I change the subject altogether. “So, are there openings in San Francisco?”

We step into the coffee shop and up to the counter. “Iced nonfat milk latte, two pumps of vanilla syrup and extra foam, and one Americano over ice with a dash of oat milk.” I immediately kick myself.

He crosses his arms, a cat-got-the-cream grin on his face. “Remember my coffee order, do ya?”

I hate him. I hate me. I hate this.

“Openings, Nick. San Francisco.”

His gaze sweeps over me, and it has my skin crawling. I know that look. It’s one he’s given me many times before. He doesn’t have permission to give me that fucking look.

“We might be able to work something out.”

I blink at him. “What does that mean?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “The office is pretty full. We’re over-staffed. It would take some serious gymnastics to create a permanent spot for you. Right now, you work with me on one San Francisco client and are temporarily assigned to Cathy’s team while she’s out on maternity leave. We need the majority of your billable work hours to be on San Francisco clients for you to be allowed a seat in the office.”

The barista calls our names, and we grab our coffees. I want to throw mine at Nick. He’s being an ass. Because that’s just who he fucking is. How I missed that, I’ll never know.

“I would think my service at this company and the value of my contributions would mean the gymnastics—whatever they may be—would be worth it.”

“Why do you want to move out there?”

I barely hold back my growl. “I told you, it’s private.”

He studies me. He’s weighing something, and I don’t like it.

“I’ll make it happen,” he says softly.

My heart skitters around in my chest. I straighten, eyes wide. Ohmygod. Yes!

“If.”

I deflate.

“You make it worth my while.”

Um. Excuse me?

“What does that mean, Nick?” My tone is carefully neutral. He cannot be suggesting what I think he’s suggesting. “Increased sales? Increased profitability ratios? I’ll work my ass off, you know I will.”

He takes a long sip of his coffee.

“I’m well aware of how hard you work that ass.”

My gut drops.

“I beg your fucking pardon?”

“I miss you, Frankie.”

No. No no no.

“Come back to me. And I’ll make it happen.”

The coffee in my stomach roils, and molten rage screams through my veins. “Absolutely not,” I bite out.

His jaw tightens. “Well, that’s the deal, Frank. You want me to move mountains for you to come to San Fran? Then you need to pay up. It’s the least you could do after fucking me over.”