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“Wasn’t planning on it,” she yells back.
“Is there a boyfriend or fuck buddy I should know about?” I ask, digging around in her kitchen for a plastic bag or something to secure the gift bag in. “Anyone who’s going to be banging down my door because I’m with their woman?”
Just the thought of Greer with another man makes my jaw clench with a rush of unexpected jealousy.
But my question earns me a distant chuckle from Greer and the sound releases some of the tension in the air.
“No, to both. There was this asshole I was sleeping with who wouldn’t leave me alone, but I blocked him.”
My back stiffens. “Have you told the cops about him?”
Someone like that could definitely pull this kind of shit.
“Yes, he’s on the list of possible suspects, but I doubt it’s him. He’s more of a narcissist than a stalker. He can’t handle being turned down or told no. Everything is all about him, you know? So I can’t imagine him doing all of this for little ol’ me.”
Greer obviously doesn’t see herself clearly. There’s nothinglittle ol’ meabout her. She’s gorgeous and larger than life—vibrant, charismatic, outgoing. It’s easy to see how and why someone could become obsessed with her.
“He’s worth checking into,” I grumble, using the baggie to pick up the gift bag and then zipping it up. With the contents secure, I go about righting Greer’s living room, taking in the space. It’s pretty, but not too girly. She has similar taste to what I like—timeless pieces, classic vibes, and simple colors.
The guys gave me a lot of shit for having an interior designer redo all my bedrooms and living room after Phil moved out. I was just tired of having the quintessential bachelor pad and thanks to all of them, my house had some wear and tear, so I wanted to reclaim the space.
Maybe it’s because I’m getting older or maybe it’s because I see the damage my lifestyle has done to my potential success. But I’m done with all of that. I’m tired of partying and sleeping around. It was fun while it lasted, but that’s just not me anymore. I want to focus on my last years of baseball, because let’s face it, they’re limited, and I want to secure my future.
“Any clingers I should know about?” Greer calls out. “I’ve noticed most of the photos circulating about you are old shots from last year. What’s that all about?”
Suddenly, I feel nervous and, I don’t know why the fuck my neck feels hot. Sometimes, when she starts prying into my personal shit, I feel like I’m no longer talking to Greer Bradley, my pseudo-friend, but Greer Bradley the reporter. It’s uncomfortable, always has been and probably always will be. I don’t like people knowing my business.
“They always do that,” I grumble, knowing I have to give her something. “And no, I haven’t slept around in a while.”
It’s just been me and my hand for what feels like a decade.
I’m exaggerating, obviously, but this is the longest dry spell I’ve had since I lost my virginity at fifteen. Even during my college days, when I was burning the candle at all ends—studying, going to class, going to practice, working out, playing games, on the road,andworking a small part time job to send extra money to my mom—I still found time for fucking.
I like sex.
Love it, actually.
But I’ve never liked relationships.
Which is how I earned the title of Big League’s Biggest Playboy. For a while, I embraced it, but I’m beginning to realize it’s all people were talking about and then my agent started getting push back from sponsors. That’s when he started trying to revamp my image.
And here I am, standing in Greer Bradley’s apartment, helping her clean up and pack up, thanks to a stalker and my crazy plan to kill two birds with one stone.
Scrubbing my hands over my face, I inhale, appreciating her sweet scent. I’ve caught hints of it before, but standing in the middle of her living room, it’s all I can smell.
Fuck, maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all.
“This will only work if we’re honest with each other.” Greer comes back into the living room with a large suitcase on wheels and a bag tossed over her shoulder. “If you fuck up, you need to tell me before it leaks to the media. I know how rabid they are for any dirt on professional athletes. It’s like catnip.”
She’s back to no-nonsense Greer now, fully taking control of the situation and I love it.
“What about when you fuck up?” I ask, knowing she’s going to give me her death stare.
In three, two…
Bingo!
My dick immediately stirs. What can I say? I love it when she’s angry and so does he.
