Page 11 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)
CHAPTER SEVEN
KAYLA
I should be watching the game—Mudflaps vs. Sandcats (yet another team with a better name than ours)—but my mind keeps going back to last night, and my finger keeps skimming over my bottom lip. If I keep this up, I’m going to chap my own lips.
Focus. And not on Sean.
On the field, a Sandcat hits the ball, and the second baseman catches it and throws the other runner out. That’s what they call a double play.
See how much I’ve learned about baseball? I could practically write a book at this point.
A picture book.
All 1492 of the fans in attendance cheer.
A wave of laughter spills from the stands only a handful of rows down from my box.
Serena must have chosen these seats on purpose for her and her squad of single socialite sirens.
She’s wearing a pastel halter dress that makes her look, frankly, precious.
She’s so pert and tiny and adorable. I bet my ballet company would have loved her.
She never would have been on the receiving end of hushed whispers, judgmental eyes, and coaches whispering about weigh-ins and calories?—
My phone buzzes, and I eagerly pull it out to stop my brain from brain-ing too hard.
And then I groan.
It’s from MiLB’s PR team.
Subject: ”New Ownership Spotlight Photo Schedule”
I’m a great businesswoman, even without inheriting anything from my family. I cannot for the life of me figure out how exploiting a public breakup is going to sell tickets.
Can you really not figure it out? a cynical voice inside me says. You were a power couple. They don’t simply care about the breakup, they care about the awkwardness. Pain. Heartbreak.
I snort at the thought. As if ending things with Aldridge was remotely heartbreaking.
But there is still pain.
There are still memories of intense perfectionism that I’ve fought off for years.
That feeling of being insulated from criticism because I was with the “right” kind of man, the “right” social class, going to the “right” activities and events and charities.
Aldridge’s family is practically American royalty—the kindwith family crests on their beach towels and homes in Martha’s Vineyard, Malibu, and Miami. Being with him was easy.
All I had to do was turn off my mind. My heart. My personality. And voilà! I instantly fit in.
For the hundredth time, I wish the guy just would’ve cheated on me.
It would have made things so much easier with our friends and his family. His sister and her kids, especially. I was almost as close to them as I am to my own family, and with my ending things out of nowhere, I’m the villain in this equation.
But alas, he didn’t cheat. And that left me to do the hard thing and “choose myself” like some mid-season This is Us episode.
I hang my head in my hands, glad I’m alone in the Owner’s Box.
What is it with me and thinking about men I shouldn’t?
I shouldn’t think about Aldridge because ten out of ten doctors agree that stewing on emotionally stifling exes is terrible for your health.
I shouldn’t think about Sean because I’m still ashamed that I got so carried away.
I kissed the manto “protect” him!
Who does that?
I drop my hands and force my eyes to the field.
From my box, I have a panoramic view of the field.
The perfectly mown diamond, the fresh powder blue-and-maroon Mudflaps signage lining the outfield fence, and the fan zone I personally redesigned to include shaded picnic benches, a splash pad, and a mobile ice cream cart from a local shop.
The lonely old practice diamond in the distance that I know I should update but that changing just feels wrong.
No one uses it anymore, anyway. So it stands there, alone and useless, but strangely brave and … beautiful.
I’m proud of how much the fan and player experiences have improved. The employee experience is even worse off than the old practice diamond.
The clashing wallpaper, flickering fluorescent lighting, and worn out furniture makes the halls and offices look like they were swiped from a used car dealership.
I shudder.
Scottie comes in the suite at the exact right moment.
“Oh, good. Can you ask the contractor to start the office space now? I know I said I’d wait till after the season, but I can’t think in this lighting, and I doubt anyone else can, either.”
“Sure,” she says. She’s holding a manila envelope in one hand and her phone in the other. She looks … tense. “But before we talk details, I have news on that ordinance.”
I grimace, ice freezing my veins. “Bad news?”
“Oh yeah. It’s not on the public calendar yet, but Lacey over in business licensing told me there’s going to be a little surprise in the town council meeting next week.
” She sits in the worn leather chair next to me, holding a yellow manila envelope with a bright pink sticky note on it that reads, Property & Business Licensing: MR Ordinance 26. 11.4.
“Remember what Delia was talking about at the potluck?
Turns out she wasn't just running her mouth.
There's actually a residency requirement for business owners here—goes back to the eighties when outside investors gutted half of Main Street.
The Kowalski hardware store, Murphy's Auto Repair, all those family businesses that got bought out and abandoned.”
My stomach drops. “I don’t like where this is going.”
“The law requires local residency for any business owner who receives municipal benefits—tax breaks, public land leases, utility incentives. Your stadium lease puts you right in that category.”
“So I need to live here?”
“You had to apply for residency within ninety days of taking ownership. Sugar Maple doesn’t count.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me? Besides, plenty of business owners don't live where they work.”
“Not when they're leasing public land and getting taxpayer-funded infrastructure improvements.” She pulls out the official document. “Your lawyer probably isn’t used to selectively enforced municipal codes when he deals with overseas acquisitions.”
“Apparently.” I massage my temples. “So this is a real law that’s just been … sitting there?”
“Yup. It doesn’t come up a lot anymore because most business owners here are local anyway.
The few that have popped up have been one-offs.
A friend or cousin of someone somewhere in town.
But it sounds like people have been on high alert because a major corporate developer tried to move into Sugar Maple last year and take it over.
” Scottie adjusts her glasses. “The thing is, now that someone's brought it to the mayor's attention—and with all the publicity around your ownership—they pretty much have to enforce it or look like they're playing favorites.”
“And I’m no one’s favorite.” I close my eyes and let out a low, dark laugh as I move my face massage to pressure points on the inside of my eyebrows. “You don’t know my ex, but this has Aldridge's fingerprints all over it. Part of some master plan to get me crawling back to him."
But even as I say it, something nags at me.
The bitterness in Delia's voice at the potluck wasn't about Aldridge—it was about all those families she mentioned that got gutted by outside money. This town has been burned before, long before I broke Aldridge’s heart.
"He didn't create this law," I say slowly, the pieces clicking together.
"But I bet he found out about it. Probably had his lawyers research every possible way to squeeze me out.
" I lean back in my chair. "Maybe he’s not pulling the strings, but he positioned himself perfectly to catch me when I fall. "
I drop my hands and force my eyes back to the field, needing something normal to focus on.
Down on the pitcher’s mound, Logan Fischer is winding up, and when he throws, the ball has the strangest movement I’ve ever seen. The announcer says, “Fischer with a knuckleball. And it’s a strike!”
Applause bursts from the crowd, and Logan tips his cap toward the stands. I follow that movement all the way back to Serena’s row, where she and her Southern Living Barbie friends are tittering.
And Serena rules over them like a Queen Bee.
She’s married. She has a child. She cheated on the man she was supposed to love, and the town still handed her the crown and made her their queen.
And why? Because she’s local? Because she pulled herself up from the bottom …
and married into the right family? Because she brought deviled eggs with red pepper hearts?
In the game of life, Serena’s not just beating me. She’s playing by a different set of rules.
“Can you send a copy of the ordinance to my lawyer? There has to be some loophole.”
Her legs are folded, but the bottom one is bouncing restlessly. “Yeah, if you want to get married.”
My eyes flutter closed. “A spousal exemption?”
“That sounds like a smutty romance novel,” Scottie says, and I chuckle in spite of myself.
Logan strikes out another player, ending the inning, and as “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” starts playing over the speakers, I watch the fans stand and start singing.
And that’s when I spot a broad set of shoulders, a thick beard, and dark hair that looks like it’s been trimmed since yesterday.
“I’m heading down to the field. Thanks, Scottie.”
“You okay?”
“I’ll get back to you on that.” I give her a smile, and she nods and turns out of the suite. Then I grab my insulated water bottle—a sleek powder blue one today to match the team (and my chambray shirt)—and head out of the luxury box.
I make my way down the corner concourse toward the stadium seating. On the way, I see a mom struggling with a boy of around four or five. He’s throwing his body and screaming, and the muscles in her arms must be on fire for how she’s trying to keep him from smacking his head on the armrest.
I rush through a row to her.
“Are you both okay?” I ask, crouching down so I’m lower than them.
The mom looks like she’s about to cry. “He has sensory issues, and some cotton candy melted on his hand?—“