Page 27 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
KAYLA
I wake up in an impossibly soft bed in a hotel room that smells faintly of bergamot and “success,” a combination I’ve smelled enough times that it shouldn’t make me feel so out of place. Nor should the monochrome art and neutral palette. This room is like an echo of the world I ran from.
And that’s the problem.
I left it.
I ran toward something different, something rustic yet vibrant. Something teeming with life and mess and possibility.
And yet, here I am.
It’s a hotel for a work trip . Go easy on yourself.
That’s right. I’m not back. I’m here on business.
Because I’m the boss.
I pin up my hair and shower, and then I freshen up my wavy auburn hair with some curly-girl products Ash got me hooked on.
After my hair is goddess-level big, I slide into one of the same boring gray pantsuits I’ve worn a thousand times before: sharp lines, immaculate tailoring, buttery soft, but with no personality. No heart.
I’m about to close the closet door when I spot Sean’s jersey hanging next to tomorrow’s outfit …
One quick change later, and his name is on my back. I slip into the leggings I’d planned to wear on the plane home and admire myself in the mirror.
Perfect.
I snap a picture and send it to Sean.
KAYLA
Morning, Captain! What do you think of today’s game day outfit?
SEAN
I think my morning just got a lot better seeing that.
Or worse, depending on your perspective.
KAYLA
Worse??
SEAN
You can’t know what it does to a guy seeing his girl wearing his jersey.
KAYLA
“A guy.”
“His girl.”
SEAN
Hypothetically, I mean. You looking that hot with my name across your back doesn’t cause me physical pain, or anything.
KAYLA
Clearly not.
SEAN
Off topic, where might a gorgeous redhead be wearing my jersey today?
KAYLA
Do you mean other than the VIP Suite at the Outlaws’ stadium, surrounded by Aldridge and league rep sycophants?
SEAN
No, I pretty much mean that.
I laugh at the phone, and suddenly, I’m gripped with a desire to ask him to come out, to send him a plane ticket or, heck, a plane. To tease him that this is our honeymoon …
But what if he’s just being playful? If this is all just fun and games and he suddenly thinks I’m too pushy, he’ll have to apologize, say he was just being friendly, that he thought we both knew what we were getting into, and I’ll be left feeling like an idiot. For the next year .
No, it’s easier to tease and flirt and let him interpret it as he will.
KAYLA
Haha! I love how funny you are.
SEAN
Well, I don’t love thinking of you being stuck with your ex all day.
KAYLA
It’s okay. I’m tough. Plus, your name is surprisingly effective armor.
SEAN
It should be me keeping you safe, not my name.
KAYLA
If only you knew where to find me…
SEAN
Don’t tempt me, Boss.
I hesitate, biting my lip at the text thread.
And before I can talk myself out of it, I send him another selfie, this one with a kissing face.
KAYLA
I’ll be waiting.
I don’t walk into the Outlaws’ stadium with Scottie after breakfast.
I waltz.
“Your boy put some pep in your step this morning, didn’t he?” Scottie says, nudging me as we pass under a massive steel arch that reads Home of the Outlaws.
If a squeal could take form, one is blooming in my chest. “He is so cute , Scottie.”
“He’s almost six-four and looks like a grizzly bear,” Scottie says. “Cute might not be the word I’d use.”
In sleek black jeans, boots, and a black blazer so sharp it could slice air, Scottie sips her venti latte with a knowing side-eye. The girl doesn’t drink nearly enough water. I make a mental note to buy her a tumbler—preferably a giant pink cheetah print one she’ll pretend to hate.
“That’s because you have a secret thing for blond pitchers with mullets.”
“I have no such thing for any such guy,” she says flatly.
It’s probably weird that I’m rooting for Lucas to win her over, but I absolutely am. I’m friends with his sister, Liesel, who works for an MLB team and gave me some advice last year when I crashed winter meetings. So I already feel a sisterly affection for him.
Also—and this isn’t my proudest confession—Lucas’s social media presence is the strongest on the team. Speaking of which …
“Hey, didn’t you have some merchandise you needed signed?” I say, tilting my head toward the players’ tunnel. “Why don’t we do that now instead of after the game? The guys are still warming up, and it’ll be quieter.”
“And if you just so happen to avoid spending more time with your ex, even better, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll grab the merch.”
We duck into a service hallway leading to the dugouts. Some of the players are hanging out in warm-up jerseys, including Lucas, who’s standing half in, half out of the dugout—a Mudflaps baseball cap backwards on his head, looking like trouble with a capital T.
“Scottie Quinn! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Lucas says, trotting over for a hug.
She could not look less interested.
“You’re sweaty and not my type, Lucas. Keep walking. Oh, but sign some jerseys and hats first.”
“Turn around and I’ll use your back as my table,” he says with a grin.
“Did Logan steal all the oxygen in the womb? No.”
“I’m going to win you over eventually,” Lucas says as he scrawls his name.
Scottie huffs and shoots me a “Seriously? This guy?” look.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot movement—Aldridge, walking with Ronnie and yesterday’s photographer, giving them a tour like he’s some benevolent king surveying his domain.
Ronnie eyes me and my jersey.
“I think you’re wearing the wrong team,” she says with a laugh.
I paste on a smile and grab one of the hats Lucas just signed, stuffing it over my curls. “No, I didn’t. I’m supporting my husband and my team. I’m efficient like that.”
Aldridge’s mouth tips into a smirk. “Kayla has a soft spot for lovable losers,” he tells Ronnie.
She winces. I’m not sure if she’s worried about a PR nightmare or if Aldridge’s comment was as gross to her as it was to me.
But then she claps her hands, like inspiration has just struck. “Let’s pivot. What if we do a ‘Who’s winning the breakup?’ angle today? Aldridge in his office—busy, successful. Kayla in the VIP Suite—strong, independent. Very organic. Very real.”
I stifle a groan.
“Let’s capture big emotions,” Ronnie is saying to the photographer. “We want longing. Triumph. Regret. All that good stuff.”
Aldridge chuckles under his breath, low and smug, like he’s already imagining the headlines.
I want to kick him in the shin. Or maybe the throat. Either would work.
But more than that, I don’t want to get sucked back into worrying about image and perception at the cost of everything that’s real.
I pull out my phone and text Sean.
KAYLA
Wish you were here. Miss you.
I wait a full minute.
Nothing.
Not even the little dots.
I sigh and look out at the field, trying to ignore Aldridge when he jokes about "needing someone who could keep up with the pace of success" and pretends he’s talking to the rep, not me.
On the field, Fletch barks out commands to a couple of rookies, his voice carrying even up here. One kid—barely old enough to vote—asks for an autograph, and Fletch waves him off like he doesn’t even hear.
I glance back down at my phone.
Still nothing.
Disappointment coils in my stomach.
He’s probably busy. He could be training today or visiting his parents before the bar opens. Heck, maybe he’s even helping out there.
I’m not so delusional as to believe the man I married out of convenience really did hop in his truck and drive all the way here, but I am hopeful enough to wish that he were at least waiting by his phone to text me.
Be cool, Kayla, I tell myself. You don’t want to seem overeag ? —
The screen lights up, and I stop everything else to read Sean’s text.
SEAN
Miss you too, Boss. More than I probably should.
I feel like someone has opened the blinds in a dark room. I glance down at the phone, trying (and failing) not to grin.
Click.
“Perfect,” Ronnie says, clapping her hands once. “That’s the shot.”
An hour later, we’re in the Owner’s Box.
Ronnie and the photographer keep working, occasionally asking Aldridge or me questions, snapping candid photos like we’re exhibits at a museum.
Aldridge has invited some prominent Nashville musicians and business people to the game today, which I would’ve thought meant he’d be too busy schmoozing VIPs to pay attention to me.
But no.
He’s always been efficient, too.
He manages to work the room and my nerves at the same time, with equal skill—lobbing little digs at me every chance he gets.
Comments about the “downgrade” I made.
The “hobby” I’m running back in Mullet Ridge.
The “bold choice” of marrying into obscurity.
Worse still, Gordon Voss—the VP of Minor League Affiliations, and the architect of this absurd "lovers to rivals" PR push—is also here.
Which means I have no choice but to play nice.
Smile. Nod. Pretend Aldridge’s passive-aggressive comments bounce off me instead of pricking like mosquitoes.
“You know, she’s struggled with mental health in the past,” Aldridge whispers to Gordon, as if I’m not three feet away. “So I was always afraid of something like this happening.”
A cold shudder runs down my spine.
Scottie’s eyes flash like flint striking steel. She looks ready to commit murder.
“It’s not worth it,” I murmur, placing a calming hand on her arm.
“He won’t be worth anything if I get my hands on him,” she growls, her voice low and fierce. Then, quieter, she says, “I wish Sean were here to hear him. I can’t imagine him letting anyone talk about his wife like that.”
She calls me his wife like it’s a reality as fixed as my own name.
She’s one of the only people who knows the truth—just her, his parents, and his brother, as far as I’m aware.
Yet she acts like every word we said at that altar was real.
It’s enough to make me want to believe it, too.
By the third inning, hunger gnaws away at my stomach, a hollow reminder that all I had this morning was an artisanal hard-boiled egg.