Page 28 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)

Now, hours later, sitting stiffly between Scottie and Gordon, I’m staring longingly at the trays of hors d'oeuvres being passed around.

But I can’t eat.

Even if it were just me and Aldridge, I wouldn’t be able to. And not just because he used to praise me for having the table manners of a princess.

(Direct quote.)

I never eat messy things. I don’t like food getting on my chin or running down my hands or falling on my plate. I cut my salad to make sure every bite fits perfectly in my mouth.

Aldridge wouldn’t poke fun of me for eating—he’s hurt and jealous, not truly evil—but there’s a vulnerability to eating in front of another person that I’ll never let myself feel in front of Aldridge again.

And for the tenth time today, I wish Sean would show up, holding a huge green smoothie that would fill me up and make me smile.

And then he’d sit next to me, cheer on the team, laugh with me, flirt with me.

He wouldn’t sit like some polished accessory, making polite small talk with people he thought could help his career.

He would be here with me. For me.

The thought makes me smile.

And it makes my hands shake a little, too.

I press them against my thighs, realizing they’re trembling from more than nerves.

I’m absolutely starving.

When Aldridge leans in to dominate another conversation with Gordon, I seize the chance—grabbing a sad-looking protein bar from a basket on the bar and slipping out into a quiet corner of the hallway.

I tear the wrapper open like I need it to breathe and take a huge bite, chewing almost nervously.

The scent of real food—hot dogs and kettle corn and sliders—drifts up from the concession levels, and I close my eyes just for a second, wishing it didn’t smell so good. Wishing I had the courage to eat it.

Wishing I had someone to eat it with.

I fish out my phone and text Sean without thinking:

KAYLA

What’s your favorite food?

The dots pop up almost immediately. I only wait maybe fifteen seconds for a response.

SEAN

Barbecue. Ribs, brisket, pulled pork, you name it.

I smile into my protein bar.

KAYLA

Nashville’s famous for barbecue, you know.

You should come try some.

He doesn’t answer right away.

I stare at the screen like an idiot, willing the three little dots to appear.

Finally:

SEAN

If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were asking me out to dinner.

KAYLA

Come and find out.

SEAN

Maybe I will.

It’s not a promise. Not even close.

But I can’t help hoping anyway.

Another buzz:

SEAN

I saw a “My Wife is a Boss” bumper sticker today. Thought about buying it for my truck.

I laugh out loud, the tension in my chest easing.

KAYLA

I dare you.

I double-dog dare you.

SEAN

Careful, Boss. I never back down from a dare.

KAYLA

Captain, did you mean to hand me the keys to the kingdom? I’m gonna start daring you to do all manner of mischief.

SEAN

As long as it’s with you, I’m game.

The warmth in that text wraps around me like a blanket.

I sit there in the quiet hall for another second, finishing the last bite of my protein bar, my thumb hovering over the text screen.

Before I can stop myself, I start typing.

Kayla

Can I tell you something silly? I keep looking behind me in case you’re going to appear.

Being with Aldridge the last couple of days has made me realize how sad and scared I was for so long.

I spent so much time trying to fit into his life like it was a dress two sizes too small.

But you make me want to expand to fill the space you’ve made for me.

Is it weird if I’m starting to feel more married to you than I ever felt engaged to Aldridge?

I stare at the words, my heart pounding.

It’s too much.

Too raw.

Waaaay too soon.

I breathe out, thumb trembling slightly, and hit delete, one letter at a time.

Instead, I type:

KAYLA

You’re the best, Captain. Can’t wait to see you when I see you.

I send it quickly, before I can think too hard.

Or hope too hard.

And then I tuck the phone into my pocket, pull my shoulders back, and step into the Owner’s Suite.

The game’s over, and Sean never showed up.

Mullet Ridge to Nashville is a little over seven hours away, and it’s been close to eight. I force myself not to be too disappointed, not to feel rejected. He didn’t actually say he was coming, I just hoped. He didn’t make me any promises.

He didn’t know I meant every word.

And even if he did, I don’t get to expect the same from him.

To add insult to injury, the Outlaws won in extra innings, and Aldridge is gloating so hard, I think I’m going to be sick (also from hunger).

I escape the VIP Suite with a quick goodbye to Gordon and a wave to Scottie and then make my way down the private owner’s elevator to the stadium’s field level—a corridor of brushed steel and concrete that smells like turf, sweat, and popcorn.

The team is already coming from the field through the tunnel, a mix of dejection and guys trying to rally.

“So we lost,” Logan Fischer is saying. “There’s still tomorrow. We got this.”

Fletch glares at Logan like his optimism is deeply offensive. In fact, he looks like he wants to throw his hat in Logan’s face for having the nerve to be positive.

“Coach,” I say when Fletch gets close. “You got a second?”

“Sure, Owner,” he says.

My eyes widen. “Did you intend for it to come out like that?”

I don’t know if my question flustered him or if his attitude did. “No, sorry. I hate losing on errors.”

“Unlike other losses, which you adore.”

“Fine. I hate losing,” he says. He takes off his hat and runs a hand through his messy dark blond hair.

Even after having kept a cap on it all day, the second it sees freedom, it reaches for it.

I study his face for a minute. He’s got that controlled-tension look, all long limbs and sharp lines.

There’s something about the way he stands, too.

Braced. Like he’s always waiting for the next hit.

And the way he wears isolation like a uniform.

I bet he was the kind of guy who was always too driven for relationships—MLB or bust—and when it busted, I wonder where that left him.

Well, I know where that left him: as an interim head coach in Mullet Ridge, South Carolina.

Alone.

“What did you want to talk about?” Fletch asks.

“Fan interaction. We had a small contingent here at the game, and I was hoping you and the team could talk to them afterwards, before you get on the bus for the hotel.”

He could not look more put out. “We’re not here to make friends. We’re here to win.”

“No. That isn’t how it works.”

“All due respect—only one of us knows baseball.”

“And only one of us pays your checks. Fletch, I’m not asking you to strap on a hat-cam and do choreographed dances for TikTok. I’m asking you to interact with the fans.”

“You want the team to, you mean.”

“You, too.”

“I’m the coach. I’m here for them.”

“Are you? Or are you here because you’re too angry to be anywhere else?”

I went too far with that question. I can feel it as soon as it’s out.

Shoot. What if he gets offended and quits? I really need him not to quit. He’s the interim coach for a reason: no one else would take the job.

I’m about to apologize when he snorts.

“Maybe.”

But then he gives me a shrewd look. The rest of the team has gone into the locker room, leaving just the two of us. “But aren’t you in the same position? You may not be here because you’re angry, but Mullet Ridge is no one’s end game.”

Three weeks ago, I would have enthusiastically agreed. But three weeks ago, I hadn’t seen Sean again. I hadn’t found someone to help me navigate the nuances of a different kind of South than I grew up in. I hadn’t discovered the power in having a teammate.

A teammate whose jersey looks so flipping good on me.

“That’s a pretty broad stroke you’re painting, Fletch.”

“Prove me wrong.”

“I could be anywhere else. I’m choosing it.

Sean’s choosing it. His brother, Patty—you know, famous rockstar Patrick O’Shannan—he’s choosing it.

I get Mullet Ridge has an image problem.

Leaning into the mullets probably isn’t helping it.

But you have to stop acting like someone forced you to be here.

Life gave you some hard knocks. But you chose where to get back up.

You need to stop punishing everyone for that choice. ”

Fletch’s frosty blue eyes go wide. “Wow. When you put it that way, I sound like a jerk.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You sort of did.”

“Yes, but only sort of. ” I smile. “You’re a good guy, Fletch. You’re out there every day giving the guys what they need. I see how early you get to the field. How late you stay. You’re committed, and that speaks volumes about you as a person.”

Fletch takes off his hat again, scratching his head before replacing it. “Thanks.”

“Does that mean you’ll talk to fans?”

“No. But I’ll tell the boys to.”

“That’ll do. For now.”

I walk with him toward the locker room. I won’t go all the way in—men’s locker rooms aren’t my scene—but we can catch up for a minute, at least.

“How’s your brother doing?”

“Happily making wedding plans.”

“Are you going to bring a date?”

Fletch gives a sharp shake of his head. “And we’re done. Good chat, Owner.”

I snort. “See ya tomorrow, Coach.”

Fletch is nearly through the locker room doors when he stops and turns, his hand on the frame.

“You know, you don’t actually have to come to tomorrow’s game, right?”

The words hit like a fastball to the chest. After the way today’s gone—and with Sean not showing up—it feels like another door quietly closing.

“Do you not want me here?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from sounding as small as I feel.

Fletch’s eyes close like having to talk about feelings physically hurts him. “That’s not what I mean. I just think someone else might want the time more.” He tips his chin past me. “Hey, man.”

I spin, and time folds in on itself.

It’s Sean.

Standing in the tunnel, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, beard a little scruffier than usual, eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing in his orbit.

“Hey, Boss,” he says, taking me in appreciatively. “You look even better in person.”

I run—no hesitation, no filter, no pretense.

I launch myself into his arms, and he catches me effortlessly. I wrap my legs around his waist, and his arms lock around me, solid and unshakable. He smells like the leather and pine of his truck, as well as a hint of exhaust—like the long road he drove to get to me.

I bury my face against his neck, breathing him in like I’ve been starving for air, and he holds me tighter, like he's making sure I'm real.

And then, with his scent in my lungs, my hunger sharpens—so sudden and intense, it’s unbearable.

And I kiss him. Desperately. Like I haven’t eaten, haven’t breathed since the second we said goodbye. Like his mouth is the only thing that can revive me.

He kisses me back with a soft, broken sound in his throat, one hand cradling the back of my head.

And somewhere in the middle of it, we both start laughing—quiet, shaky, relieved—as if the only thing bigger than our hunger is our gratitude.

“I can’t believe you came,” I whisper into his mouth.

“I can’t believe there was ever any doubt.”