Page 3 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)

He gives me an even sweeter smile, like he alone understands the pain I’m experiencing. Except, the only pain I’m actually experiencing is this insufferably condescending video call.

“Kayla,” he repeats. “You look like you’re holed up in a bunker in Chernobyl. You can’t even afford a real office.”

“My net worth would suggest otherwise,” I say with an even more demure smile, because I won’t allow either of these men to pretend I’m somehow hysterical simply because they haven’t reached their mansplaining quota yet for the morning.

“Touché,” he says. “But the team can’t afford it.

You’re too good a businesswoman to sink tens of millions of your family’s hard earned money into a failing venture when partnering with another team could help.

This isn’t a big ask. A few press appearances and interviews.

That’s all! It’ll sell tickets, and it’ll help your team.

Your players are finally winning. Don’t they deserve to win in front of an actual crowd? ”

The Mullet Ridge Ballpark seats 10,200 people.

Yesterday’s attendance was 1399.

Something tells me the Outlaws’ attendance was substantially higher.

Still …

“I’m not interested,” I say. “I’d rather us get there organically.”

“This isn’t a farm, Ms. Carville, so cut the organic crap,” Gordon says, his mustache quivering. “You signed a promo clause when you bought the ‘Flaps. Minor League teams aren’t just about player development, they’re about building a strong community. And nothing builds community like competition.”

“If I can find another?—“

“No,” he cuts me off. “Mullet Ridge isn’t accepting you. If we don’t see this town come around by August, we’ll force a sale to another buyer. You’re doing the promo, Miss Carville.”

I look at these small men on the screen, at Gordon’s thinly veiled annoyance and Aldridge’s naked concern.

I hate admitting this, but things are exactly as dire as Gordon is saying. No amount of immersing myself in baseball or acquiring the best players in the system can change that. It’s mid-May, and the team has their first winning record in years. We don’t have a winning problem.

We have a me problem.

The town would rally around a different owner with this team.

I wish I could take a break. Call my dad. Ask him to walk me through what I should do. He’s been my boss since I graduated, and his business savvy is unrivaled.

But he always quietly hated Aldridge. My biggest complaint with my dad is how quiet he was about it, respecting me too much to tell me how much he disliked him until I finally broke up with him.

My family has always thought I’m more put-together than I am, even when I’ve proven otherwise.

“When do you need an answer?” I ask Gordon.

“We don’t need an answer. We need an agreement. This is your only option.”

If the power of my rage could make men spontaneously combust, this Zoom call would get a lot more exciting.

“In that case, gentlemen, have your assistants reach out to my assistant.” I give them the full smile I’m practically famous for. “Thanks for your time.”

And I end the call.

I allow myself exactly four counts to breathe in, nine counts to breathe out, and then I turn in my chair to look at Scottie.

Her eyes are wide, and her fingers are hovering over her laptop.

“That’s your ex?”

“It is.”

“Is corporate-stalking a thing?”

I laugh, relieved my new assistant has a sense of humor.

“I think it must be. He invented it.”

Scottie’s lips stretch in a grimace. “Are you okay?”

I like her even more. “Thanks for asking. I’ll take a raincheck on answering, if that’s okay. Let’s wait and see what those two have planned.”

“Fair.” She closes her laptop and stands up, running her free hand over her skirt to smooth out the wrinkles from sitting. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you. But I appreciate it, Scottie.”

She smiles and leaves the office.

A few minutes of head-banging-against-the-desk later, I grab my sunglasses, my camel-colored stainless steel water bottle (which matches today’s outfit), and leave the office.

I pass the framed, sun-faded photos of old Mudflaps teams lining the hallway walls, with hairstyles and jerseys from a half-dozen different eras.

The carpet is the same rust brown as my office, fraying at the corners where cleats have ground it down over the years.

The narrow stairwell smells faintly of mildew, concession stand popcorn, and a hint of grass from the field.

At least the field is nice now. The player and fan experiences are first rate. The outfield is lush and green, practically begging to be slid across. It’s the only place in this stadium that looks like it has a future instead of a past.

The sun is painfully bright after being holed up in my abandoned-warehouse-slash-Chernobyl-bunker of an office.

I spot Oliver Fletcher, our interim coach.

He was the hitting coach last year, and considering I’ve had terrible luck finding a quality head coach who can handle talking to a woman owner, I gave Fletch the spot for the time being.

He played a single game in the major leagues and got a career-ending injury in that very same game.

To say he has a chip on his shoulder is putting it mildly.

He’s standing with his arms braced along the chain link fence, watching batting practice when I near him, his back rounded, like the weight of every bad hit rests directly between his shoulder blades.

He gives me a nod. He’s handsome and taller than me, which I love, but he’s grumpy in the way that only failed ambition and stubborn pride can make someone—jagged and sharp-edged yet channeling that kind of endearing old-man vibe that makes him almost likable.

He’s already a favorite with the single women in town. But he’s a little too … disheveled for my taste.

Not that I want someone as polished as a gemstone (*cough* Aldridge *cough*). But a nice middle ground would be nice.

“How are things going?” I ask him, leaning my arms over the railing like this is a thing I’ve done hundreds of times instead of twice.

“Good. The team’s coming together,” he says, though he barks at the batter to do something different with his stride that means nothing to me. “Is that all you needed?”

I exhale slowly. This guy is saltier than Morton’s. “I don’t know. I just spoke with someone from the league, and they’ve informed me that I’m going to be teaming up with the new owner of the Outlaws for PR.”

“An owner doing PR with a rival team owner? Why?”

“It’s my ex-fiancé.”

“Oh.”

“I broke things off a week before the wedding, and he isn’t taking it well.”

“Ah.”

“And I don’t really want to do it.”

“Don’t do it. It sounds idiotic.”

“He said if I don’t, the league will force a sale to the new owner.”

“Do it.”

I screw my face up, my lips puffing out in something that’s neither pout nor grimace. “I have to, don’t I?”

“Only if you still want to own the team.”

I snort and push myself to a stand. “Thanks for the talk, Fletch.”

He nods. “Anytime, Carville.”