Page 20 of Fair Trade (New York Monarchs #2)

seventeen

She’s fucking stunning.

And she’s everything I’ll never be.

Petite. Blond. And rail thin.

Fashion designer Marie Jensen hangs on to the crook of Nick’s arm as if a gust of wind will blow her into oblivion. Her short red dress seems a bit out of place for the charity gala they’re attending.

The adoring puppy dog eyes she aims in his direction are also a bit much, if you ask me.

It’s stupid, really. I should be used to this by now. It’s been over a month since Nick informed me that he would be seen in public with a date on his arm. I guess my silly brain didn’t anticipate that he’d go out so often.

Marie is woman number twelve. Not that I’m keeping count or anything.

I zoom in on the latest paparazzi shots, trying to see if his face shows any sign of having a good time. But like in every other photo, Nick’s face looks stoic and closed off.

Unlike the cheeky bastard I know him to be.

“Is it part of your job to stalk your boss, or is that something you like to do in your spare time?” my mother asks as she swats me with a tea towel on her way to the stove.

“I wasn’t stalking. Just making sure he wasn’t doing anything that might reflect poorly on the Monarchs,” I respond, a bit too quickly.

“Ha. You think I was born yesterday?” She places a hand on her hip as she stirs the carne guisada on the stove.

“Who was born yesterday, Clarissa?” Tía Gloria asks.

My mother points her lips in my direction. “Esta. Looking at photos of her boss like it’s her homework.”

“Are we talking about that papi chulo billionaire Luisa refuses to introduce us to?” Tía Marisol chimes in, topping off her sister’s wine.

I point my finger in their direction. “And that is one of the many reasons I never will. Papi chulo? Really?”

Tía Gloria chuckles to herself. “Luisa, we may be married and a touch too old for that man, but we still have eyes, you know.”

I mouth exaggeratedly, “A touch.”

They start to cackle among themselves as I shake my head. “You three are like the Dominican Sanderson sisters. But instead of cauldrons and spells, you have calderos and chisme.” I walk away, leaving them in a fit of laughter.

I fight off a smirk, because as outrageous as they can be when they’re together, I wouldn’t take a minute of their teasing for granted.

For a while—when my mother was in the pits of her depression—the magic between the three of them was gone, but they never gave up on her.

It makes me a little sad that I’ll never have a sibling to share moments like that with, but I never fester on the thought, not wanting to give the very reason my mother struggled so much with her mental health another ounce of my energy.

Instead, I walk into the living room and take in the expected sight.

My father, along with my two uncles, playing dominoes.

My father catches my eye and raises his glass of Brugal rum in my direction. “Mija! Get over here. We need a fourth. Playing these two pendejos gets old after a while.” My dad winks as he takes a sip of his drink.

“Pendeja tu madre,” Tío Marcos says as he mocks a backhanded slap to my father.

“?Que en paz descanse!” the women in the kitchen shout.

“Can we stop talking about people’s deceased mothers and focus on the game?” I tease as I slide into the empty seat.

“As long as you don’t cheat,” Tío Ernesto grumbles.

“My daughter and I never cheat. You’re just a sore loser,” my dad defends.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s pretty clear you guys have the winning genes. No need to rub it in,” Tío Marcos groans.

My father and I share a secret smile as he smacks the dominoes on the table. My uncles make a show of shuffling the pieces around the table before we quickly make a grab for the tiles we’ll line in front of ourselves.

My father lifts the bottle of rum in offering, and I shake my head, opting for the bottle of Presidente beer my Tío Ernesto offers.

The bottle is vestida de novia. Which means the beer is so cold, there is a layer of ice around the bottle.

It makes it look white. Therefore, resembling a bride dressed in white.

This is the proper way to drink a Dominican beer, and I love how my family keeps up with traditions even though they are so far from home.

“All right, tell us. Is that Stonehaven guy behaving himself, or do we need to pay him a visit?” Tío Marcos asks while cracking his knuckles.

I give him a dubious look. “You’re a part of the little league staff at your grandson’s school, not the mob. What are you going to threaten him with, a plastic bat?”

“That’s pee-wee baseball. C’mon, Luisa. You should know the difference,” he teases.

“I don’t know,” Tío Ernesto chimes in. “Something tells me you shouldn’t trust the guy. He comes out of nowhere and has all that money.” He shakes his head once. “Something ain’t right.”

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I find myself feeling the need to defend Nick. “He’s harmless.” I shrug, aiming for nonchalance.

When three pairs of eyes stare back at me expectantly, I continue.

“Seriously. I mean, yeah, he’s playing catch-up when it comes to learning about the sport, but he has the business acumen to get things done.

And sure, maybe he could ditch the suit every once in a while and spend more time with the players, but he is busy balancing being the owner of a brand-new baseball team with running his own media conglomerate-corporation thingy.

I’m sure it doesn’t leave much space on the calendar for free time. Unless you count all those dates he’s—”

Why am I still talking?

“I don’t know. But it seems to me like you’ve got plenty to say about the man,” my dad says with a raised brow.

“I said that part out loud too, didn’t I?” I stare down at my dominoes as if they hold all of life’s answers.

“Uh-huh,” my uncles reply in unison.

“Cuidado mija. That’s all I’m going to say.

” I open my mouth to tell my dad there’s nothing to worry about, but he continues.

“I know you’re more than capable of holding your own.

Trust me, I know. I raised you that way.

And sometimes it even bites me in the ass.

” I roll my eyes as he smiles softly. “But be careful. That man is powerful, and I’d hate for him to take advantage of you in any way.

Especially after you worked so hard to get to where you are. ”

I sigh deeply. “You don’t have to worry. We only communicate unless we absolutely have to. It’s all strictly business. I promise.”

We all focus back on the game, and I try to ignore the biggest lie I’ve ever fed my father.

I’m tucked in bed, watching The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City on my laptop, when an email notification pops up.

Like clockwork.

Ever since Nick started having these public dates, he’s been emailing me stupid little debriefs.

And I hate how I’ve become dependent on them.

The last sentence before he signs off is always something along those lines.

She was less entertaining than watching paint dry.

Watching her walk in heels was similar to witnessing a baby giraffe’s first steps.

I swear this one tried to steal my wallet.

That last one was my favorite.

Until this current email.

He usually sticks to pointing out silly flaws in his dates. But this last line is the first time he specifically mentions me.

And the emails aren’t only coming after his dates.

Nope. Because Nicholas doesn’t do anything on a small scale.

The barrage of emails are endless ramblings of a man who seriously needs a group chat to pester. But instead, he’s got me.

So far, I’ve learned that he has trouble sleeping since he is managing businesses in two time zones, he has regular Sunday dinners with Daisy in which he cooks, and he’s a big baby when he gets a cold.

The rest of the information is nonsensical, yet I’ve stored every detail away in a tiny box in my brain.

Try as I might to ignore him, I find myself responding to each and every one of his musings and even giving him unimportant details of my life.

I love to cook but don’t bother, since my mother never taught me to cook portion sizes for less than six people, even though we were a family of three.

I think I want to get a pet at some point but would need my parents to watch it when I’m on the road with the team.

And I prefer heels over flats unless I’m on my period.

Then it’s my black running sneakers for comfort and to match my mood.

I still cringe at that last one. I sent it after having two glasses of wine while I was on my period a few weeks ago. I’m grateful that he has never brought it up.

When he started sending me these date debriefs, my go-to response was something like “I don’t care.” Or the more savvy “Don’t you have a woman in your bed waiting to fake an orgasm?”

He responded to that last one with an attachment.

A photo of a massive bed that I can only assume is his. It had a cushioned leather headboard and expensive-looking sheets. Yet what immediately caught my attention was the massive Bernese Mountain dog in the middle of his bed. The email stated, “The only one allowed to warm my bed.”

And that’s when I learned that Nick had a dog. A gorgeous, goofy-faced furball. The kind of dog you can spoon while rubbing their belly.

Not exactly the hounds of hell I would have picked for a man like Nick, but again, he seems to be full of surprises.

But I’m not na?ve. Because even if he isn’t sleeping with all his dates, it doesn’t mean that he’s not sleeping with someone else.

A man like that wouldn’t know the first thing about celibacy.

Not that it matters. Because as much as I feel this push and pull between Nick and me, nothing will ever come of it.

He is my boss.

I am the first female general manager in Major League Baseball. I have little girls who look up to me and more than a few grown men waiting to see me fail.

I refuse to become a cliché.

A woman who made it to the top, only to have the validity of her accomplishments questioned because she’s now sleeping with a powerful man.

Not sleeping. Slept.

Past tense.