Page 3 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

It takes close to three and a half hours to drive to Trace’s gated property located outside the Dallas metropolitan area. My stomach complains for lunch, but I ignore it, knowing I’ll find something good to eat in Trace’s fridge—his nutritionist always leaves the best meals in there.

I pull up to the keypad for the gate and lean out of my window to input the code. It beeps, but instead of flashing green and opening the gate, the light flashes red. I try the code again, thinking maybe I fat-fingered a button, but the same red light flashes, denying my entry.

I input the code one more time as I call Trace, but the red light blinks at me again as Trace answers. “Did you change your gate code?” I ask without preamble.

“Oh, yeah.” Trace sounds distracted as he rattles off the new code I promptly commit to memory.

“Thanks, I’ll see you in a sec.” I click off the call and enter the new code, the green light finally welcoming me to Trace’s home. As I pull around the long driveway, I see the reason for Trace’s distraction on the phone call .

Duke Pryor’s gunmetal gray Jaguar is parked in front of the garage.

I pull my very-much-not-a-Jag next to the beautiful car and begin to unload my bags.

When I open the door, Duke’s voice echoes through the house, followed by a sharp reply from Trace, which puts me on alert. I drop my bags in the middle of the entryway and follow the voices deeper into the house until I find the two men arguing in the kitchen.

“What do you want me to do about it, Duke?” Trace’s back is to me as I walk in, but Duke sees me over Trace’s shoulder. His eyes light up, and his furrowed forehead smooths out as he smiles the kind of smile I don’t like.

Duke Pryor is one of the best sports agents out there.

Half of the time, I wish he were my agent.

He fights for Trace’s contracts like an overprotective big brother and is usually a pleasant guy to be around, especially if he’s with his wife.

The other half of the time, he looks at me like I’m a pawn in a chess match, and it’s that expression that dawns on his face as I step into the kitchen.

“Naomi, maybe you can get Trace to see things my way.”

I ignore Duke, moving around him to reach the fridge.

I open the door and find it empty of pre-made meals.

While it would be easy to call and order a pizza for delivery, my season starts tomorrow, and I need to be dialing in my nutrition.

With a sigh, I pull out a package of chicken and bag of fresh bell peppers and stick my head into the butler’s pantry to find an onion.

“You’re going to have to elaborate if you want me to pick sides,” I tell Duke as I set the ingredients on the counter and dive into a low cupboard to find my needed cooking implements.

I stand, a frying pan in my hands, in time to see a loaded look pass between Trace and Duke.

Setting the pan on the large island, I place my hands on either side of it and lean on them, my gaze boring into Trace.

The way he’s hesitating—and the fact that Duke is here on a Saturday after a mysterious call earlier in the week—makes me think the two events are related.

“Spill,” I say to the room at large before turning and grabbing a knife and cutting board and going to town dicing the chicken and vegetables. It only takes a few moments before Duke pulls out one of the stools at the island and makes himself comfortable.

“You remember Millie Irving, don’t you?”

I nod. Of course I remember Millie Irving.

How could I forget the woman who dated Trace off and on in college?

The same woman Trace started dating again about a year ago after they got back in touch after several years apart?

I don’t know all the sordid details about their breakup back in February, but I remember it.

I haven’t heard from her since then. Haven’t seen her, either.

“Well, Millie showed up to my downtown office on Monday.”

“Why would she do that?” I ask, moving to heat oil in the frying pan.

“She told me”—I see Duke’s glare at Trace from the corner of my eye—“that Trace wasn’t responding to any of her messages, and she couldn’t get a hold of him.”

I glance at Trace but address Duke. “Was Trace responding to her messages before Monday?”

It’s impossible to miss Trace’s wince.

“Trace!” I shout, my conversation with Duke forgotten for the time being. “We talked about this!” I throw the vegetables into the pan, the sizzle hitting loudly like it’s a scripted effect.

“Naomi!” Trace interjects, whatever Duke was going to say next forgotten. “I wasn’t talking to her. Okay, well, I was talking to her, but not like that! She would message me, and I’d tell her to stop. She would call, and I would answer and politely end the call. ”

I look up from the sautéing vegetables to see a look on Trace’s face that’s so earnest, I know he’s telling the truth.

When he and Millie dated in college, it was always her who wanted the “break.” And after a few weeks of separation, Trace would always take her back.

I was more than relieved—for Trace’s sake—when they parted ways before graduation.

But I was also willing to give her the benefit of the doubt years later when they started dating again.

A lot can change a person in four years.

But this last breakup was different. Trace called things off. Trace put his foot down.

I give the peppers and onions a stir before covering the pan with a lid.

Turning away from the stove, I prop my hip on the edge of the counter and face Trace and Duke as I cross my arms. I look between the two of them.

Trace looks a little sheepish, and Duke looks like the wolf who’s going to eat him.

“So what was different about Monday?”

Duke opens his mouth, but Trace cuts him off. “I finally blocked her.”

I blink. And then a smile spreads on my face, and I step forward, extending my hand. “Yeah, buddy! I’m so proud of you!”

Trace smacks my hand, his sheepish expression morphing into one of relief, a content smile sliding over his lips. I have been trying to get Trace to block Millie since February. I don’t know what instigated the sudden change, but I’m proud of him for finally putting up that boundary.

Duke clears his throat. “And?”

Trace glances at Duke, and his shoulders slump a little. I take a step back, waiting to hear the rest of the story. Because, of course, that couldn’t be the end of it where Millie Irving is concerned.

When Trace doesn’t immediately offer up the information, Duke jumps in.

“Millie showed up at minicamp on Wednesday. Somehow, she got into the facility and tried entering the team locker room. Luckily, she was prevented from entering and escorted off the premises by security, but no one knows how she got into the facility in the first place.” Duke looks at Trace.

“I already told you,” Trace shoots at Duke, the heat from their earlier conversation returning in an instant, “I didn’t let her in. I don’t know who let her in. She showed up, I saw her, and I told her to go home.”

I turn back to the stove, dumping the chicken and spices in with the vegetables while Trace and Duke pick up from where they left off when I arrived. I listen to their conversation while I sauté the chicken.

“We’ve got to do something about it, Trace. Before, it affected just you. Now it involves the whole team.”

“What do you want me to do about it? I don’t think me contacting her will do any good.”

“What about a restraining order?” I interject, mixing the fajitas in the pan.

Trace rubs the back of his neck. “We don’t have enough evidence for a court-issued restraining order.

Up until last week, her interactions with me have been pretty mild.

They weren’t something I was worried about.

Plus”—he pauses, and I look up—“I’d rather settle this out of court if possible. Less paperwork for everyone involved.”

“Aw, you’re too sweet,” I say to Trace. “Your mama raised you right.”

Trace smiles, knowing what’s supposed to come next.

“Not as sweet as you, Sugar.” He throws me a wink, and we both fall into laughter.

The first time I met Trace’s mom, Marilyn, she said that to me when I called her so sweet for coming to one of my fall games.

Since then, it’s become something of an inside joke.

Duke raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment. He’s used to our antics .

When our laughing finally subsides, I turn off the stove and bring the fajitas over to the island.

“What you really need,” Duke says, sensing that Trace has recovered enough to continue the conversation, “is to date someone. You haven’t dated anyone since you broke up with Millie, so she probably thinks you’re going to get back together with her.”

I nod, sensing the thread of logic in Duke’s argument.

“But I don’t want to date anyone right now,” Trace counters.

“Then find someone and pretend for a while. I’m not saying you have to marry a random woman. Just a few dates, enough to let Millie get the message that you’re not going to go crawling back to her.”

I keep nodding, walking to the pantry to retrieve the tortillas.

“Shouldn’t she just take ‘no’ for an answer?” The irritation is back in Trace’s voice.

“In an ideal world, yes,” Duke says, standing to round the island, his eyes on the pan of fajitas. “But with the situation we have, I think this would be the best course of action.”

“But who would I even ask on a fake date? How is that even a thing?”

Duke shifts to the side, reaching out to sneak a piece of chicken right out of the pan.

I come up behind him and slap his hand away with one of the tortillas.

He recoils, turning to look at me in surprise before taking a step back from the island.

I’m starving, and with the amazing smell tempting my tastebuds, I want this conversation to end so I can eat.

I’m about ready to agree with Duke just to get him out of my— Trace’s —kitchen.

Something in Duke’s expression changes, like he’s struck with an idea. He stops his retreat and places his hand on my arm. “Naomi! You can fake date Naomi!”

Suddenly, I don’t want to agree with Duke .

Time freezes for a heartbeat. Duke looks at me like I’m the solution to all the questions in the universe, I look at Trace like “Is he serious?” and Trace stares daggers at Duke’s hand on my arm.

“No.”

Trace’s crisp word triggers time to resume. I pivot to pull my arm away when Trace grabs Duke by the shoulders and starts guiding him toward the entryway.

“But Trace—”

“No,” Trace cuts Duke off, continuing to push him toward the door.

“What do you mean, ‘no’? It’s perfect—”

“No.” Trace doesn’t look angry or upset, just…very adamant that Duke drop this line of thinking. Duke sputters in protest, tripping over my bags still dumped in the entryway while Trace gracefully steps around them to the door.

“Thanks for stopping by, Duke. I think I need a while to think about what the right course of action is concerning the issues with Millie. I’ll see you the next time I see you.

” Trace’s flat voice, amplified by the spacious entryway, holds no room for argument.

But Duke doesn’t pick up on that nuance.

“But what about lunch?” Duke manages to get out as he stumbles out the front door.

Trace smoothly pulls out his wallet, whips a one hundred dollar bill out of it, and tosses it in Duke’s direction before closing the door in his face.

I slap a hand over my mouth, holding in my burst of laughter. A snort sneaks out, and I cover my face with the forgotten tortilla in my hand.

“No one uses cash anymore, Trace!” Duke’s voice is muffled by the door but still understandable .

Trace turns on his heel and walks back to where I’m standing at the kitchen island, trying to hide my laugh with a flour tortilla. His stormy expression clears in an instant, almost like the conversation with Duke never happened.

“Lunch?” he asks with a smile.