Page 42 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

Our lips crash together like a wave on the shore in a storm.

My hands roam where they want, pushing Trace’s suit coat off his broad shoulders and unbuttoning his shirt as he kicks off his shoes and pulls at his socks.

We bump and jostle until my knees hit the bed, and I fall back, catching myself on my elbows as Trace follows, leaning over me.

His half-buttoned shirt falls open, revealing the dark lines of the new tattoo he was so cagey about earlier in the week.

Trace leans forward to capture my mouth again, but I put a hand on his chest, stopping him. He makes a noise deep in his throat but allows me to push him back, guiding him until our positions are reversed, him lying back on the bed and me hovering above him.

I slowly push his shirt to the side, and my breath catches at the lines of the softball, the number twenty-nine nestled in between the laces, that sits just above his heart. I trace around the outside of it, not wanting to touch the tender skin.

“So this is what you were hiding the other day?” I ask, my voice barely louder than a whisper .

Trace covers my wandering hand, pressing it to his chest, where I can feel his heart hammering behind his sternum. “You’re the one for me, Naomi,” is the only explanation he offers.

I lean down and brush my lips against his, the kiss growing deeper with every second that passes.

Trace shifts to push onto his elbows when my phone goes off somewhere in the room.

I lift my head, but Trace pulls it back down.

Seconds later, his phone lights up, the two devices combining for a symphony we can’t ignore.

“Damn it,” Trace mutters under his breath as he releases me, and we both push off the bed to find our phones.

Answering at the same time, I step toward the bathroom while Trace moves to the window, both of us trying to focus on whomever just rudely interrupted.

“Naomi!” Erica’s voice in my ear is normally one I’d love to hear after a long day, but this one time …

couldn’t she have waited to call until morning?

I push aside the thought and focus on her as she continues, her aggravation more apparent with each word.

“We lost. But you’ll never believe what happened during the game tonight. ”

You’ll never believe what you just interrupted.

“Lexi pulled something in her shoulder,” Erica continues without waiting for me to guess. “It’s not major—no tearing or anything—but she’ll be out for a few games for sure. It will give Haven some more time in the circle, definitely more starts, but man! It’s going to be a tough end to the season.”

“Listen, Erica,” I interject after she jumps into giving me a game replay from tonight’s loss against the Phoenix Firebirds. “I’m actually in the middle of something, so can I call you tomorrow?”

“Oh, right! The wedding! Yeah, you go. Of course! I’m so sorry! I’ll talk to you tomorrow! ”

As fast as she blew in, Erica whirlwinds out, leaving me staring at my phone and sighing.

I turn to find Trace still deep in his conversation, so I gather my things and change in the bathroom, knowing whatever was happening between us was murdered in cold blood by those two ill-timed phone calls.

Trace knocks on the bathroom door when his call ends, and I open it, stepping back to the sink to continue washing off the numerous layers of product the makeup artist applied that morning.

Already, the emotions that were riding high at the reception are beginning to ebb, leaving me feeling exhausted and ready for a nap.

“That was Duke,” he tells me, tapping his phone against one of those bite-worthy thighs a few times before slipping it into the pocket of his suit pants.

His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and the front buttons undone halfway down his chest give me an eyeful of the flat panes of his pectorals, my tattoo peeking out from behind the rumpled fabric.

“He wants me to meet with a lawyer tomorrow afternoon about the Millie situation.”

I pat my face dry with a towel, happy when the white fabric comes away without any lingering traces of makeup. “I thought our flight wasn’t until tomorrow afternoon?”

Trace crosses his arms and leans a shoulder against the doorframe, giving me a very good view of the corded muscles in his forearms. “Duke called the pilot and was able to move our flight to the morning.”

Oh, the wonders of having money to burn on private flights.

I shrug. “I didn’t want to go to brunch with everyone anyway.

” I try to brush off the pit in my chest, but it’s hard to come to terms with the abrupt way I decided to end things.

In the moment, riding off the high of getting rid of Millie—hopefully for good—it felt right.

I spent too many years waiting for support that was never going to come.

But now the reality is hitting that I’m cutting my parents out of my life permanently.

And it’s more terrifying than I thought it would be.

“Hey.” Trace’s smooth voice pulls me out of that pit.

“Come here.” He opens his arms and I step toward him, letting him envelop me in a soothing embrace.

He peppers my hair with his kisses and starts pulling me back into the room.

I let him pull me to the bed, and when his knees bump the edge, he pulls back to look me in the eye.

“No expectations,” he whispers, kissing me on the cheek.

His hands slide down to mine as he sits on the bed, and we stand like that for a moment before he scoots back into the middle of the bed, pulling me in after him.

He wraps his arms protectively around me as I cuddle into his side, and the tension my body has been carrying throughout the day disappears.

One of his arms bands around my shoulders and the other around my waist as I relax into him.

His warmth and the weight of his arms settles the worries in my heart like a weighted blanket.

Tonight, everything will be fine. I match my breathing with the rise and fall of Trace’s chest, and in a matter of minutes, I’m lost to sleep. Tomorrow, we can figure out the rest.

The incessant buzzing coming from my clutch across the room is the only thing that gets me out from underneath the warm weight of Trace’s arm. I untangle myself from Trace, who rolls onto his stomach, squishing his face into the pillow where my head was.

He’s still dressed in his button up shirt and slacks, rumpled from a night of sleep, and one bare foot stretches to the end of the bed as he tucks his other knee up, giving me a great look at the butt that gets millions of views on social media fan accounts.

I pull my phone out of the clutch and sigh when Erica’s face fills the screen.

“Good morning,” I answer, pressing my phone to my ear while I search for my charging cable. I’m honestly surprised it didn’t die during the night, and after that rude literal wake-up call, I’m half wishing it did.

“Hey, girl!” Erica’s chipper voice hits my eardrum like a clap of thunder, and I blink a few times, trying to wake myself up faster. “How did the wedding go yesterday?”

I rub a hand down my face and sigh.

“That bad, huh?”

“No, no,” I say, sitting down on the edge of Trace’s bed and reaching down for the cable.

“The wedding was fine.” And it was. Really.

Watching my sister marry the love of her life was heartwarming.

Everything went off without a hitch, as far as the actual ceremony was concerned.

“It’s what happened after the wedding that was a disaster. ”

I finally find the end of the cable and plug in my phone. The screen brightens, and I press the speakerphone button, setting it on the side table just as Erica shouts, “Disaster? Oooh, girl! Details! I need details!”

Trace grunts behind me, and his fingers brush across my back as he reaches for me. “Turn off your phone and come back to bed,” he mumbles, loud enough for my phone to pick it up .

“ Back to bed? ” Erica stage whispers. I wish I could see her face right now, but I’ll have to wait another few hours for that.

I check the time on my phone, unsurprised to find how late we slept in, and mentally calculate how much time I have left before I’ll be back to my regularly scheduled programming.

“I’m coming over as soon as you get home because apparently we have some things to discuss. ”

Trace’s long fingers wrap around the loose fabric at the back of my shirt and tug. “I’ve got to go, Erica. I’ll call you as soon as I get back to San Antonio, okay?”

“I’ll be waiting at your house, sugar ,” she teases, laughter infusing her voice.

Trace’s tugs get increasingly more forceful, so I reach over and end the call before surrendering to him. Rolling back onto the bed, I let him pull me into his chest and pin my arms between the two of us.

“Much better,” he mumbles, as he presses a sleepy kiss to my forehead.

“Trace?” I tilt my face up as Trace’s sleepy kiss turns into a sleepy nuzzle against my ear.

“Hmm?” His lips brush my ear, my cheek, my jawline, my neck. Every soft touch sends sparks through me, and I never want him to stop. But…

“Will you kiss me again?”

He freezes at the question, pulling his head back to look me in the eye. Dark pupils obscure most of his golden irises, and the heat I find there makes my toes curl. “Yes, ma’am.”

And he obliges.

I’m lost in his kiss, drifting out to a sea of our own making, when another ringtone—one I recognize as Duke’s—cuts through the heavenly moment, dousing Trace and me with a metaphorical bucket of ice water. At this moment, I’d like nothing more than to throw both our phones off the mountain.

But the logical side of me knows that our peaceful morning was on a timer, anyway.

Trace growls as he pulls away from me, answering his phone with a rough, “What?”

I roll myself to the other edge of the bed, half listening to Trace’s conversation with his agent and half searching for my toiletries in the jumble I left in my suitcase last night.

“I’m going to shower,” I call to Trace, and a brief moment of eye contact and a nod is all the acknowledgement I need before slipping into the bathroom and locking the door. Turning the shower colder than I normally like, I step in and reluctantly begin my morning routine.

Erica wasn’t lying when she said she would be waiting at my house when I got back to Texas. I open my front door to find her lounging on my couch in her post-practice team apparel, watching an episode of The Bachelorette from last season.

“Honey, I’m home,” I joke as I toss my keys onto the counter and leave my bags by the front door. Vaulting over the back of the couch, I land with a bounce at her feet. Before the couch can stop bouncing, she’s sitting up and turning off the TV, focusing all her attention on me .

“Naomi Elizabeth Baer! You’ve been holding out on me!” Erica grabs my hands so I can’t hide my face behind them. “When were you going to tell me that you and Trace made it out of the friend zone?”

I yank my fingers out of her clutch and tuck them into my armpits as I turn to face her on the couch, crossing my legs and arms to fit.

“Cool it, will you? It only happened last night. And I would have called you yesterday, but…” I lean in, and she does, too.

“Millie Irving showed up and crashed my sister’s wedding reception. ”

“Shut up!” Erica’s eyes nearly pop out of her head in shock. “Tell me everything!”

I spend the next two hours telling her everything that happened with Trace and Jenna and my mom, ending with my anti-climactic night spent cuddling with Trace.

“While I’d normally razz you for not capitalizing on a night in bed with that fine specimen of a man—” Erica laughs off the pointed glare I give her.

That fine specimen of a man is now my fine specimen of a man, thank you very much.

“It sounds like last night was wild enough. Have you heard anything about what’s going to happen with Millie? ”

I shake my head, my smile finally falling.

“No. That’s why Trace had to go back to Dallas today instead of after our game on Tuesday.

He’s meeting with Duke and a lawyer this afternoon, then prepping for training camp…

” I sigh and lean my head against the back of the couch.

“If I’m lucky, I’ll get a call from him, but he usually goes dark during camp. ”

“That was before . This is after. He’ll call you tonight.” Erica’s confidence eases the worry that’s been growing since Trace and I parted ways at the airport. But this is Trace we’re talking about. My best friend. More than my best friend. I know him almost as well as I know myself .

“I hope you’re right,” I say, looking away from Erica. “But I’m not going to pin everything on it happening before he leaves for California.”

Trace doesn’t call. And when I try to call him before going to bed, it goes right to voicemail. I try not to be too disappointed, knowing that this afternoon was busier for him than it was for me, but I was hoping for an update…a text…anything to keep me apprised on what’s happening with Millie.

While I wait for the call that’s not going to come, I find a few pictures from my weekend away with Trace to post to my account. While we don’t need “fake” social media posts anymore, our continuing real relationship can still benefit the WFL for the last few weeks of the season.

After posting pictures of the two of us—me in my bridesmaid’s dress and Trace in his suit—I scroll back through my feed, where posts with graphics about training camps and game days are littered between pictures of me on the softball field and videos of my catching drills.

At the top, the last two months of my life have been publicly documented.

My brow furrows as I scroll past picture after picture of me smiling at Trace and Trace smiling at me, our goofy antics outside the clubhouse, and our weekend back home in Tuscaloosa.

The candid moments capture the life and happiness I’ve been surrounding myself with for the last two months—something that, from the looks of my social media, I haven’t had since my college graduation.

For so long, I didn’t want to make my friendship with Trace a public thing because I was worried about public backlash and the expectation that comes with being attached to someone so famous.

But in doing so, I’ve been robbing myself of sharing every good thing that’s come into my life because of him.

How many fond memories have gone to die in the blackhole of my photos app ?

And why did I convince myself that hiding the best thing in my life was the way to go?