Page 9

Chapter Nine

Jake

June 30th

I 'm wide awake, staring at the ceiling like it owes me something. I should be sleeping after the beating I put my body through last night. Two hits, a stolen base, and a catch made against the centerfield wall that damn near dislocated my shoulder. It was worth it to take the series against Arizona. I spent most of Sunday night stretching, hydrating, and icing down as if I were twice my age. Didn't attend the team dinner or the postgame bar scene as usual.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and go through my usual routine.

Messages from Troy about a sponsorship deal, emails alerting me to deliveries I scheduled, and, of course, DMs stacked with new I-miss-you texts, a few blurry late-night selfies, and some not-so-subtle reminders from girls I haven't seen or even thought about in weeks. Not a big number, just enough to remind me this version of my life used to be fun. Addictive, even. The attention, the options, the easy outs. That’s how things have been since I signed with the Terrors.No spotlight, no putting down roots, just easy living with NDAs attached.

But here, lately, something or rather, someone else has filled those spaces. The thing is, she doesn't even know.

I mean to her, I'm her sworn enemy. The disrupter of studying, the bringer of coffee, banger of headboards. She's not wrong about that last one.

I do have a mean headboard shimmy.

Not that anyone would know, thanks to my lack of dates.

Not that they haven't been trying to get to me every day, but ever since a feisty, sinfully sexy woman came knocking on my door, the headboard hasn't made any noise.

What kind of guy wakes up thinking about a woman who once decapitated him with a stare in a mailroom?

Apparently, this guy.

I push off the covers and head for the shower.

Even though it's a team off day, I still hit the gym for a light workout. By the time I shower and dry off, the fog on the mirror's clearing, but my brain's running at full speed. I grab my phone to silence the alarm and text my assistant. He confirms the Aston Martin's been detailed, and the tux will be dropped off freshly cleaned this afternoon, as requested.

He also confirms my grocery order will be delivered and the kitchen restocked by the time I return from the gym, which is good, considering that half a lime is a little lonely in there.

I dress, get my baseball cap to maintain a low profile, grab my workout bag and keys, and leave to start my day.

The walk toward the elevator is interrupted when a few people march toward its stainless-steel doors.

Not one to cause a stir so early in the morning, I opt for the stairs and jog down the fourteen flights.

I can cross cardio off my list this morning.

I open the garage-level door, and as I step onto the sidewalk, I catch sight of a particular midnight blue BMW easing out of its parking space.

The driver is now the one who's occupying my free space. Or, as it is known, living rent-free in my head. Not every day, but enough to make me do things like help her with a mountain of lawbooks, give her a VIP pass to a game, grab her a coffee, and even take her on a date to a fundraiser I've attended for the last three years…

alone.

Fuck.

This is worse than I thought.

I shake it off and continue on my journey, headphones in, hoodie up.

I slip into the driver's seat of my truck, close the door, and tap the ignition. The engine growls to life as if it knows what kind of morning it is. My radio is already set to today's country hits, so no adjustment is needed there.

Checking the rearview camera, I back out of my parking spot, pull onto the street, and take the short drive toward the team's private workout facility. A place that's half sanctuary, half battleground.

No distractions.

No press.

Just sweat, steel, and silence.

Off-day or not, I need the routine.

The rhythm of my heartbeat thumping in my ears.

I stretch, lift, and move through my circuit on autopilot.

Shoulders, back, legs—check, check, and check.

Muscle memory kicks in before the pre-workout drink does.

Deadlifts, kettlebell swings, and resistance bands all core work to keep me climbing the centerfield wall.

Just the basics, dialed in, and brutal.

Every rep clears my head a little more.

It makes me more assured about what I want to do and whether they are worth doing.

By the time I finish my last set, I'm drenched. My muscles are humming, my shirt clinging to my back, and my legs feel like they've been through a war.

Just how I like it.

I grab a towel, wipe the sweat off my face, and toss it into the bin before heading out.

The sun's climbing now, already punching through the clouds. I slide into the driver's seat of my truck and crank the AC.

With my hand on my phone, I scroll through contacts, my thumb hovering over Delaney .

Bad idea.

Really bad idea.

I may have slept with her once.

Maybe twice.

All right—three times, if we're counting the early morning callback. She does a killer cut with faded edges, but I never called her back after the last time. And something tells me a woman with scissors that close to my throat would probably hold a grudge.

I hit call on the one person who knows me too well and drop my phone in the cupholder.

"This better not be another paternity scare,"

"Troy," I say a bit too happy. I need a haircut. Like, today."

The exasperated sigh escapes his lungs like a man who just realized he may actually work for a single-member frat house with a payroll.

"Please tell me you didn't call Delaney.

"

"I didn't. Almost did, but decided I like my ears."

"Jesus, Jake." I hear keys jingling on his end. "You know you could try not sleeping with everyone you hire."

"And where's the fun in that?

"

"Look.

You've got a gala tonight, and the press will be there, so, of course, you can't go looking straggly.

I'm texting you the address of a real barber. It's a guy, and I doubt if you'd sleep with him."

"No promises," I deadpan, but Troy's already hung up.

The message comes through as stated, and I press the link to load the directions.

The place is near East Nashville—a modern storefront with clean glass and sleek signage. I park, stroll in, and get the once-over from the guy behind the chair. He's got tattoos up both arms, a gold chain, and zero patience.

"You Reynolds?"

"Yeah, that's me.

"

"Sit.

Don't move. And don't talk about baseball.

"

A man after my own heart. Less is always best for me. I'm not one for small talk anyway.

He washes his hands and puts the white strip around my neck before the drape. He works fast—razor first, then the golden shears he keeps sheathed on his side. He follows up with a hot towel, then a straight razor shave and the edge of my beard. When it's all said and done, I thank him, tip extra heavily, and slide back into the Silverado. One last order is placed to be delivered to my place, then I head home.

My bathroom smells like eucalyptus and expensive shit I don't remember buying. I'm fresh out of the shower, towel around my waist, staring at my reflection as if it's supposed to answer the questions bouncing around my head.

I'm not nervous about the event. I've done these a few times since my rookie year. The process is the same. Smile for the cameras, shake hands with donors, and talk stats with sponsors. Easy. But this time's different because I'm bringing a date. Tahlia Carter isn't just any date, though. She's smart, sharp-tongued, and still doesn't give a damn who I am. That alone should make me run, but it doesn't. And for the first time… ever, I actually give a shit about making a good impression.

I go through the motions: deodorant, lotion, and cologne, followed by boxer briefs and socks. I open my closet and reveal my crisp black tux, complete with a simple bow tie. I add my baseball-themed cufflinks, which Kelton gave me last year, to cap off the look. Checking the time, I grab my phone and shoot her a text just as I'm lacing my shoes.

Me: How long before you're ready?

A beat later, she replies.

Tahlia: Oiling up now. You want perfection or speed, Reynolds? Because I don't rush what's worth unwrapping.

Fuck. The mental image is stretching more than my imagination. Long legs. Glossy brown skin. Me undressing her like a kid on Christmas morning. Control? Gone.

I toss the phone on the bed, adjust my pants, and force myself to focus on the task at hand: my jacket, pocket square, and straightening the lapels.

A few minutes later, I send another text.

Me: I'm ready.

Tahlia: Quickdraw, huh? Well, you'll have to work on that. Patience is the best reward.

I let out a laugh so loud it echoes.

Me: Talk all you want, but don't act surprised when you're the one begging for a time-out.

Tahlia: Funny. I don't recall many extra innings from your previous auditions.

Damnit, if she isn't pushing all the right buttons.

Me: I'll go get the car. Meet you downstairs.

She sends back a thumbs-up emoji.

I slide my phone inside my pocket, grab my keys and wallet, and hit the cologne for one more soft spritz before heading to the underground parking garage.

Thanks to the wonderful detail job my assistant did yesterday, the black Aston Martin is primed and ready for the evening. I press on the door handle to unlock and open the door, then slide into the driver's seat, press the start button, and pull out slowly, rounding the curve to the front of the building to the semi-circle entrance.

While waiting, I check my email for the passes, ensuring my plus-one is included. Ten minutes pass and I begin to worry because cocktail hour starts at six. I accounted for being a few minutes late, but this is almost pushing it beyond that. I'm about to call Tahlia directly when the doorman steps out and swings the glass open.

Fuck, I'm a dead man for sure.

Her dress is like emeralds poured over her skin. One shoulder bare, midriff cutout, a slit that threatens to end me. Her braids are twisted up in some elegant swirl that makes her look as if she belongs on the cover of something glossy and expensive. Diamond earrings with matching necklace glint in the light of the setting sun.

I jump out, circling the car as fast as my legs will carry me without looking desperate and open the door for her.

"Damn, counselor. You planning to have me arrested for indecent thoughts tonight?"

She steps in without missing a beat. "Had to dress the part for James Bond."

"You wound me. I was going for Tony Stark."

"Same energy. Different tax bracket."

I bark out a laugh, shut her door, and head around to my side, slipping back behind the wheel.

The drive's quiet—except for the music on the radio.

She smells like heaven and expensive sin rolled into one. I catch a glimpse of her when she shifts her leg, and the slit flashes skin, making me grip the wheel tighter.

"You look good," I say, eyes forward and attempting to deflate my insistent boner.

"I know," she says lightly. "But thanks for catching up.

" She darts a wink at me.

I chuckle, feeling the tension and my erection easing while we continue on the way to Murph's annual fundraiser.

Max Murphy's house is in a gated community. You are not getting in unless you are on the list.

Especially on a night like tonight. I pull up to the guard station to check in.

“Hey, Mr. Reynolds. Good to see you,” the security person says as he checks my ID. Even though they know Murph’s teammates, they still do their job to the letter.

“Hey man. Good to see you too. Hope all is well.”

“Things are good. You have a nice evening.” He passes me my ID.

Thanks, you too.”

The guard waives us through.

Murph’s place is large enough for a damn compound. Tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the city among the lush trees and sprawling green hills. This is very much the I-have-a-family vibe. We creep up the sloped driveway and get in line for valet parking. When I approach the attendant, he opens the door.

"Good evening, Mr.

Reynolds," the young man greets me when I step out of the car. "Will you be needing the car soon, sir?

"

I may have a reputation when I come to these events. I usually tell them not to park it but keep it nearby because I would have a few stops to make on my way back to the city. "Not tonight.

I'll be here for a minute." I toss him the keys as another attendant goes to open the passenger door.

"No, no. I'll get that," I interrupt, stepping quickly and catching the attention of the photo hounds. I open the door and take Tahlia's hand in mine.

The moment her heeled and bejeweled foot, steps onto the pavement, the flashes go off without ceasing. She steps out like she knows people are watching—which they are. You can hear the gasps from behind the velvet rope. A few of them whisper words I can't make out, but they are stunned all the same.

"Jake, who is that beautiful woman you are with tonight?

"

I fake my reaction to the question. "I'm with someone?"

They laugh and snap more pictures.

"Come on, Jake. Who is she?"

"This is Tahlia Carter, my date." I glance at her.

She raises one brow, half questioning my response, half amused.

“Let me get a picture of you two,” one photog asks.

It’s not lost on me that we’re still holding hands, so I pull her closer and carefully put my arm around her waist.

She looks up at me with those deep brown eyes, and a sweet and genuine smile spreads across her lips as she places her right hand on my chest.

Yep, I’m a goner.

I reciprocate the admiration, feeling my heart slam against my chest like I’m committing the worst crime in history. Falling hard for someone and getting caught.

After a few more snaps, I wave them off and continue inside. We walk the carpet, her arm interlocked with mine. Natural. Like we’ve been doing this for years.

The foyer spills into the back lawn, where the event is. The constructed tent is lit with crystal chandeliers, tables draped in black linens, and black and silver décor throughout. A five-piece orchestra plays while guests are mingling and socializing.

"This is beautiful," Tahlia mentions, taking in the surroundings.

“I agree.” Although my eyes are fixed on her when I speak.

“Well, holy shit,” Murph says, eyes bouncing between us. “You actually brought a date.”

“Shut up,” I mutter.

“No, seriously. When the event planner said you RSVP’d with a plus one, I thought she was joking.” He laughs.

"Come on, Murph. I always do what I say I’m gonna do.”

“Yeah, but you never bring a date. And she’s… wow. Are you sure you wanna be with this guy?”

Tahlia grins. “The jury’s still out on the verdict,” she laughs.

"Oh. I like her already. Max Murphy, this evening’s host.” He shakes her hand like a gentleman.

“Tahlia Carter. Apparently, the first date ever for Jake Reynolds.”

Murph gives an attention-grabbing laugh. “Yeah, Reynolds, you have to bring her around more.” He calls one of the servers over and hands us a glass of champagne. "Here you are, Tahlia. I hope you enjoy this evening.” He clinks his glass with ours and excuses himself as he goes to speak with others.

“He’s nice and funny,” Tahlia comments. She takes a sip, and a little droplet hangs on her glossy lip. How I wish I were that lucky.

“Murph is a great guy and a fantastic pitcher. I mean, batters hate seeing him on the mound."

“Hmm. Can you hit against him?”

“Yes. And I’m not being arrogant either. We also practice during the off-season together, so I can better watch the pitches. He's been a tremendous help to my game.”

She takes another pull of her drink before a few others spot us and close in.

“You look amazing,” says Christy Freeman, Evan’s girlfriend, pulling Tahlia into conversation with two others. I watch her relax, engage, and charm without even trying.

“Damn,” Kelton says, sidling up beside me with a whiskey in hand. “She’s nothing like the others I’ve seen you with.”

“Was that a question?”

He shrugs. “More like an observation. So, what’s going on between you two?”

“I know, I’m the rookie here, but the talks you and Diesel have had about your past conquests, even I know this is not your norm,” Evan comments.

“If Damien can change, why can’t I?”

They all look at me with quiet judgment.

"Look, we're not saying you can't; we’re just saying that you'd never, and yet, here we are,” Kelton notes.

I take another sip of my champagne and watch as the ladies laugh hard about something. Tahlia looks back at me and smiles big and bright like the stars in Texas.

"She’s gonna wreck your whole game,” Murph points out as my teammates leave and find their plus ones.

I smile back. “I hope so.” I need something stronger.

The sun is finally on the lower horizon, and the lights inside the tented area come on, casting a subtle glow onto the makeshift room. When I join Tahlia, she’s sitting at my table having a conversation with another lady.

“You good?”

She nods. "Just needed a break from all the 'So how did you two meet?' questions."

I laugh. “Yeah, our ‘you yelled at me for having loud sex’ origin story doesn’t really scream rom-com meet cute.”

She snorts and takes a sip. "Better than 'we swiped right.'"

“Fair point.”

A beat passes before I turn toward her. “Wanna play something dumb?”

She arches a brow. “Define dumb.”

“Twenty-one questions. You in?”

“Only if I get to ask first.”

“Deal.”

She looks at me. “What’s your biggest fear?”

“Easy. Losing the game because of something I messed up.”

She sips. “Oh, a control freak.”

“My turn. First kiss?”

“Sixth grade. At a birthday party. He had braces, and I cut my lip. I had to explain that to my dad since Mom was away at a conference.”

“Rookie mistake.”

She laughs. “What about you?”

“Eighth grade. Truth or dare. She dared me.”

“That tracks.”

We keep going. Silly, flirty, a few deeper ones tossed in.

“Why’d you ask me here?” she says.

I glance at her. “Because you’re the first person who’s made me work for it—and I kinda like it.”

The music shifts into something slower. Sinatra, maybe.

I stand and offer a hand. “Dance with me?”

She hesitates, then sets her glass down and lets me pull her to her feet.

Her body fits against mine as if it’s meant to. We sway, slow and easy.

“Not bad for our first date,” I murmur.

She smirks. “This is a date?”

"Yeah. I asked you out, and you said yes; I picked you up and brought you here. That's a date. Besides, I’ve said that all night to everyone.”

“What about flowers? You didn’t give me flowers.”

“Technicality. I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?”

I stop moving and tilt her chin up. "Like this."

I lean in. She doesn't pull away. Her lips part slightly. My heart hammers. I can feel hers, too, racing against my chest. It's like gravity pulls me closer.

The music ends, and the crowd erupts in applause.

We both blink, frozen.

She clears her throat, stepping back. “Saved by the bell,” she jokes, kinda..

I chuckle, but inside, I feel the drop. It's not disappointment, just… interruption—like waking up from a dream mid-kiss.

She smooths her dress, avoiding my eyes for a beat.

I drag a hand down my face and glance toward the center stage, where the event staff is announcing the close of the silent auction.

“Are you ready to go?”

She doesn’t look at me. Just brushes imaginary lint from her dress and grabs her heels.

"Yeah. Early morning tomorrow. I have Bar prep and a mock trial packet to review."

There it is. The shield. Work—her safest fallback.

I nod like I believe it. Like I didn’t just feel her lean into me. Like her heart wasn’t racing against mine thirty seconds ago.

“Right. Wouldn’t want to interfere with your impressive commitment to never relaxing.”

That earns me a glance. And a smirk.

“You say that like discipline isn’t sexy.”

“Oh, it is. But so is honesty.”

We head back through the foyer, weaving through a crowd that’s looking at silent auction items and those also ready to leave. The mood's buzzy and light. But between us?

It’s different now. Tighter. Loaded.

She still hasn't brought it up by the time we reach the valet.

Neither have I.

Because what do you even call a moment that almost changed everything… but didn’t?

The valet pulls my car around. I open her door, and she slides in without a word. I circle back to the driver’s side, settle behind the wheel, and start the engine.

The ride home is quiet. But not uncomfortable. Not empty.

City lights flicker past the windows. She leans her head back, eyes closed. I don't disturb her; instead, I let her have the silence, the space, even though every second makes me wish I'd kissed her anyway.

We pull into the underground garage beneath the condo, and when I kill the engine, neither of us moves.

She then unbuckles and glances at me, voice low. “Thanks for tonight.”

“Thanks for saying yes.”

She smiles. Not wide. Not fake. Just enough.

We walk toward the elevator, and I press the button. The silver and silent doors glide open.

Inside, it’s just us. Fourteen floors of unspoken tension. Not to mention any categorization of what we have between us now.

She stands close. Not too close. But enough that I can still smell her fragrance. Her shoulder brushes mine once on the way up, but she doesn’t move. Neither do I.

When we arrive at our floor, the doors again part, and we step out together. I walk Tahlia to her door, even though she doesn’t need an escort.

She digs into her clutch and pulls out her key, but she doesn't unlock the door yet. She just looks up at me.

“Goodnight, Mr. Bond.” Without warning, she leans in and kisses me—quick. Barely there. A brush of lips to cheek.

But damn, if it doesn't short-circuit my entire nervous system.

“Night, counselor.”

I stare as she slips inside, shutting the door behind her like nothing happened.

Meanwhile, my heart’s still hammering.

I turn to my own door.

Mr. Bond?

Once inside, I toss the keys on the counter and loosen my tie. I catch my reflection in the mirror.

I look like a guy who just had a great first date.

I head to the bedroom, already thinking about the next one.