Page 15

Chapter

Twelve

S leepless nights were becoming something of a ritual for Miranda—and frankly, she was over it.

First her father’s heart attack. Then the team’s implosion. And now Lucas, with his scorching kiss and sudden withdrawal, had somehow lodged himself in the middle of her insomnia like a splinter she couldn’t remove.

She still didn’t understand how things had unraveled so quickly. The night before had started like a fantasy—lips, hands, tension so thick it could’ve set off smoke detectors—and ended with him shutting down and backing away like she was radioactive.

And now? Now she was wide awake, running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the need for answers.

Her phone buzzed.

“Miranda? It’s your father.”

Damn it.

Her mom had promised to keep him on a tight leash, to limit the calls and control the media feeds. She’d even confiscated the TV remote. But clearly, now that he was home, the leash had snapped.

So much for peace.

She sighed. “Put him through.”

Straightening in her chair, she pulled on her mental armor like she was heading into battle. She’d faced down the management team, pushed through the trade, and stood her ground in more meetings than she could count. She could handle her father.

“Miranda? What the hell have you done to my team?” The bark came through the phone like a shotgun blast—more Doberman than lapdog now. Recovery clearly suited him.

She closed her eyes briefly, both relieved and exasperated. He was healing. And he was furious.

“Hi, Dad,” she said calmly. “Glad to hear you’re feeling better.”

“I’d feel a hell of a lot better if you hadn’t traded for Prosser! After I vetoed that deal!”

“You didn’t veto it,” she reminded him evenly. “We didn’t finish that conversation. I made the call.”

She swiveled her chair, eyes drifting to the stadium just beyond her office window, the field empty but waiting.

“We had a deal,” she said, voice quieter now. “You get better. I handle the team. That’s what I’m doing—making tough decisions so we don’t end up folding under the weight of debt.”

“This isn’t what we agreed on,” he growled.

She cut him off gently. “Talking about business is getting you worked up. You don’t need that. Just focus on getting stronger. We’ll still be here when you’re ready to come back.”

He huffed into the phone. “Miranda…”

“I love you, Dad. And I’m hanging up now before your blood pressure spikes. We’ll talk soon.”

She set the phone down softly, her hand trembling just enough to notice.

Seconds later, her intercom buzzed. “Miranda? Cole on line two.”

She dragged in a breath and picked up the call. “Cole. How’s Florida?”

“Fantastic,” he deadpanned, the sarcasm heavy even across the miles.

“I take it the coaching staff isn’t jumping on board with the new plan?”

“You could say that.” A pause. “Apparently, baseball is a game of heart and instinct—not numbers. Their words, not mine.”

Miranda pinched the bridge of her nose. “Then why do we print stats on the backs of baseball cards? Why do we worship batting averages and ERA?”

“They don’t mind stats. They hate strategy changes. They think small ball is soft. That it’s a placeholder until Seamus comes back to restore the ‘real game.’”

Her hand clenched around the phone. Damn the old boys’ club. If she were a man—hell, if she were her father—they wouldn’t question her this way.

“And what do you think, Cole?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

“It was my idea. You know I believe in it. But they’ve got a point. Seamus could come back and flip the board.”

Just then, Lucas appeared in her doorway. She waved him in. He sat silently, watching her, unreadable as ever.

“So it’s not that they think it won’t work. It’s that they don’t trust the leadership structure?” Miranda asked.

“Partially. But they also don’t believe it’ll work fast enough. They think we’re chasing analytics for PR, not actual wins.”

“Would it help if I came down and laid it out? Face-to-face.”

“The numbers guys tried. Coaches tuned them out.”

Lucas raised his hand, fingers twitching for her attention. “They need someone who speaks baseball, not spreadsheets.”

Miranda nodded slowly. “Lucas and I will fly down in the next few days. I was planning to visit anyway, like Dad always did. I’ll send you the flight info.”

She ended the call and exhaled heavily. “Just once, I’d love it if someone didn’t fight me on everything.”

Lucas gave a small shrug. “Change sucks. People fight what they don’t understand.”

“But this strategy works,” she said, her voice edged with frustration. “You know it.”

“Sure,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean they trust it. Or you. Not yet.”

He leaned forward. “Mind if I pull the numbers team together? We’ll prep some data, make it digestible—baseball language, not math class.”

She nodded. “Do whatever you think might help.”

She stood, walked around the desk, and paused beside him. “I assumed you’d come to Florida with me. But if you can’t, I understand.”

He stood, too. Close. “I told you—I’m in this for the long haul. Let me know the flight. I want to see my mom while I’m down there anyway. She says I’ve been MIA.”

He hesitated. “She asked about you.”

Miranda tilted her head, one eyebrow arching. “Are you asking me to meet your mom? That’s very high school boyfriend of you.”

He smirked, but his expression softened. “You know her. She just… likes you.”

She laid a hand lightly on his arm, the warmth between them pulsing in that single contact. “Relax, Lucas. I was teasing. If you keep stressing like this, I’ll be visiting you in the cardiac wing.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t move away.

And for just a second, something unspoken passed between them—tension and longing tangled up with duty and fear. She dropped her hand before she gave in to the pull of it.

They had enough to handle.

But still, her fingers itched from the contact, and her pulse hadn't slowed. Not even close.

M iranda glanced at the clock on her screen for the fifth time, unsure if the twist in her stomach was nerves or anticipation. Her first official weekly update with Lucas. On paper, it was business. In reality? A ticking time bomb of tension she wasn’t sure she wanted to defuse.

She had progress to report—nothing groundbreaking, but forward motion all the same. Not that it mattered. Lucas had been in every meeting, every strategy call. The update felt more like a formality, a subtle power play meant to keep him in control while still remaining, somehow, above it all.

She’d been watching him the past couple of weeks.

Polite. Efficient. Distant. He was all sharp edges and professional cool, refusing to engage beyond the leadership team.

He barely remembered Maggie’s name, and when the staff surprised her with birthday cake earlier, he’d been conspicuously absent—appearing only after the candles had been blown out and the party wrapped.

A brisk knock preceded the door creaking open. Lucas’s face appeared, unreadable as always. She waved him in.

“Coffee? Tea?” she offered, already standing to pour him something from the sideboard.

“I’m fully caffeinated, thanks.” He flashed a grin, bright and practiced. “So, how are things going?”

She tilted her head. “Shouldn’t you be telling me that? You’ve been at every meeting, sat in every discussion. We’re still in spring training. No record to lean on yet, no uptick in ticket sales. Your guess is as good as mine.”

He nodded and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Season ticket sales are still flat. No real movement post-preseason.”

“Our early games have been sloppy—too many errors, not enough spark. The media’s having a field day.”

“Social media’s even worse.” He slid the paper across the desk. “I don’t see how you’re going to make the first payment.”

She didn’t blink. “These changes take time. Some teams had to endure a few losing seasons before turning the corner. You said so yourself.”

“Time doesn’t pay debt, Miranda. How exactly are you planning to make that payment?”

“Let me handle that,” she said, voice tight but steady. “You help me find the right players and the right plan.”

Then, just to shake his composure a little, she added, “By the way, I noticed you didn’t show for Maggie’s birthday today.”

He didn’t flinch. “I don’t get too personal with coworkers.”

“Oh? So dinner wasn’t work-related?”

He hesitated. “No. That was… personal.”

“And the kiss?”

For the first time, she saw it—a crack in his perfect composure.

“That was definitely personal,” he said after a beat. “I don’t go around kissing people I work with.”

“Good,” she said, pretending to shuffle some papers. “I’d hate to think it was out of obligation.”

He leaned back in his chair, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Obligation? Is that what you got out of it?”

“Well…” She lifted an eyebrow. “You did bolt like a teenager who just found out his girlfriend’s late.”

He winced. “Yeah, that wasn’t my best moment. But it wasn’t about you.”

She pressed a hand to her chest in mock horror. “Oh no. Not the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line. Lucas Wainright, you’re killing me.”

He laughed—short, sharp, real. “Okay, yeah, that line is total death. But I’m over it now.”

“Oh really? So now I’m just supposed to be ready and waiting for your next kiss?”

The cocky smile that slid across his face made heat curl low in her belly. “Oh yeah. No obligation required.”

He rose slowly and stalked around the desk.

The sudden shift in his energy made her pulse flutter.

She had just enough time to register the intent in his eyes before he spun her chair toward him and planted his hands on the armrests, caging her in with his body.

She was bracketed between his thighs, her heart beating triple time.

She could escape if she wanted to. She didn’t want to.

She tilted her head, lips curving. “So now you’re going to prove it was a good kiss? Be my guest, lover boy. Show me what you’ve got.”

He leaned in and brushed his lips over hers—a featherlight touch that made her shiver. She gasped softly, and he chuckled, low and deep.

His mouth skimmed the edge of her jaw, slow and teasing. His breath was warm against her skin, his lips barely grazing hers again before he murmured, “Don’t move.”

He gently took her wrists, placing her hands back on the arms of the chair and holding them there with his own. Then he kissed her.

Not a casual kiss. Not exploratory.

This was a deep dive—heat, hunger, and restraint colliding in one long, devastating kiss. His tongue slid along the seam of her lips, and when she parted them, he was right there, claiming. Tasting.

Coffee and frosting.

He tasted like celebration.

When he finally pulled back, they were both breathless. He pressed his forehead to hers.

“Still think it was obligation?”

She opened her eyes slowly, dazed. “Did I taste buttercream frosting?”

He stiffened, stepping back. “Yeah.”

A grin broke across her face. “So you did go to the party.”

He crossed his arms, defensive. “I stopped by to say happy birthday.”

“You mean you snuck in for cake.” She swatted his arm. “You pretend to be all cold and aloof, but deep down, you’re a total softie.”

He growled and turned away, the flush in his cheeks undeniable.

She let him have the moment, then shifted gears. “Your father started this team from nothing. How’d he do it? No fancy analytics back then.”

Lucas sighed. “He didn’t win it all. Always came close but fell short. Still, he expected us to be further along by now.”

“What were his plans?”

He crossed to the window, arms folded as he stared out. “He never told me.”

“But you were always here,” she said gently. “I just assumed?—”

“You assumed wrong,” he cut in, voice tight. “I told him I didn’t want to be part of it. I wanted something else.”

She blinked, startled. “What did you want?”

He shook his head. “No clue. Probably something dumb. I was eighteen.”

She stepped closer. “I didn’t want to be Miss America either.”

He turned, one brow raised. “You were runner-up, weren’t you?”

“I worked for that. Not because I wanted it. Because my parents did.” Her voice grew hard. “I hated every minute of it. The fake smiles, the swimsuit judgment, the way men looked at you like you were a blow-up doll with a tiara. It was degrading.”

Lucas leaned against the credenza, hands shoved in his pockets. “I admit—I figured you were just a pretty face with a family job.”

“But then you found out I had an MBA.”

“I realized you were more than the image.”

“Well, thank you for seeing past the lip gloss,” she deadpanned. “But trust me—my father wouldn’t keep me if I couldn’t do the job.”

“Even now? With the changes you’re making?”

“Maybe not. He’s not happy.”

“Is he ever?”

She laughed, shoulders relaxing. “No. Even if we win the World Series, he’d complain about base running.”

Lucas shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. If he doesn’t adapt, he’ll lose the team.”

“You try telling him that.”

She eyed him carefully. “Do you think your dad would be proud of you now?”

His expression shuttered. “I don’t know. Maybe he’d see it as betrayal. I refused to work with him—and now I work for the league.”

“He’d be proud,” she said softly. “You’re helping save this team.”

“By working with the man who took it from him?” he said bitterly.

“You don’t really believe Seamus stole it.”

“Don’t I?”

She stepped closer. “Is that Miranda the daughter talking, or Miranda the boss?”

“Business is cutthroat,” he said. “No room for sentiment.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. My father taught me business is about people first. Hard decisions? Sure. But you don’t forget the humans behind the bottom line.”

Lucas’s jaw tightened. “So why are your people barely implementing anything you’ve asked? Why are they waiting for Seamus to return and save them?”

“Because I lead differently. I listen .”

“That’s not leadership,” he said. “That’s democracy in a war zone. What you need is a general.”

She got in his face. “Or what?”

He held up his hands. “I’m just saying: no one follows a whisper. They follow the voice of command.”

Her shoulders sagged. “So it’s not that they disagree. It’s that they don’t respect me.”

She sat down heavily in her chair, staring at her monitor.

Lucas crossed to her, perched on the edge of her desk. “They still see Seamus in charge. You want to lead? Be the voice.”

She looked up at him.

“No more stalling,” she said.

He arched a brow.

She stood. “Pack your bags, Wainright. We’re going to Florida.”