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Chapter

Seventeen

A fter spending the night with Miranda, they were thrown headfirst into the chaos of spring training.

One moment they were tangled in hotel sheets, the next they were immersed in pre-season madness—attending exhibition games, reintroducing themselves to players, and reiterating Miranda’s expectations for style, performance, and attitude.

There was no time to breathe, no room to linger.

Then came the scramble to the airport, both of them running on fumes and caffeine, barely making their flight.

By the time they landed, the illusion of intimacy had already begun to dissipate.

Sharing a car back to the stadium only emphasized the shift.

The ride was quiet, filled with the hum of tires and unsaid things.

As the Savannah skyline rose around them, so did the walls between them—solid, familiar, and deeply annoying.

Florida had been a bubble. A steamy, private bubble where their chemistry had ignited into something explosive.

But now? Now they were back in the real world, pretending that what happened in Tampa stayed in Tampa.

Lucas hated it. The awkward goodbye outside the stadium, the unspoken agreement to forget.

He should’ve felt relief. They’d crossed a line, broken protocol.

But instead, all he could think about was how her skin had tasted, how her nails had scraped his shoulders, how her moans had wrecked him.

No, he hadn’t gotten her out of his system.

If anything, she’d burrowed in deeper. And now, every time he saw her—across the conference table, in a press box, walking the field—his body remembered.

They’d had other meetings with team leaders since their return, but never alone. Never with that same private charge in the air.

So he showed up early on Opening Day, needing something—clarity, maybe.

Or just one damn moment where she’d look at him like she had that night.

The stadium buzzed with activity. Staff arrived early for the Tuesday day game, making last-minute checks, smoothing out logistics.

But the executive floor was still dark and quiet, a hush before the storm.

He made a detour.

Miranda’s office light glowed like a beacon.

Through the open door, she was already buried in reports, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder in a messy twist, the kind that reminded him of how he’d fisted it while she’d ridden him.

She looked up as he knocked, lifting a brow, and he held up a cup.

She smiled, that polite distant smile that ruffled his feather just a bit. “Didn’t expect to see you so early. What’s that?”

“It’s chai,” he said as he stepped in. “Figured you could use a kick.”

She took a slow sip and sighed, her shoulders relaxing just enough for him to notice. “God, that’s good.”

He slid into the chair across from her, crossing one leg over the other. “I think we’re ready. Team ended spring training on a solid streak.”

She snorted. “Against second stringers. Today’s the real test—New York. They don’t do finesse. On paper, they’ve got better arms, better bats, but if we play our game, we can make it competitive.”

“At least the coaching staff’s on board.”

She raised a skeptical brow. “Kind of.” Then, setting her cup down, she tilted her head. “So is that why you’re here? To rehash strategy again? We’ve beaten that horse to death.”

He hesitated. “I guess we should talk about spring training. About that night.”

“Should we?” she asked, her tone light but unreadable.

She leaned back slowly, stretching those long legs beneath the desk, cool and composed in a way that made him itch to shatter her control.

“We’re both adults. We knew what we were doing.

It was fun. Good, even. But maybe it’s best left in the past—unless you disagree? ”

There was nothing in her voice to betray her thoughts. A perfect negotiation face—he’d seen her use it on media partners, on board members. Now she was using it on him, and it pissed him off. Because he wasn’t some CEO across a table. He was the man who had made her come—twice—during the night.

He narrowed his eyes. But instead of answering directly, he shifted tactics.

“Your father coming today?”

She grinned, not fooled by his change in direction. “Major heart attack and bypass surgery say no. But he tried. My mom shut that down.”

“And that’ll stop him?”

“Not likely. I suspect she’s crushing a few valium into his morning coffee. She’s gone full military commander mode. Honestly, it’s terrifying. She was always intense about pageants, but this? She’s gone nuclear. I visit every few days when I can, but the baseball talk is banned.”

“Southern women,” Lucas muttered with a grin. “Velvet voice, iron will. Sounds like my mom.”

Miranda’s smile softened. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for that dinner. It was lovely seeing your mom again.”

And just like that, his blood rushed south. Images assaulted him—her eyes going wide as he pushed inside her, the way she bit his shoulder when she came, the sweet slide of her lips down his neck. He adjusted in his seat, subtly shifting the cup to hide the bulge now straining against his zipper.

“She did all the work,” he said roughly. “But yeah. She said you sent flowers. White roses, right? They were always her favorite.”

“I thought they were. I had hoped I was right.”

“You always remember the special touches.”

“If that’s all?” She arched an eyebrow, glances at her screen.

He stood abruptly, coffee cup in hand. “That’s not all I came to say.”

Miranda looked up, her expression flickering between curiosity and caution.

He moved around the desk slowly, predator-smooth, until he was in front of her.

He turned her chair with firm hands and leaned in, bracing his arms on either side of her, caging her in.

Her breath caught, and he saw the flicker of heat in her eyes before she masked it.

His hand slid to the nape of her neck, fingers threading into the loose knot of her hair, tilting her face up.

Then he kissed her. Not gently. Not like someone who regretted anything.

His mouth claimed hers—hot, deep, unrelenting.

His tongue teased, then thrust, echoing the rhythm that still lived in his dreams. She tasted of chai and honey, the soft hint of mint from her lip balm, and beneath it, something uniquely hers—something he’d never stop craving.

She kissed him back with equal fervor, her body arching up toward him instinctively. No, it wasn’t over. Not even close.

A noise from the hall broke through the fog. He pulled back just enough to see the dazed flush on her cheeks, her eyes slightly unfocused. Perfect.

He pressed one last kiss on her lips—slow and possessive—before stepping back.

“You might want to pretend that night meant nothing, Miranda,” he said, voice low and intimate, “but we both know it’s not over. Not even close. We’re not done.”

He picked up his coffee, swaggered to the door, and offered a casual greeting to Cole in the hall with a slap on the shoulder.

God, he loved Opening Day.

M iranda’s face burned as Lucas sauntered out the door, the taste of his kiss still tingling on her lips, the heat of his hands ghosting along her skin.

As if she could forget that night. As if her body would ever let her.

She’d told herself one time would be enough to exorcise the craving, to satisfy the curiosity.

She should have known better. Lucas had since taken up permanent residence in her dreams, starring in scenarios that left her tangled in sheets and wide awake at two a.m.—as restless from desire as she was from worry over her father.

And yet, what haunted her more than the sex—hot, wild, unforgettable—were the conversations.

The late-night talks over takeout containers and cheap hotel coffee.

The quiet understanding when they debated player stats and game strategy.

He’d seen her, truly seen her. Not as some nepotism hire or pretty figurehead.

Not as the former pageant girl with a convenient last name.

But as a woman with sharp ideas and ambition to match.

Lucas respected her, even challenged her—but never dismissed her.

God, she missed that.

Most of her past relationships had been variations on the same disappointing theme—men who treated her like a trophy or a temporary amusement.

She’d lost count of how many had blinked in disbelief when they discovered she held an MBA, like brains and beauty couldn’t coexist. Lucas, though…

he spoke to her like an equal. He listened.

He pushed back. He valued her opinion even when he disagreed. Especially when he disagreed.

And beneath all that was the current. That charged, undeniable pull.

One night had proven the tension wasn’t just in her head.

But giving in again felt dangerous. Because this wasn’t just about sex.

She wanted him—his mind, his banter, his mouth, yes—but also his quiet steadiness, his fierce focus. And that scared the hell out of her.

Her father would disapprove. Hell, the whole league would probably whisper behind her back.

A woman in her position couldn’t afford scandal.

Workplace relationships were always seen as a liability—for women more than men.

The double standard wasn’t subtle. She needed her leadership team’s trust. Respect.

And risking it all for a man—even one who made her feel like her skin was too tight and the air too thin—might be foolish.

Except it hadn’t felt like just a hookup.

It had felt like more.

And maybe that was the most terrifying part.