Page 28

Chapter

Twenty-One

T wo weeks later, Miranda and Lucas stood on the familiar concrete porch of her parents’ house, beneath the warm glow of the porch light.

Miranda fiddled with the strap of her purse, nerves working her fingers as she tried to unlock the door.

The keys slipped from her grasp and clattered to the ground.

“Damn it,” she muttered.

Lucas bent down and scooped them up—but instead of handing them back, he held them just out of reach, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips.

She stilled, then fixed him with a mock glare, fists planting on her hips. “Lucas. Give me the keys.”

He took a step back, smile widening. “Not yet. You’re too tense.”

“I’ll be better once this night is over. Trust me.”

“Nope,” he said easily, slipping the keys into his back pocket. “Can’t wait that long.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her in, his free hand cradling the back of her head.

She braced her hands against his chest, half in protest, half to steady herself.

But then he kissed her—soft, slow, a kiss meant not to ignite but to soothe, to strip away nerves and tension like a warm bath.

His fingers slid into her loose waves, anchoring her as his lips moved over hers with devastating tenderness.

When he finally pulled back, the sudden glare of the porch light hit her eyes—his head had been shielding it.

“Better?”

She let out a breath and smiled, cheeks flushing. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

But before he could retrieve the keys, the door swung open.

Gwen stood on the other side, arms folded, a bemused look on her face. “I was starting to wonder how long you were going to stand out there. Forget your key?”

Miranda flushed and ducked forward to hug her mother instead of answering. “Hi, Mom. You remember Lucas.”

“Of course I do.” Gwen drew him into an affectionate hug before he could object. “I never did thank you for your help at the hospital. That meant a lot to me.”

Lucas gave a modest nod. “That wasn’t necessary, Mrs. Callahan. You helped my mom when my dad was sick.”

“Family sticks together,” she said matter-of-factly. “And you’re basically family. Come in. Seamus is in the family room, probably sneaking Baseball Tonight. Lucas, can you help me in the kitchen? And call me Gwen.”

Miranda and Lucas exchanged a quick glance of surprise. Before either could respond, Gwen had already claimed Lucas’s arm and was ushering him inside, leaving Miranda standing alone, feeling oddly... displaced.

She exhaled, steeled herself, and headed toward the family room. The familiar sound of baseball commentators filled the air—stats, replays, hot takes.

“Hi, Daddy.” She leaned over and pressed a kiss to her father’s balding head.

He startled awake and nearly kicked his recliner into full launch mode. “When did you get here?”

“Just a few minutes ago,” she replied. “How are the Knights doing?”

He jabbed a finger at the TV. “They’re up next. What’ve you done to my team? I told you not to trade for Prosser. And this small-ball nonsense? That’s not baseball. That’s a TED Talk with cleats.”

Miranda kept her smile fixed, even as her molars ground together. “Half the league plays small ball now—especially smaller market teams like us. We’ve got a win streak. First time in a decade.”

She paused to let the sports announcer talk.“ What’s been going on with the Georgia Knights? Everyone wrote them off after they got gutted in the off-season, and now they’re leading the league without making any big trades. What are you up to? ”

“We look great shaking hands after wins,” she said with cool pride. “The players are hustling, the clubhouse has energy.”

“They damn well better play hard. I pay them a fortune to hit a ball. And sure, everyone’s positive in April. Talk to me in July and August.”

“Prosser was a steal,” she said, voice sharpening. “He’s producing at the plate, settling the pitching staff. Even Minnesota’s analysts admitted they blew it.”

“Just because some talking heads on ESPN think we’re hot doesn’t mean you’re right.” He turned to glare at her, face drawn and weary. “I still own this team. You work for me. What possessed you to overhaul everything?”

“They’ve worked for other teams?—”

Lucas entered the room mid-sentence, calm and composed, and walked straight up to Seamus with a hand extended.

Seamus stared at it like it was a poisonous snake.

“I should’ve known you were behind this,” he sneered. “Ruin my team, will you?”

Lucas lowered his hand, posture relaxed but his tone steel. “If a winning record is ruin, then yeah. I’ll take the blame.”

“Lucas is right,” Miranda cut in, voice rising. “Cole and I both did the research. Lucas didn’t call the shots—he made suggestions.”

Seamus whirled toward her, eyes blazing. “You told outsiders about our problems? It’s bad enough I have this—this snake—lurking in our office. But sharing strategy outside the family? That’s betrayal.”

He slammed his fist on the recliner and winced, pain flickering over his face.

Miranda’s stomach twisted. So much for easing into it.

Lucas stood tall, jaw tight, eyes blazing beneath a veneer of calm. “People are talking about the Knights. They’re excited. They’re watching again. Ticket sales are up. That’s because of Miranda.”

“Big deal,” Seamus muttered. “They’ll disappear again. Fans aren’t loyal unless you win. And with your small-ball crap, you can’t keep it up. You don’t have the talent.”

Miranda placed a calming hand on her father’s arm.

“We know. That’s why we wait. Build a solid first half.

Then, when other teams start shedding payroll mid-season, we make smart, strategic moves—our moves.

Not desperation trades. We use the right metrics to find undervalued players who fit our model. And then we keep winning.”

Seamus stared at her like he didn’t recognize the woman standing before him. “Metrics. I’ll tell you what metrics matter—home runs. Strikeouts. ERA. That’s real baseball.”

“No,” Miranda said, voice quiet but firm. “Wins matter. And right now, we’re winning.”

Gwen stepped into the room. “Dinner’s ready! Hope you like fried chicken—trying a new low-fat recipe.”

“And low-flavor,” Seamus grumbled as he stood, shrugging off Miranda’s offered hand.

“Seamus,” Gwen warned.

He ducked his head, chastened. “It was good.”

Then he looked back up, glaring. “See what I’m reduced to? Low fat. No Scotch. What’s the point? Maybe I shouldn’t have come out of that surgery.”

“Dad!” Miranda gasped, heart lurching.

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Ignore your father. He’s fishing for sympathy.”

Lucas slid an arm around Miranda and gave her a reassuring squeeze as they followed the older couple toward the dining room.

But Seamus turned, voice sharp. “What’s this? You two? Are you trying to kill me?”

Gwen’s hand landed on his arm like a brake pedal. “Seamus. Breathe. Doctor’s orders.”

As they moved down the hall, Miranda muttered under her breath, “Maybe this was a mistake.”

Lucas leaned in. “Stay firm, Miranda. We can get through this.”

She stopped just shy of the doorway and looked up at him, vulnerability cracking through her armor. “Why do you put up with me? With all of this?”

He bent down and brushed a kiss across her lips, lingering just long enough to make her heartbeat flutter. “Maybe I think you’re worth it.”

She swallowed hard, heart twisting. Would he still feel that way after tonight?

Miranda closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer for strength.

D inner didn’t improve much from there. Seamus managed to find fault with everything—from Miranda’s front office strategies to Lucas’s presence at the table to the paper-thin cloth napkins that Gwen had picked up from a trendy eco-conscious boutique.

It was like hosting a dinner party with Gordon Ramsay on a bender and zero filter.

By the time they reached the front door, Miranda felt wrung out—emotionally dehydrated, like a week-old dishcloth left in the sun, stiff and unraveling at the seams. Her father barely offered a grunt of goodbye, retreating to his recliner like a deposed monarch.

Gwen, ever the graceful host, followed them to the door with a soft, serene smile and worry lurking behind her eyes.

She pulled Miranda in for a warm, lingering hug, holding her just long enough that Miranda felt a lump rise in her throat.

“Ignore your father, sweetheart,” Gwen murmured. “He’s scared. Being dependent is his worst nightmare. He’ll come around once he’s through the worst of this. And when he does, I think he’ll open up—not just to your ideas, but to Lucas, too.”

Miranda swallowed hard, trying not to let the mix of love and weariness tip her into tears.

“Don’t let him drive a wedge between you and that man,” Gwen added gently. “Lucas is a good one.”

Then Gwen turned to Lucas and embraced him with surprising ease, whispering something only he could hear.

Whatever she said made Lucas flush, a slow, unmistakable blush creeping up his neck. He smiled and hugged her back, a little stunned.

“Thank you for dinner, Gwen,” he said sincerely.

“Come back soon!” she called brightly as the door swung shut behind them.

Miranda raised a brow and slanted a look his way as they descended the porch steps. “Okay, I need to know—what did my mother whisper in your ear?”

Lucas gave her a sly grin, one that sent a warm jolt right through her. “She was sharing her chicken recipe.”

Miranda snorted. “God, that chicken was so bland. No wonder my father’s in a permanent state of irritation.”

He shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Only bad if you’ve had real Southern food. I grew up eating that kind of baked, beige chicken up north. It’s practically the default.”

“You poor, deprived man.” She reached out and laid a hand on his chest, her fingers brushing over the hard muscle beneath his button-down. Her touch lingered, her voice dropping just a little. “How can I possibly make it up to you?”

He slipped an arm around her waist and tugged her in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, sending shivers straight to her core. “Oh... I’ll think of something.”

She laughed low, warm and sultry, her body curling into his as they made their way to the car—already thinking of all the ways she’d help him recover from tonight’s flavorless trauma.