Page 30

He sliced the cake—German chocolate—and Miranda served each piece with practiced grace.

People filtered in and out, grabbing plates, carrying extras to desk-bound coworkers, chatting about players and prospects and weekend plans.

Lucas thanked each person by name, surprising himself with how easily the words came.

Names. Faces. Connections. He wasn’t the outsider anymore.

When the room finally cleared, only Cole, Jason, Stacia, Miranda, and Lucas remained.

Lucas sank into the chair beside Miranda and picked up his slice of cake. His favorite.

“How did you pull this off?”

She leaned in, close enough for her scent—warm vanilla and something sharper, citrus maybe—to reach him. “Your mom,” she said simply. “Took some convincing, but she told me this was your favorite. Even gave me the name of the bakery she used when you were little.”

He took a bite, the taste flooding his mouth. Rich chocolate. Toasted coconut. Sweet pecan.

He closed his eyes and moaned, deep and satisfied. “Oh my God. This is exactly how I remember it.”

When he opened his eyes, he found Miranda watching him, a flicker of relief flashing across her face—so quick it was almost invisible.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

She didn’t speak, but her smile was radiant.

He wanted to kiss her—desperately—but resisted. Not here. Not yet.

Cole stood and broke the spell. “I’ve got a call with Seattle. They’re shopping a couple of prospects—might be something in it for us.”

“Banyan and Moore?” Jason asked, already mentally calculating.

“Yeah. Good OBP, decent fielding. Banyan might be a solid back-up at first for Lockhart—especially if he keeps tanking.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Lockhart was still a black hole on the field. The kid had promise, but the major leagues weren’t forgiving. Nerves. Pressure. Expectations. He wasn’t cutting it. They all knew it.

“What’s Seattle want in return?” Jason asked.

“Relief pitching,” Cole said. “Hanley or Polonio.”

“Damn,” Jason muttered, echoing what everyone was thinking.

Miranda tapped a finger against her lip, eyes narrowing. “What’s Sam think?”

“He wants Banyan. Bad. Says the errors at first are killing our momentum.”

She looked to Lucas. “What’s your take?”

He didn’t hesitate. “We need Banyan. Hanley’s a right-hander, and he’s been rocked this season. I’d make the trade.”

Cole nodded. “I’ll pitch it and see what we can work out.”

With that, the trio rose and left, shutting the door behind them—leaving Lucas and Miranda alone in the conference room, the echo of conversations still humming in the air.

Lucas set his fork down and leaned back, studying her. She sat tall, composed, hands folded in her lap. But she wasn’t looking at him.

“Thank you,” he said, voice quiet.

She turned, her smile slow and sensual, laced with something more. “We’ll celebrate properly later.”

The promise in her voice sent a spark down his spine. His blood warmed, muscles tightening in anticipation. But even as his body responded to her, a weight tugged at the back of his mind.

Roger.

The offer.

The truth he hadn’t told her.

The irony wasn’t lost on him—he’d been embraced by the very people he’d been sent to replace. The very woman he’d been warned against, he now couldn’t imagine walking away from.

And yet, he hadn’t told her. Couldn’t tell her.

Not yet.

The offer from Roger still lingered like poison in his gut. If word got out, no one would believe he hadn’t come here with an agenda. That he hadn’t been angling for power all along.

No, silence was his only defense now. His only strategy. Let the results speak for themselves. Let the team win. Let Miranda win.

That had to be enough to keep Roger at bay.

He prayed it would be.

Because if it wasn’t—he’d lose everything.

“ Y ou’re awfully quiet,” Miranda murmured, leaning into his side as they strolled toward the car.

Lucas automatically curled an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. Her body molded into his like it belonged there, like she’d always been meant to walk beside him. But beneath his calm exterior, his thoughts churned like the Atlantic after a hurricane.

She laid her head against his shoulder. “You’ve been off since the cake. Didn’t you like it?” Her voice was tentative, soft with concern. “I know you hate being the center of attention.”

He smiled and gave her a gentle squeeze. “It was perfect. I didn’t expect it.”

“Everyone wanted to do something. You’ve become part of our family.”

The words pierced him—sharp and warm all at once.

Family. The one thing he lost. The one thing he was afraid he’d never truly earn again.

He had left, broken bonds, walked away. Now he was back, tethered to them again, but for how long?

Until Roger’s scheme unfolded? Until his next assignment?

Because secrets never stayed buried—not in baseball, not in life.

He wasn’t proud of it, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. Not yet. Not tonight.

Especially not on his birthday.

And hadn’t she promised him something special?

At the car, he unlocked it and held the door open, bracing his arm across the roof to stop her from sliding in. He tilted his head, voice low and playful. “What was that about a special celebration?”

A wicked smile curled her lips, and she trailed one finger down the center of his chest, igniting goosebumps in her wake. “We have to wait until we get home. But here’s a preview.”

She grabbed the lapels of his jacket, tugging him close.

Rising on tiptoe, she kissed him—slow and deep, her tongue sweeping his in a teasing, intoxicating dance.

He tasted her drink—a trace of citrusy gin and orange juice, laced with the cool tingle of after-dinner mint.

He growled and slid a hand around her waist, pulling her tighter, angling for more.

But she slipped free with a laugh. “Later, cowboy.” She ducked into the car, smirking as she buckled up.

He groaned and jogged around to the driver’s side, adrenaline and anticipation humming beneath his skin.

They barely made it through the front door before Miranda launched herself at him, arms and legs wrapping around him like a vine.

He caught her easily, his mouth crushing hers in a kiss that crackled with hunger.

Her dress slid off her shoulders as he unzipped it, his hands skimming hot skin.

The garment fluttered to the floor. Her heels kicked off with twin thuds.

She fumbled with his shirt, popping buttons in her haste.

He tore his lips from hers, panting. “Not here.”

Grabbing her hand, he pulled her down the hall to the bedroom. He didn’t bother with lights—moonlight and the golden glow of street lamps filtered through the curtains, casting the room in soft shadows.

She reached for him again, but he caught her wrists and guided her back to the bed. Gently, he pressed her down, lifting her arms above her head, brushing them against the headboard.

“Don’t move them,” he warned, his voice dark and edged. “Or I’ll have to tie you up.”

Her breath hitched. A visible shiver ran through her. He filed that reaction away for later.

If there was a later.

He banished the thought and focused on the now—on Miranda. Her breath. Her body. Her want.

He kissed her softly, brushing her lips with his, then pulled back just as she tried to deepen it. Instead, he trailed kisses along her jaw, playful little nips that had her gasping. Down her throat, he licked the hollow at the base of her neck, feeling the flutter of her pulse beneath his mouth.

She arched into him, breath coming fast.

He cupped her breast, thumb sweeping over the tight peak. She shuddered. He pinched one nipple between his fingers while taking the other in his mouth—sucking, laving, biting gently until she was crying out, hips rising off the bed in search of more.

Her hands trembled above her head but didn’t move.

He grinned against her skin and continued his path down her body, scattering butterfly kisses over her stomach. She trembled beneath him, muscles coiled tight, anticipation radiating off her.

He slipped two fingers between her thighs and into her slick heat.

Her cry filled the room.

He curled his fingers inside her, stroking until she shattered around him, pulsing and clenching with release. As she trembled, he kissed her inner thigh, then finally licked his way to her center.

He flicked his tongue over her clit, slow and firm, then sucked it deep into his mouth.

She writhed. Another climax slammed into her, sharp and consuming. She screamed.

As she panted, spent and still trembling, he reached for the nightstand, grabbed a condom, and rolled it on.

He crawled over her, resting between her thighs. She was boneless beneath him, lips parted, eyes glazed.

He kissed her softly.

“I think you can move your arms now,” he murmured, lips brushing hers.

She wrapped around him, arms and legs, anchoring him as she lifted her hips in rhythm with his. He slid into her in one long thrust, her body still fluttering with aftershocks.

He moved slowly, savoring the sensation, the connection. Their bodies rocked together in perfect sync, a rhythm older than time. When he finally came, it tore through him with brutal force. Miranda followed with a gasp, her arms clutching him tight.

He collapsed beside her, chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin. She lay next to him, utterly still, breathing shallow.

“Oh my God,” she said, breathless. “Where did that come from? It was supposed to be your birthday.”

He smirked, smug and unrepentant. “I got exactly what I wanted.”

“When I catch my breath, I’ll give you your actual present.”

“No rush,” he groaned. “I can’t move anyway.”

“Not that, silly.” She rolled off the bed with a groan. “I think you killed me.”

“What a way to go.”

She laughed and disappeared into the other room. He propped himself up on one elbow. “Where are you going?”

“Hang on!”

A minute later, she returned with a wrapped box and climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged, eyes sparkling.

“Open it.”

He hesitated. It had been years since he’d gotten a real gift. Cards from his siblings, sure. Gift cards from his mother. But an actual present? He couldn’t remember the last time. Maybe before his dad died.

He tore into the wrapping paper, Miranda practically vibrating with excitement.

Inside was a folded Knights jersey.

“Take it out,” she ordered gently.

He shook it loose. The name WAINRIGHT stretched across the back in bold letters. The number 2 stood out beneath it.

“You’re part of the family now.”

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. His throat thickened. His eyes burned.

“Don’t you like it?” she asked, suddenly uncertain.

He swallowed hard. “I love it. This has been the best birthday I’ve had in years.”

She beamed. “Good. Because now it’s time for your other present.”

She shoved him back onto the bed and straddled him, her mouth already finding his again.

And later, much later, when she slept curled against his side, her breathing soft and steady, Lucas lay awake, staring at the jersey draped over the chair.

How the hell was he ever going to tell her the truth?