Page 4

Chapter

Three

M iranda closed the office door behind her and exhaled a long, weary sigh.

The last three hours had been a grueling exercise in control—sifting through documents, dissecting reports, and trudging through financial statements with Lucas Wainright.

And that was just the preliminary overview.

Now, he wanted time alone with the data and individual meetings with department heads before revealing any thoughts.

One thing, however, was painfully clear: the situation was worse than she feared.

This wasn’t a matter of budget cuts or trimming the excess.

This was scorched-earth restructuring. If the Knights were going to survive, they would need a full overhaul of strategy.

And her father? He would fight that tooth and nail.

Her body felt strung tight, every muscle stretched taut like a rubber band ready to snap. It was only day one. How was she already this exhausted? Bruised emotionally, drained mentally—but underneath it all, another sensation whispered along her nerves like an unwelcome ghost.

Lust.

It coiled low in her belly, flaring every time Lucas leaned over her shoulder, his voice smooth and firm in her ear, his scent—a mix of clean musk and cedar—teasing her restraint.

She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she’d been touched, flirted with, truly seen.

The season was always brutal, her father insisting on an executive schedule that left no room for a personal life.

Usually she snuck away in the off-season, indulging in a little stress relief, a solo getaway, maybe a fling.

But not this year. Not with the promotion.

Now here she was, hyper-aware of a man who was supposed to be the enemy, the threat. Who had the gall to be sharp, competent, and devastatingly attractive.

It’s just physical deprivation, she told herself. A long-denied hunger finding the nearest available target.

A very, very appealing target.

Her thoughts betrayed her again—broad shoulders in a fitted dress shirt, the way his jacket had come off and the sleeves had rolled up, exposing tanned forearms and strong wrists. She’d never once been tempted by Cole Hammonds, their general manager. But Lucas? He was carved from a different mold.

Not Cole Hammonds, a voice whispered in her head. You never wanted Cole.

She snorted at herself and drew a curious glance from a man passing in the hallway. She covered it with a polite nod, pretending to scroll her tablet as she leaned against the wall for balance.

She never should’ve gone to his office. It had been a tactical misstep.

Her father would’ve chewed her out for ceding control so easily.

She should have brought him to her turf, her rules.

In her space, she wouldn’t have been so affected.

She could’ve focused on business, not his tailored body and piercing eyes.

Miranda inhaled sharply—and cursed when she caught a lingering trace of his aftershave in the air. She pushed off the wall, her knees slightly unsteady, and forced herself down the hallway to her own office.

Inside the waiting area, Stacia Kendall, the Knights’ player PR lead, sat perched on the edge of a chair, chatting amiably with Miranda’s assistant. She jumped to her feet as soon as Miranda appeared.

Miranda paused to give her assistant instructions, her tone clipped. “Please schedule meetings with each of the vice presidents for Mr. Wainright over the next few days.” The assistant nodded, tapping quickly on her tablet. Stacia followed Miranda into her office, concern etched across her face.

Though they’d known each other since childhood, Miranda and Stacia hadn’t been close growing up.

Their fathers were too different—one a gruff shipping tycoon, the other a charismatic senator with no shortage of enemies.

Their daughters had grown up under the weight of men who expected perfection and didn’t tolerate weakness.

Only recently, through proximity and shared battle scars, had they found something like friendship.

Stacia had originally been brought in to rehab the image of Jason Friar, the Knights’ notorious star, and instead had fallen for the reformed bad boy.

Now she was firmly rooted in the franchise, handling players while Miranda tackled the larger corporate picture. It was a fragile but welcome alliance.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I got stuck with the new consultant—Lucas Wainright.” Miranda dropped into her chair with a groan, every muscle protesting. She immediately began rummaging through drawers, searching for painkillers.

“I heard your dad wasn’t too happy.” Stacia raised a brow, watching her with wry sympathy.

Miranda pulled out a bottle of aspirin and slammed the drawer shut. “That’s putting it mildly. I should probably go update him, but I’m not ready for round two.”

“I think he can wait. You look like you need a moment to breathe.” Stacia reached across the desk, squeezing Miranda’s hand. It was the only real comfort she could offer, but it helped.

Miranda downed the aspirin with a gulp of cold tea, grimacing. “I need a vacation and stock in Tylenol. This whole thing is going to be a nightmare.”

“Lucas Wainright?” Stacia tilted her head. “Is he related to the guy who used to own the team?”

Miranda’s expression twisted. “Yeah. His father was the principal owner before my father took over. But now he’s the league’s guy.”

Stacia’s expression turned unreadable. “That changes things. How’d it go?”

“Not well.” Miranda leaned back, exhaling. “Bottom line—we’re cornered. We took a loan from the league. The financials are a mess. And we’ve opened ourselves up to league control. If we don’t cooperate, the commissioner could appoint new leadership. It’s happened before. Remember Los Angeles?”

“Are we really that bad off?”

Miranda gave her a long look. “Yes. My father keeps everything close. But we don’t have the budget for top-tier players, not even mid-tier. Lucas says chasing that big-name signing every season is killing us.”

Stacia groaned. “What’s the alternative?”

“Find another way to win.” She shook her head. “Assuming this isn’t the first step in a hostile takeover.”

Stacia muttered a curse. “What can we do?”

Miranda’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. I have to convince my father to listen to reason. And I don’t think I can.”

“If you can’t, no one else will.” Stacia’s voice was quiet but certain.

Miranda let out a bitter laugh. “He doesn’t see me. I’m just his mouthpiece. Smart enough to execute his plan but never mine. I follow orders like everyone else on this staff.”

She arched a brow. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Stacia nodded with a sigh. “We both have fathers who only hear what they want. That just means we have to fight harder.”

“But you walked away,” Miranda said softly. “You carved your own path. I can’t imagine your senator father thrilled about his daughter working PR for a baseball team.”

Stacia’s grin turned wicked. “He hates it. Hates Jason even more. But it was time. I wanted a life on my own terms.”

“Are you saying I should leave?”

Miranda couldn’t imagine it. The stadium had been her second home since childhood. The scent of peanuts and fresh grass. The crack of a bat. This was hers. It always had been.

“No,” Stacia said, voice gentle. “I’m saying maybe it’s time you fight for it another way.”

A few hours later, Miranda sank into the strong, capable hands of Mei-Ling, a sigh slipping from her lips as skilled fingers dug into the stubborn knots in her shoulders.

Tension clung to her like a second skin, accumulating after every terse exchange with her father, breeding stress in her neck, her back, her spine.

The massage helped—momentarily. But the knots weren’t just physical.

They were rooted in something deeper. Conflict. Fear. And confusion.

Walking Lucas through the internal systems and files had taken longer than expected, mostly because she kept getting distracted.

Not by his questions. By him. The way he moved, the way he watched her, the quiet command in his voice.

A dangerous voice, smooth and sharp, like fine whiskey poured over ice.

She hated how easily it slid beneath her skin.

She’d come here to escape. To let go of the pressure building between her and her father, between her and Lucas—between the old guard and the new. And yet even here, in the bright haze of the nail salon, tension coiled through her limbs like a taut wire pulled tight between duty and desire.

How do I convince my father to let go? To trust anyone else?

To trust me?

The disloyal thought sent another ripple of tension through her spine, and she groaned. The scent of acetone and polish hung heavy in the air, oddly comforting in its familiarity. Around her, women chatted, laughed, the low hum of conversation acting like white noise—but Miranda barely heard it.

The nail tech held up her hand, offering a questioning glance at the shade.

Shocking pink.

She gave a faint nod. It was bold, playful, unapologetic—everything she wasn’t feeling right now. It would likely fuel the perception that she was frivolous, unserious. The beauty queen in a boardroom.

Screw it. She loved the color. And when things got rough—as they inevitably would—at least she’d have something bright to look at.

Of course, the moment she let herself feel even the faintest flicker of relief, her thoughts betrayed her again. And there he was—Lucas—sweeping back into her mind like a storm cloud rimmed in sunlight.

Her shoulders tensed again, her body reacting before she could stop it. Mei-Ling clicked her tongue in disapproval.

“Relax, Ms. Callahan,” she chided softly, her fingers pressing insistently into a knotted muscle.

Miranda exhaled and closed her eyes, willing herself to sink into the moment, to let the soothing rhythm of the massage drown out the voices in her head. No father. No franchise. No Lucas Wainright.

Then her phone rang.

Mei-Ling’s eyes snapped to the offending device like a heat-seeking missile, lips flattening in disdain.

Despite being the customer, Miranda knew better—this was Mei-Ling’s kingdom.

The customer might be queen elsewhere, but not here.

With an exasperated sniff, Mei-Ling spun away, abandoning her in favor of another client and flicking the massage chair’s setting to a low thrum—an inferior substitute for her hands.

Tina, the manicurist, gestured toward Miranda’s purse with a look of warning. “It’s ringing again.”

Miranda groaned. “Let it go to voicemail. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

She leaned back in the vibrating chair, trying to reclaim the moment. The pulse of the massage seeped into her spine, and for a brief second, she let herself pretend it would be enough.

The phone rang again.

Miranda’s eyes fluttered open. “Tina, can you check who it is?”

Tina pulled the phone out, her brow arching as she read the name. She held it out. “Want to answer it?”

Lucas Wainright.

Her stomach dipped. How the hell did he get her number?

“No. Just leave it on the counter.”

The phone stopped buzzing and sat, silently waiting. Tina glanced up, curiosity written all over her face.

“Boyfriend trouble?” she asked, eyes sparkling.

Miranda let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Not even close. He’s a consultant. Works with my father and me.”

Tina’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “He’s the one calling you.”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “He’s not my type. Too tense. Too controlled. Way too much like my father.”

Her words were crisp, definitive.

But in the back of her mind, a tiny traitorous voice whispered, But he’s sexy as hell. And there it was again—that flicker of heat, the kind that built low and slow and made her wonder things she had no business wondering.

“Probably just something about a report,” she added, forcing breezy indifference. “I needed a break. A manicure helps me think.”

Before Tina could respond, Mei-Ling returned like a force of nature, brows drawn together in a disapproving line. “Phone call. I am not running answering service. You want talk? Talk. But quick. That’s my salon line.”

Miranda’s eyes flicked to her still-wet nails, then to Tina, then to the cordless phone placed on the table with regal finality. With a resigned sigh, Tina picked it up and held it out.

Miranda took it gingerly, holding it like a fragile artifact between two fingers. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end exploded into her ear.

“Why the hell weren’t you answering your damn phone? I had to track down your assistant just to find you.”

Lucas Wainright’s voice hit like a bullet—loud, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

Miranda sat up straighter, the sudden panic creeping down her spine. “I don’t answer to you.”

“Everyone answers to me. Your mom asked me to call. Get to Savannah Medical Center. Your father’s had a heart attack.”

The words shattered her world. Time slowed.

The phone slipped from her fingers, hit the floor, and exploded into a dozen plastic shards.