Page 8

Chapter

Six

M iranda dragged herself down the dimly lit hallway toward her office, her heels muffled against the carpet, the silence pressing in like fog.

The overhead lights had been dimmed for the night, and only the glow from exit signs and her memory guided her through the maze of cubicles.

Her foot caught on the edge of the rug, and she stumbled, bumping hard into a divider.

She pressed her palm against it, grounding herself, willing her body to cooperate.

Maybe her mother was right. After splitting her time between the hospital and the office for the past few days—culminating in today’s tense, hours-long quadruple bypass—she was beyond burned out.

Emotionally raw. Mentally scattered. Physically dragging.

She shouldn’t be here. But the office had become her sanctuary, the one place where she could pretend things weren’t falling apart.

And maybe, just maybe, she wanted to see what Lucas Wainright was up to.

Her assistant, Maggie, had been keeping her informed through texts and voice memos, and the updates weren’t exactly comforting. Lucas had been busy. Too busy. He’d met with almost every department head. Requested internal audits. Run analysis reports. And asked a lot of questions.

Miranda needed to know what his angle was. What his endgame looked like. Because no matter how helpful and steady he’d been during the crisis—during her crisis—the line between threat and comfort remained dangerously blurred.

Her brain knew Lucas was here to implement change. Maybe take over the team entirely. But the man who had held her mother’s hand, spoken kindly to doctors, and held Miranda up when she thought she might crumble—that man didn’t line up with the cold strategist she kept hearing about in meetings.

She straightened and arched her back, wincing at the tight pull across her spine. Hospital chairs were ergonomic torture. She rubbed the back of her neck as she reached the end of the hallway—and paused. A sliver of warm light spilled out from beneath the office door she’d assigned to Lucas.

She hesitated. Maybe he’d just left the light on.

Still, something pulled at her. Curiosity. Dread. Maybe both. Her hand lifted before she could think better of it, and she pushed the door open.

Lucas looked up from his laptop, the screen casting a blue wash over his face.

He blinked slowly, as if dragging himself back from deep focus.

She didn’t want to notice how rumpled he looked—how his sandy blond hair was tousled, like he’d raked his fingers through it a dozen times.

His jacket was draped over the chair, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing a tantalizing triangle of skin at his throat.

He studied her for a beat, gaze calm, unreadable. Like he’d expected her.

Her stomach dipped. She flushed and reached for the door handle. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He stood slowly—habit, she thought, or maybe instinct. A trace of his Southern upbringing still alive beneath the steel. “You didn’t.”

A pause. Then, more gently, “How’s your father?”

Her throat closed up, and she blinked fast to hold the tears back. “He’s… stable. The bypass went well. He’s sedated and resting in ICU.”

She hesitated. “Do you even care?”

Something flickered across his face. He moved from behind the desk, his tone low. “I never wanted him hurt, Miranda. You know that.”

Her spine wilted. The stress, the sleepless nights, the weight of responsibility—it all came crashing down at once. Her shoulders caved as emotion overtook her, and before she could stop herself, the tears spilled free.

And then his arms were around her.

She didn’t remember moving. One moment she was standing in the doorway, and the next she was tucked against Lucas’s chest, his arms wrapped tight around her, one hand stroking slow circles between her shoulder blades.

The other cradled the back of her head, fingers threading lightly into her hair.

He held her like he meant it, like he’d been waiting to do it all week.

She let herself lean into him, her hands clutching his waist, sobs shaking loose the pressure she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

Minutes passed. Or hours. She didn’t know.

When the tears finally dried and her mind cleared, she realized his shirt was soaked through and that her arms were still wrapped around him.

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t let go. His warmth seeped into her bones, his strength grounding her.

Slowly, she tilted her face up, her breath catching when she met his eyes.

Blue. Steady. Concerned. And something else.

He lowered his head and brushed his mouth against hers—soft, tentative, not demanding, just there, and it undid her completely.

The kiss was quiet, but inside her, everything screamed.

Her pulse pounded, her body went molten, and need surged up so fast it left her dizzy.

His lips moved against hers once, then again, not coaxing but offering.

And for one perfect second, she let herself fall.

She clung to him like a life raft in a sea of chaos.

Then the low sound in her throat snapped her out of it. She pulled back, stunned, eyes wide.

Lucas lifted his head, still holding her arms, steadying her. “Why did you do that?” she asked.

His brow furrowed, like he wasn’t sure himself. “I don’t know. I just… needed to kiss you.”

She released her grip on his forearms and stumbled back a step, catching herself on the chair. Her legs wobbled. “Well, we can’t do that again.”

His mouth twitched. “Why not?”

“Because we work together. And my father is lying in a hospital bed with a second chance at life, and I just kissed the man he despises. Pretty sure that’s not in the daughter handbook.”

“You’re right.” Lucas stepped back, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry.”

The air between them crackled, not just with what had happened, but what still simmered just beneath the surface. She felt it in every breath.

The adrenaline faded, exhaustion hitting her like a freight train. She sagged slightly, gripping the edge of the chair to stay upright. “I’m too tired for this, Lucas. Can we talk about the team tomorrow?”

He nodded, voice quiet again. “Of course, Miranda.”

She left the office without another word.

But his gaze followed her long after the door closed.

M iranda shifted restlessly in the visitor’s chair beside her father’s hospital bed, her spine protesting the unforgiving cushion.

How her mother managed to spend entire days here without becoming permanently hunched was beyond her.

The quiet chaos of the ICU—nurses murmuring updates, the squeak of rubber soles, monitors softly beeping—wasn’t exactly the restful environment it was supposed to be.

And yet, this was where Seamus Callahan would remain for the next several days, healing beneath fluorescent lights and the scent of antiseptic.

Then, hopefully, home. Where maybe—just maybe—he and her mother could finally rest.

Maybe they’d get a nurse to help out. Maybe she could convince him to finally relinquish some control.

Maybe… pigs would fly.

“Miranda?”

Her mother’s voice came softly from the doorway, catching her mid-thought.

Miranda stood quickly, crossing to her. “Mom? I thought you were resting at home.”

“I was.” Gwen gave her a gentle smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But I wanted to be here when the doctor does his rounds. Has he been by yet?”

Miranda shook her head. “Not yet. Might still be too early.”

Her mother’s eyes twinkled faintly. “I remember when I couldn’t get you out of bed before ten. And now, here you are at six-thirty, dressed for work and practically glowing. How times have changed.”

Miranda gave a soft laugh. “Circumstances tend to do that to a girl.”

They both glanced toward Seamus, still asleep, and stepped quietly into the hallway, closing the door behind them.

Miranda took in her mother’s appearance with fresh eyes.

Gwen Callahan, who could have passed for a First Lady at any given fundraiser, had clearly dialed it down today—but only slightly.

Her soft-knit pantsuit was designer casual, carefully chosen for comfort, and she wore her makeup like armor: matte foundation, peachy lipstick, and concealer dabbed strategically beneath tired blue eyes.

Her shoulder-length hair was loose, brushing her collarbones in soft waves instead of her usual polished chignon, and her only jewelry was the modest sparkle of her engagement and wedding rings.

She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Just live up to a lifetime of expectations.

It struck Miranda like a slap—how deep the training went. Decades of image-first living, the 21st-century version of the Donna Reed ideal, where even grief required a swipe of mascara and matching shoes.

And she had inherited the same instincts.

Miranda thought about her own reflection that morning. The hastily applied BB cream, smudged mascara, and sleep-deprived eyes. She looked like someone trying to hold it together. Barely.

“Was Dad awake at all?” Gwen asked.

“No. He was asleep when I got here, so I didn’t wake him.”

“Good.” Gwen’s sigh was part relief, part strategy. Then she glanced back at the door and nudged Miranda a few steps farther down the hall.

“Miranda,” she said softly, “I know how much it means to your father that you’ve been here. And it means the world to me, too. But…”

Miranda blinked. “But?”

Her mother’s expression turned guarded. “It might be best if you didn’t come every day.”

Miranda stared at her, stunned. “I’m sorry—what?”

Gwen placed a warm, manicured hand on Miranda’s arm. “I know you’ve been doing your best, sweetie. But I’ve heard the whispers. I’ve seen your tension. And you haven’t exactly been subtle with your father about how things are going.”

Miranda lowered her gaze. “The team’s in a tight spot. But I have a plan.”

“I know you do. And I believe in you.” Her mother’s voice was gentle but firm.

“But your father can’t help himself. He will try to micromanage, even from that bed.

And the doctor and I spoke last night. He needs as close to a stress-free environment as possible.

That means no updates, no decisions, and no discussions about the Knights. ”

Miranda frowned. “I get that. But I’m the one running things now. If he doesn’t hear from me, he’ll call. He’ll demand to be involved.”

“And that’s exactly why we need to break the cycle.” Gwen drew a breath. “We have to make him let go. Because he won’t do it on his own. We both know that.”

Miranda’s chest tightened. “So what—you don’t want me to see him at all?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds harsh,” Gwen admitted.

“But honestly? Yes. If he sees you, he’ll start asking questions.

He’ll get worked up. He’ll want to be back in charge before he can even stand without assistance.

And you?” She gave her daughter a pointed look.

“You’ve got a season to launch in three weeks. You can’t keep splitting your energy.”

Miranda turned to glance at the closed hospital room door. The idea of stepping away—of not updating her father, not carrying the weight of his expectations—was equal parts horrifying and… freeing.

“He won’t like it,” she said quietly. “He’ll call and insist I come.”

“Let me handle your father.” Gwen’s eyes gleamed with mischief and iron will. “If I have to unplug the damn phones, I will.”

A strangled laugh bubbled out of Miranda, chased by a surge of guilt. “He doesn’t agree with what needs to be done.”

“And if he hears what you’re doing, he’ll try to stop you. Even from a hospital bed.” Gwen took her hand. “Let’s just… keep things quiet. Let him rest. You do what needs to be done. And once things are stable, then we talk.”

Miranda hesitated, torn in two.

“I’m not going to lie,” she said, voice thick. “It would be easier this way. I can’t keep second-guessing myself every time I make a decision.”

“Then don’t,” Gwen said. “Lead. Be the president he appointed. Even if it wasn’t fully his idea.”

Miranda stepped forward and hugged her mother tightly. “I’ll want regular updates.”

“Of course. Just… when you visit, keep the conversation about anything but baseball.”

They held each other a moment longer, then Miranda stepped away.

“I’ve been meaning to head to spring training,” she said. “Touch base with the scouts and coaching staff. Talk through some of the proposed changes.”

“You should go,” Gwen said firmly. “The best thing you can do for your father right now is save the team. That’ll heal him faster than any cardiac rehab plan.”

Miranda walked down the hall, her heels echoing softly on the tile.

Guilt clung to her like a second skin—but beneath it was a whisper of relief.

She wouldn’t have to explain every choice.

She wouldn’t have to hear her father’s disapproval or field constant staff glances wondering what Seamus would say.

She could finally make the changes the Knights needed.

But even as her resolve hardened, a pit formed in her stomach.

Because whether she succeeded or failed… her father would never forgive her for doing it differently.