Page 68 of Playboy Pitcher

I scowl. “Fucking millennials.”

“That would be you,” she corrects, tucking her phone back into the pocket of her denim shorts. “I’m Gen Z. You know, the generation that actually understands technology.”

I grab a throw pillow and smack her with it.

“So, what’s the plan?” she asks, foregoing her lost spoon and digging her finger into the jar. “Fall hopelessly in love, pop out a few kids, and freak out the PTA moms?” Grinning, she motions her peanut butter-coated finger down the length of my outfit before popping it in her mouth.

It’s a good thing I love this girl. “No.” I smirk, giving up and shoving my finger inside the jar as well. “Get the team into a halfway decent form, keep our marriage under wraps until the regular season is over, and then get a quickie divorce.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Again, that’s going to be a problem. What about the fact that you never lived together? Or thatsooonot suspicious prenup?”

Her words catch me off guard. Not that I haven’t already considered it, but with the law on our side, I pushed it under the rug. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours,” she says, plopping the jar of peanut butter in my lap. “Which is why I’m throwing out curveballs before they do.”

I lick my finger. “Enough with the baseball analogies. It’s not the first time my name has been splashed all over the media, and it won’t be the last. I can handle it. Trust me.”

Emma sighs. “That’s a lot of money to hand over to someone you don’t even know.”

Doesn’t she think I know that? That kind of money could send her to a private school. Buy us a house and her a car. Pay for her to go to college. But there would always be more strings. More ties. More favors.

I can’t straddle two roads. I have to choose, and my choice will always be Emma. “I haven’t taken a dime from my father in ten years, Em. I’m not about to start now.”

Her eyebrows shoot up as she looks around the mansion. “I see that. Swanky.”

I follow her gaze, nearly snarling at all the crystal and glass and some goddamn three-hundred-thousand-dollar Faberge Egg Brigitte just had to have.

A goddamn egg.

“I believe pretentious is the word you’re looking for. If this impresses you, you should see the main estate in Miami Beach.”

“Must have been something growing up in places like this.”

“That’s one way to put it.” In the chaos of the whole night, I suddenly realize how happy I am Emma is here. Just seeing her is like a salve to my soul. Wrapping my arm around her shoulder, I give her a tight squeeze. “I’ve missed you, kid.”

“Yeah?” she grins, squinting one eye. “Does that mean you’re not kicking me out?”

“You have school.”

Her grin widens as she jumps off the couch and darts down the hallway, only to return with a laptop tucked in her hands. “All of which can be accomplished online. Already cleared it with my teachers. Welcome to the twenty-first century, old lady.”

My lip twitches as I fight a smile. “Fine.” But then reality sets in, and a mountain of guilt comes rushing back coated in a black cloud of fear. “But you know the rules, Em,” I say, giving her a stern look.

She sighs dramatically. “I know; I’ll stay hidden away in the castle like some Disney princess. How long is this going to go on?”

I can’t answer that, so I don’t. Standing, I motion toward the staircase. “Come on. I’ll show you to the guest room.”

“Great.” Her shoulders deflate as she hugs her laptop against her chest. “I’m sure it’s the one with bars on the window.”

* * *

It’s four a.m., and I’m wide awake. I’ve laid here for hours staring up at the ceiling, Emma’s words circling in my head on a continual loop.

“I do trust you, Will…with my life. But I also know you better than anyone. You’re not thinking with your brain right now.”

She’s right, and like she always says, therein lies the problem. I’m an iron-willed masochist. Because what I’m thinking with is something much more dangerous than my brain.

It’s something I’ve kept locked away for ten years. It’s covered in scar tissue and thorns, but it has awakened and is starting to beat again.