Page 16 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

AUDREY

A root canal. Waiting for three hours at the DMV only to find out you didn't bring one of the required documents. Your delivery driver leaving your food at some unknown house that is definitely not yours. An apprentice taking out your blood sample.

What do all those things have in common?

They're more pleasurable than brunch at the country club with my dad and his groupies.

You’d think that all these people who own entire portfolios of companies all over the world would have something more important to do than meet for brunch on a Friday to talk about their golf swings.

I’m on my second mimosa and very glad that I didn’t drive myself to the function, because alcohol is the only thing that will see me through.

My father turns to me with a beaming smile. “What is your opinion, Audrey?”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, and I also doubt that my thoughts are really required. If I learned anything from my mother—and it wasn’t much that was good, trust me—is that the way to survive these functions is by blending with the background.

As response, all I offer is a wan smile and busy myself with another sip of the boozy drink. Dad’s bushy eyebrows twitch, like he can’t hide his surprise at the fact that I’m not cooperating. That’s how I know I’m doing a great job.

The conversation ebbs a little after that, and he pretends like we’re being called to someone else’s presence. With my hand in his arm, he steers us away from the group, hiding in the relative privacy of walking in the periphery to whisper, “You’re being rude, Audrey.”

“Am I?” That brings a little smile out of me and I try to hide it behind my crystal flute. “I did agree to your terms of showing up to public events together, but it doesn’t mean I have to enjoy them.”

“If you don’t appear like you’re having a good time, how will people think that we’re a happy family?”

I gasp in mock exaggeration. “Dad, you didn’t say that lying to everyone was part of the deal.”

He sighs and if I didn’t know him, I’d think he was sincerely disappointed. “In any case, I would like to have a word with you about the status of your name change. But first, we need to appear social.”

Then he stops us in front of Henry Vos and I realize this was just a little distraction that worked swimmingly. With my hand trapped in Dad’s arm and throngs of rich, but sweaty people all around us, it’s not easy to execute a clean escape from this situation.

He stops mid sentence in a conversation that seems to be about horses, to stare at me—or more specifically at the sliver of skin at my waist that my outfit reveals.

I have to really exercise my willpower to not ram the heel of my hand into his chin.

I wore this outfit because I wanted to at least feel cute while being miserable, not for his satisfaction.

He’s still staring at my skin when he says, “Fancy running into you both.”

As if he made a single lick of effort to find us , I think to myself, mumbling something incoherent that makes Dad tighten his arm.

“You were looking sharp out there in the green,” he tells the younger guy, and turns to me. The twinkle in his eyes makes me wary. “Isn’t that true, Audrey?”

I blink slowly. I will never praise Henry Vos, even if he was donating half of his fortune to charity because nothing that comes from a bad person is ever any good.

And so I take another swig of my mimosa, sadly reaching the bottom this time.

“I don’t think your daughter is very fond of golf. Otherwise she would’ve joined us out there,” Henry says, chuckling.

Dad gives me a sharp look like he can read my mind because, yeah, even if I freaking loved golf, I wouldn’t subject myself to playing with them for any period of time.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my skirt. It gives me a great excuse to pull my hand from the crook of Dad’s arm, and I leave my now empty cup on a nearby table. “Excuse me, this is important,” I say, blatantly lying through my teeth.

After producing my phone, I make a big show of stepping aside like I’m getting ready to talk with my financial advisor or something.

Even better, the buzzing ends up being a couple of texts from someone I absolutely don’t hate—none other than the man, the legend, the awkward turtle that is Miguel Machado.

Future Hall of Famer

Big news, I came to the school to talk about the event and there’s a way we can make it happen

But

There’s a catch

My lips twitch. Even though what I really enjoy is a drama-free life with my friends, and my plants, and my cozy house, and not having to put up with other people’s mess, I find this situation with Miguel just funny.

It’s absurd and harmless in a way that makes me feel alive.

Like I’ve taken a page out of the great Lucky Rivera playbook and am in on a massive prank.

It turned out that I didn’t lie, then. This is important.

Me

What’s that?

Future Hall of Famer

The G-word might not be enough

Me

You’re gonna have to get a bit more specific because there are a lot of words that start by G

Future Hall of Famer

Girlfriend, I mean

They don’t consider parents’s girlfriends or boyfriends to be family enough

Which, who gave them the right to define what is family and what isn’t?

Are Marty and I not family enough because it’s just the two of us?

I assume that as a PR rep for the team I work for, you won’t let me sue them, right?

Welp. It sounds like this poor guy is spiraling.

“Everything okay?” Dad asks, and I do as he does when he’s interrupted by raising a finger and stepping even farther so I can make a call.

Miguel picks up at the fourth ring. “I’m sorry for my rant interrupting your day” is the first thing he says as greeting. In the background, his steps fall in steady thuds like he’s pacing.

I shake my head, wishing he could understand how unbelievable he is. “You’re kidding, right? If it wasn’t for your current existential crisis I’d still be stuck in one of my own.”

His steps stop. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Covering my mouth and ducking my face so that my hair hides it from view like a curtain, I say, “Brunch at the golf club with Dad and his ilk.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, so you figuratively did it again—coming to the rescue,” I explain.

Miguel chuckles a little. “Glad that my suffering wasn’t for nothing.”

“So what happened?”

“I’m regretting my choices in life,” he announces somberly. Before I freak out that he’s meaning something like he regrets being a single dad, he adds, “Maybe I should’ve put Marty in a public school instead of a bougie, snobby place ran by judgy adults.”

My shoulders sag in relief.

Guess the noxious fumes of expensive perfume, sweat, and colorful little beverages all around me were starting to make me forget that not everyone in my life is like these people.

Miguel’s records and talent could’ve got to his head, yet here he is, once again trying to be a better dad today than he was yesterday.

I toss a side glance at my own progenitor, who is in the middle of laughing at something Henry has said. Knowing them, it’s at the expense of the poor or something evil like that. What a contrast.

“Then, if I can’t be your fake girlfriend, should I pretend to be your sister or your cousin?”

I can practically hear the grimace in his face as he says, “Who would possibly believe that Americana Barbie and Ricky Martin Ken are blood relatives?”

That makes me bark a laugh that attracts a lot of unwanted attention. I turn around, facing a table full of hors d'oeuvre displayed between fresh flower arrangements and real pearls.

“Fair point,” I concede, clearing my throat. “Does that mean that Marty won’t be able to go to the tea party then?”

“Er, no. Remember when I said there’s a way but with a catch?”

I blink, heat traveling up my neck the second I feel silly. “Right. What was that?”

“Well… When the principal was giving me a whole speech about how the purpose of the event is to strengthen family bonds, and how a father’s girlfriend may not stay around long enough to become important in the child’s life, I may have…” Here he makes a pause long enough that I have to prod him.

“Yes?”

Miguel coughs a little. “I may have said that we’re committed enough.”

“Don’t tell me we have to fake marry now.” A snort escapes from my throat.

“No, no.” Another pause. “A fake engagement, though.”

My jaw drops.

I guess the wide open mouth can be interpreted in many different ways because one of the servers asks me, “Caviar with crème fra?che hors d'oeuvre?” And he offers me a whole plate full of it.

“Er, no, thank you,” I answer.

“Right,” Miguel says into my ear. “It’d be wild. Too big of a lie. Maybe I can talk with Rose and ask her to pretend to be my sister? We do look like cousins or something.”

“No!” I exclaim, now turning away from the server and, for lack of a better alternative, I hide behind a tall potted palm. “That wasn’t for you—I was turning down gross food.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

Did I just tacitly agree to cosplaying Miguel’s fiancée?

I straighten and allow my sight to get lost in the distance, landing on someone’s pink hat that looks like it has a dead flamingo on top, and probably costs twice an average sedan.

Honestly, in the grand scheme of ridiculous events in my life, how bad can this one be?

Besides, I reason while shifting my attention back to my dad and his new business partner—who is such a creep that he hasn’t lost sight of me even while I’m trying to hide—this would give me a really solid alibi to free myself from their plans.

“It’s not a big deal,” I tell Miguel. “Girlfriend, fiancée… potahto, potayto.”

His walking resumes. “Are you sure? Because I’m not Hollywood type of famous, but someone will probably say something that will end up on social media, if not the news.”

I shrug, though he can’t see it. “It’s fine, I’m a PR professional and the whole point of this is so I can also spin it to my benefit.” I peek again at the insufferable pair of men. “And I really need to benefit ASAP so I don’t have to be dragged around to these things anymore.”

“Hey, Audrey?” Miguel asks all of a sudden.

“Hmm?”

“Is that code for wanting to be rescued right now?” That catches me by surprise, and as my mind races, he keeps speaking, “Because I don’t want to make the mistake that generations of mens have made in assuming that you can’t take care of yourself, but it kinda sounded like you need a hand.”

Something in me loosens—my spine, my soul, my hackles.

I’m not annoyed by his observation. It doesn’t negate how angry I am that my own father is still using me as his pawn and that my self sufficiency was so flimsy all along.

Rather, it recognizes that saving myself has been the way I have lived for years until recently, until I had a good group friends who are better people than me. Who made me see that getting help every once in a while isn’t so bad.

Why is it so easy for me to do everything—and I mean everything , even sacrificing my own freedom—for my friends, yet it’s so difficult to recognize that it’ll be better to solve something with help than on my own?

It’s taken getting to the point of peak manipulation from my dad to realize this. And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like a failure for reaching out.

“Actually, I’d appreciate some help. Any excuse to get out of here early will cut it.”

“I can do that.” I hear a raspy sound, like maybe he’s rubbing his face and it has some bristles. “How’s this? Let’s explain the plan to Marty together over ice cream.”

“Isn’t she in school?”

“Yes, but I’m pissed at this place and want to leave. I’m sure she feels the same, right?”

“Perfect.” I grin at the potted palm. “This is so gonna get you best dad award.” And it’s also going to improve my mood drastically.

We keep the call going just to give me an excuse to look unapproachable and too busy to have more vapid conversations.

In a record amount of time, I’m leaving this joint while escorted by a knight in shining sweats, his little goth princess, and a sensible SUV for a carriage.