Page 22 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

She’s drowning in pink puffs like a porcelain doll from two centuries ago. Rose’s dress is some kind of plastic thing that has rolled up into a complete wardrobe dysfunction. Mine has enough holes that it doesn’t look sexy—it looks like mice ate entire parts of it.

“Stop, I’m gonna lose control of my bladder and it’ll all be your fault,” Hope screeches.

“I’m dying here. Positively dying,” I confirm between aggressive hiccups.

Rose snort-laughs. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a while.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Same.”

We share wide grins, rosy cheeks, and I don’t need to look myself in the mirror to know that my eyes are sparkling as much as theirs.

The third time’s the charm. Nestled in my pile of options is a pale pastel pink dress that yes, is short, frothy, a bit risqué at the top, and has next to no fabric on the back aside from the skirt.

But the fabric is layered properly and nothing will show accidentally, and it’s long enough that I’ll even be able to wear shorts.

When I try it on, I feel like a fairy. I don’t even mind that it matches the splotchy blush across my face and my chest. I do a little twirl and the skirt flows, but not enough to flash the figurative audience.

This is the one.

I step out of the changing room and gasps echo around me.

“Perfect.” Rose claps slowly, shaking her head in awe. “I told you I have excellent taste.”

“Then what were those other options?” I jerk my thumb behind me.

She full on smirks. “Those are called benign pranks, if you couldn’t tell.”

Hope bodily turns me around and whistles when she sees the back. “Va va boom, this is convincing enough.”

“Yes, the internet will love this,” Rose agrees.

“ Miguel will love this.” Hope wiggles her eyebrows at me.

I make a point of rolling my eyes as hard as I can manage. “Please, I’m not trying to seduce him.”

Hope ignores me. “What do you think about this one on me?” She’s in the same dress I tried on before, and the hot pink looks freaking gorgeous against her silky brown skin. It makes her blush pop in a way that I’m sure the Cowboy won’t be able to resist.

“You know what?” I bob my head. “Yes, on you this is actually a whole heck yes.”

“I agree.” Rose calls our attention with, “And what about this one for me?”

We turn to study her outfit. It’s a different one from the shoulder-less I had in my changing room, but closely related.

The bodice is structured and cinched perfectly around Rose’s shape, almost like she had it made instead of plucked off the rack.

It’s actually gonna be funny to see Logan’s logical brain shut off at this sight.

“Bravo!” I exclaim.

Hope whistles again. “You look like a celebrity.”

“Great,” the pack leader of this expedition says. “Let’s pay for our purchases and move onto the next leg of our journey. Is it gonna be shoes or rings?”

I sit in the awkward silence as they wait for me, in tune with how my heart picks up speed at the obvious option presented by my brain. The least desirable one—the one that is gonna feel like ripping off a wax strip.

“Rings,” I finally mumble.

“All right.”

We share nods, the girls go back in their changing rooms before me. It takes me a moment longer to activate my now trembling limbs.

“It’s fine, everything’s fine,” I whisper softly to myself, my voice drowned under the rustling of clothes.

Yesterday, as we were brainstorming with the guys, Miguel and I concluded that simple gold bands will do.

Not just because they’re affordable, something that only I care about in this charade.

But also because—get this—gold looks better on both of our skins than white or pink gold.

We tested it with accessories that came straight from Rosalina’s treasure chest.

I nearly died when Miguel and I put our hands together to compare the different golds. It almost felt real for a second, like we were really discussing what we were gonna wear for the rest of our lives.

Despite the good fun we ended up having in the store, which the large paper bag slamming against my thigh as I walk reminds me of, the feeling of trepidation I had earlier creeps back in with every step.

Am I doing the right thing? Couldn’t I just book a flight to Lithuania on my credit card and change my name there?

The answers are no, but also no. If I run—and here my eyes lift from the ground to my friends walking in front of me, acting as icebreakers against the crowd—then they’ll be at risk of my dad’s whims. I will never do that to them. I love my friends too much to back down.

So, in we go into a jewelry store. This is less busy than the clothing stores, but still we wait for a solid while until a seller is able to greet us.

“Good morning and welcome. Can I help you find something specific?” the woman asks with the smile of someone who isn’t implicating other people in the biggest screw-up of her life. Oh, to be her.

“Yes,” Rose responds on behalf of the group, but she turns back to me. “My friend here is looking for wedding rings.”

The sales woman, whose name tag reads Tonya, falters at that piece of information.

Traditionally, people who are engaged would come together to do this.

Here I am with two girl friends. By the way Tonya glances at us, I can tell that she’s trying to figure out what the story is here.

Before her brain explodes with creative possibilities, I speak.

“My fiancé unfortunately couldn’t come, so my friends are providing moral support right now.”

“That is so sweet.” Tonya clasps her hands in a way that I can tell means, glad I didn’t step on a landmine there . “Do your fiancé and you have a specific idea, or would you like to look at different options?”

I swallow hard enough that I’m sure the whole store can hear it. “We lean toward a classic gold band.”

“Perfect, come with me.”

We walk around the counter, following her to a different corner. The girls whisper in my ear, “you got this” and also, “it’s gonna be great.” Except I don’t got this and it’s gonna be a disaster.

Tonya pulls out two different cases full of rings in pairs, a larger one that is clearly supposed to be for a man, and a smaller one for a woman.

My eyes get lost on all the shiny gold. What if a man is actually smaller than a woman?

What if it’s two people of the same gender?

What if one wants yellow gold and the other pink?

What if they’re both the same size? What if they have different taste?

I figure these are all the things a regular couple that knows each other and truly wants to spend their lives together would discuss. Between them. Not with a group of friends. They’d be standing here in front of Tonya together, excited for what these rings symbolize.

I wanna barf. I don’t even know what Miguel’s favorite color is—if he even has one.

I don’t know if he prefers a more modest ring or one that gets everybody’s attention.

I also don’t know what we’re gonna do with these after we legally divorce.

Jewelry is like cars, where they start devaluating the second you take them out of the store.

That means I’m making Miguel waste his hard earned money on me.

Plus however much of his time will take to live this farce.

And that’s also not to mention the whole vacation day that Hope and Rosalina took to come here.

“I know this is a very exciting moment,” Hope says, placing her hand on my back and rubbing circles. “But I’m gonna need you to breathe, okay?”

Rose asks, “Do you happen to have some water for the bride? I think she’s simply so overcome with emotion that she’s frozen.”

Yeah, if emotion is the new name for panic .

“Of course!” Tonya says. “Would you two like some water as well?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Thank you.”

As she walks off to the back I glance at my friends. “Guys, what the hell am I doing?”

“The right thing,” Hope answers with a determined set to her mouth.

Rose lifts her chin. “The only thing. And so help us, we’re going to free you from your dad no matter what we do.”

Tonya returns carrying three mini water bottles, chilled enough to freeze our brains.

She walks us through the different shapes and finishes of the rings, adding some stories about what they mean in some cultures, and throwing some examples about past clients that are meant to build upon the concept of these being happily-ever-after rings and not the-one-to-rule-them-all rings.

There are matte, shiny, and etched rings in all sorts of designs—straight lines, swirls, chevrons, and more.

Some are flat, empty cylinders. Some have curves.

Others are bulkier than their slimmer neighbors.

Some are a standard band and some are wavier.

I try to think about what makes the most sense for Miguel.

I’m sure he’s not gonna wear it everyday, because it would be an obstacle for batting or lifting weights comfortably.

It would even give him a new callus, and baseball players are very finicky about their hands in general.

A slimmer profile might feel more manageable for him, and should definitely be cheaper than the chunkier rings.

He also strikes me as a pretty humble guy. For someone who sits on the slugger throne of the league right now, Miguel is so unassuming that if you don’t know who he is, you’d think he’s just an average Joe. That rules out all the etched options.

My eyes stop at a modest pair, classical shapes, but matte surface.

Yes, I don’t think Miguel cares for shiny things.

Some guys wear branded bling bling around their necks during games, and this is a guy who has probably been wearing the same gold link chain and crucifix around his neck all his life, to the point that all shine is gone if there was ever any.

“These ones,” I say, pointing at the two rings. “These are perfect.”

“You have very good taste,” Tonya offers with the sweetest sales woman smile. She carefully plucks out the two rings between gloved fingers, and offers me the smaller one. “Would you like to try it?”

“I, uh—yes.” My hand shakes a little. As I slide it into my left ring finger, I realize that I forgot to wear my pretend-engagement ring. If Tonya notices, she doesn’t say anything.

The ring is a touch tighter than I’d wear but I manage to slide it into place. The sight of it is a shock to the system, something like waking up one morning to a random tattoo on your skin.

In a reverent voice, Rose says, “That is absolutely beautiful.”

“I agree.” Hope covers her mouth, and her eyes look suspiciously shiny. “It’s like this was made for you.”

I don’t twitch. There’s no need to contradict them. It genuinely doesn’t matter if I think the ring is pretty or not. It’s just a tool for freedom, just like the marriage certificate will be.

“This is the one,” I announce, all serious and sure of myself. “Do you have other sizes in stock?”

“As a matter of fact, we do,” Tonya says, as if she wasn’t sealing my fate with those words.

After getting the proper sizes for Miguel and I, and casually tapping his credit card on the payment machine, I walk out of the jewelry store with my friends like I’m in a pool—both floating and underwater, light and heavy at the same time.

I pat my purse absentmindedly, needing frequent reminders that I do carry a box with wedding rings in it. That my life is going to change in just over twenty-four hours.