Page 25 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

AUDREY

I think I’m in shock.

The guys are trawling downstairs in search of a certain Lucky Rivera, who has been seen in so many different spots that no one knows who hallucinated him and who saw him for real.

Rose, Hope and I are in the private VIP area, sitting together on the couch and having tiny and very colorful cocktails that first hit you with sweetness and then with a punch to the solar plexus. It’s exactly what I need, and yet it can’t pacify me for reasons I don’t understand.

Okay, I lie. I know exactly why.

The problem is that I’m super embarrassed. It’s a damn shame that I can’t bury my head in the sand and live like that the rest of my life.

The reason is because I’m today years old when I discovered that Miguel Machado is a man.

I know, I know. What else could he have possibly been all along? His pronouns have been clear, his testosterone levels seem pretty healthy going by his musculature, and he seems perfectly capable of growing a beard, even if he chooses not to.

But despite all of that I had put him in a very rare category of male friend, which has a tiny population.

He registered more as a person than as a man.

And before meeting him, he was in a mythical category reserved for baseball legends past and present, and for celebrities I have no chance of ever meeting in person.

Except that he dances very well. Too well.

I didn’t say anything because I’m not sure if that’s a stereotype, but when I told him I couldn’t follow a tune to save my life I wasn’t lying.

I can’t even do justice to my favorite songs.

But he asked me to focus on him and moved me like it wasn’t the first time we were doing this—the waltz doesn’t count, because I wasn’t close enough to see that he has spectacular eyelashes, and is really hot. Temperature wise.

Which in turn, made me notice that he’s really freaking hot in the other sense.

Pretty sure he noticed that I was sweating bullets and probably attributed it to the exercise.

In the meantime, I was losing my mind over the fact that I’ve treated this specimen of man like he was my bestie.

I have been my most uncool openly in front of him.

Heck, the first time he saw me I was in my fave pajamas and bunny slippers.

Bunny stinking slippers .

And now we’re getting married.

How am I even going to be a convincing stepmom for Marty? The natural partner of someone like her dad would be a super accomplished, gorgeous woman who matches his calm and joyful energy. Not a neurotic mess who can’t get out of problems on her own.

“Oh, Cade says they found Lucky,” Hope informs us while reading from her phone screen. “Apparently he was just stuck in the men’s bathroom because the door latch didn’t work. So the search became a rescue too.”

Rose laughs. “I love him, there’s never a dull moment with him around.”

See, that’s also why Lucky wouldn’t have been the right option for this absurd plan. Who could possibly believe that I’d capture his attention when I’m a dull English rose whose sense of humor consists of sarcasm to mask things I don’t actually find funny?

I slump on the couch and cradle my frozen cocktail cup. It catches the girls’s attention and Rose asks me, “Are you ready for the real show?”

“No,” I spew out before I can make use of my stellar sarcastic skills.

It really quiets the room.

“I mean, is it too late to stop all of this?” I squirm and fix my dress to busy myself and pretend like I don’t want to crawl out of my own skin.

Hope’s expression turns very serious. “We can stop at any time.”

“I agree but…” Rose bites her lips. “Then what’s plan B?”

Nothing.

I’ve overthought this to death and nothing else is feasible. Dad would find me even if I become a sequestered nun. He bought a whole ass baseball team just to keep tabs on me, after all.

“Welp.” I slap my thigh like I’m eighty seven years old and stand up. “Guess we’re really doing this.” Then I down the rest of my cocktail and set the cup down before letting out all the air in my lungs.

“Atta girl.” Rose squeezes my shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re the first one who’s gonna get married out of us.”

I cringe. “Sorry for stealing you guys’s thunder.”

“Nah, please.” She waves a hand.

Hope laces her arms with ours. “This is great, actually. I didn’t want to be the first one because what if I screwed up somehow?” The two of us look at her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you more nervous.”

“I’m gonna barf,” I say in total deadpan.

“Hello, ladies!” Lucky bursts into the room, arms spread wide. “Miss me no more, I’m back and ready for the next leg of the party!”

“Good for you,” I mumble under my breath. The girls shoot me amused glances.

Behind him, the other guys appear as well. Logan is the one who calls out, “The limo is here. Ready to go?”

I stay quiet.

No. Yes. Sorta?

I really want to see Dad’s face when I tell him I’m married and to whom, and then see Henry’s ego be yeeted into outer space forever.

But me? A wife? Oh my word.

Oh. My. Word .

“Ha ha, yes. Ha,” I respond, clearly at my wit’s end.

We file out of the club the same way we did, in pairs with our respective partners except for Lucky.

It’s a shame that I don’t have another girl friend nearby for them to keep each other company, but my literal only other girl friend is a hotshot executive at SPORTY and lives up in Connecticut.

She’s visiting in the fall, and I couldn’t in good conscience pull her away from her busy schedule for these absurd shenanigans.

Inevitably, this means that now I sit at the back of the limo alone with Miguel. He’s texting again, just like he did all through the drive to the club.

I nudge him gently and ask, “Is that Marty?” His daughter is by far the best part of this bargain, and she was really pissed that she couldn’t come to the wedding and had to stay home with Consuelo.

Miguel flinches a little as if I just asked the most surprising thing in the world. “No. It’s my cousin.”

Since when does he have a cousin? Or is that code for something else?

I don’t actually know the guy, and this is the moment when that strikes me. We haven’t talked much about our families beyond the immediate ones, or about our hopes and dreams, or about any boundaries during this arrangement.

Swallowing hard, I broach the more immediate one. “Miguel, can I ask you yet another favor?”

He’s been watching my face all this time, and he remains calm and collected. “Of course.” Nothing but sincerity behind his eyes, like he’s cool if I ask him to steal a cruise boat together.

“Can we fake the kiss after the vows?” I grab at the hem of my dress. “I just think that should be kept for a real wedding with honest feelings, you know? I’m not, er, I don’t want to mock something that is so important for other people.”

He blinks exactly three times before opening his mouth. “Of course,” he parrots again. “That’s fine. We won’t do anything you don’t want to.”

“Thank you.”

He turns his attention back on texting his cousin.

I try to fixate on the view outside the window.

Lights of all colors streak by as we drive to the chapel.

My stomach jumps, my whole body tingles, yet I feel exhausted already.

Like an hour and change of dancing with the man next to me was the biggest test of endurance I’ve ever survived.

Well, I think as I peek at him from the corner of my eye, what can I expect from an elite athlete at the top of the pecking order? Even his fingers have muscles, for goodness’s sake.

It’s a good thing that I don’t have to keep up with him for real, huh?

I turn back to the window so none of these hawk-eyes can catch the embarrassed cringe in my face.

I really need to put him back in the person category rather than in the man one. Just the same way I view Logan, Lucky, and Cade, and the rest of the team.

Too soon, the limo pulls into a gigantic parking lot and keeps going and going.

One of my knees starts to bounce. Miguel finally puts his phone away.

Lucky’s giving some kind of speech that I can’t focus on.

The limo keeps rolling. I try to swallow but there’s no saliva left, and I can practically hear the rush of my blood across my body.

Why is the Cowboy getting up from his seat?

Oh shit, the limo finally stopped. My heart trips on itself and I gasp.

Quietly, Miguel offers me his arm and for reasons I can’t quite describe with my lizard brain, the gesture opens up my lungs again. I hold onto his steel-like arm and step off the vehicle with way more confidence than I really feel.

“Breathing is a good idea,” Miguel whispers in a way I can only describe as kind. His eyes are molten chocolate and the corners of his lips are tipped upward.

I nod rapidly and force myself to take one deep breath after the next, until my head’s no longer swimming and my eyes can focus.

Our friends walk in front of us into a reception area.

It’s large enough to play a full basketball game, with elegant chairs packed with couples and their witnesses.

What surprises me the most isn’t the screen with numbers like this is the DMV, but the fact that most people look pretty sober.

I guess I did right by not drowning my sorrows with a bottle.

Instead of joining the people who are clearly waiting their turn, someone intercepts Lucky at the front of the group and after exchanging a quick word, they guide us to keep going.

“What’s happening?” I ask Miguel.

“We’re a couple of minutes late, so it’s our turn already,” he explains, and all I can do is let out a tiny mewl. His other hand comes on top of mine, large, hot, and calloused. Very man, mucho macho.

We keep to what would otherwise seem like a grim silence. But in my case I’m just freaking out, and maybe Miguel is too. I guarantee he didn’t have getting married in his bingo card when he moved to Orlando, or that Elvis was gonna be the officiant.