Page 30 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

AUDREY

N othing like working in PR and being the one to set off a PR storm for the team.

Technically, the author of the disaster was Miguel with his press comment about a sudden wife. But then Rose worked her social media magic and released the paparazzi-like pictures of us getting married and walking into a hotel room together, and now the baseball and sports internet is buzzing.

The best part is how my clever friend didn’t get my face captured on camera, only Miguel’s. My blonde hair is unmistakable, though, and I have no idea how no one at work has put two and two together.

Okay, maybe there’s one exception. And it’s not really the one I expected.

Instead of my father bursting into the PR team area and demanding answers from me, or even his latest minion doing the same, it’s my boss, Karen, the one who has spent the last two days giving me funny looks.

I haven’t heard any rumors, so I guess she hasn’t dared to talk smack with anyone.

The way she looks at me, with the clear desire that she wishes I was anywhere else but in front of her, and also how she made me do most of the work the past two days to put out the flames, give me a feeling that she’s really going to be pissed off when she confirms that I did, indeed, marry Miguel Machado.

Currently that doesn’t concern me though. I’m getting ready for the cocktail party where Miguel and I will reveal the identity of the slugger’s new wife to the public, including my male progenitor.

Meanwhile, Marty’s on her bed, head propped up by her hands as she watches me apply my makeup, feet swinging back and forth in the air with the innocence of someone who doesn’t fear for her life.

“Did your mom teach you to put on makeup?” she asks.

“No,” I respond truthfully but withholding the part about how my mother’s professional makeup artist is the one who taught me everything I know. Also TikTok, I guess.

“Why not? Isn’t that how most girls learn?”

I finish darkening my near transparent eyebrows with a pencil that makes them look properly blonde and full, and as I tuck it away in my makeup bag, I say, “Believe it or not, my mother cares about me even less than my dad does.”

“What?” Rustling comes as she shifts to sit at the edge of the bed, leaning forward for the tea. “Why’s that?”

I don’t know if speaking candidly to a child is a good thing, but from experience—and by that I mean the fact that my parents barely ever spoke to me when I was a kid—it’s probably not the worst thing in the world.

“She moved to Paris a long time ago and has basically stayed out of my life since.”

Right after Adam passed out, to be precise, leaving me alone with the same father who drove my brother to self-medicate with alcohol. This part even I know is too much for a ten-year-old girl.

Marty gasps. “We’re the same!” That tears my attention away from putting on blush. “My mom also abandoned me.”

I do a double take. Why does she seem excited about this?

“Is that so?” I ask to buy myself some time to rifle through my memories.

I don’t recall Miguel putting it in such harsh terms, but then again I can also see why Marty would take it this way. Not having your mom around, knowing she’s alive and caring about other things or people much more than you, frankly sucks.

“Well, she visits once a year but my classmates’s moms live with them, so isn’t that the same?”

Put that way, the truth is evident. And even though she appears to be fine with these facts, I’m not. My heart twists painfully for this sweet and grumpy child who has been hurt so early in her life. I want to squish her, but she would probably go angry kitten on me.

Instead, I scoot to one end of my seat and pat the minuscule open space. “Want me to teach you?”

“Let’s do it.” She jumps from the edge of the bed, all serious and determined, as though this was more a chore than something she’s obviously been wanting for who knows how long.

I’m supposed to finish getting ready in the next fifteen minutes, but who cares if I’m late for Dad’s party? That’s just buying myself a moment longer of peace.

Shifting a little toward her, I explain, “First of all, I want to share with you the reason I wear makeup sometimes.”

“Okay.” She nods like we’re in a classroom.

“It’s not because I look prettier with it or to impress other people,” I continue, adopting her air of solemnity. “It’s because I like to look at myself in the mirror and not appear so pale. That is all.”

“Am I pale?”

Taking in the beautiful brown golden skin that she got from her dad, and the wavy brown hair that probably came from her mom, I answer, “Not at all.”

“Then why should I wear makeup?”

“You don’t have to.” I reach for the blush brush and dab it on the color a bit. “And if you do, it can only be because you want to and not because anyone else says so.”

“Got it.” She nods. “I’m good at that.”

She is, the little spitfire.

Chuckling, I show her where to put blush. The color is off for her, and I make a mental note to find her something that really makes her glow. I’m sorting through different lip tints and glosses when there’s a knock on the door.

We both turn to Marty’s bedroom door, where Consuelo is peeking in. “Excuse me, ladies,” she says in her lilting accent. “But Marty really should start her homework before it gets any later.”

“Ugh.”

Even I’m bummed. But I start putting everything away into my makeup kit, and remove the giant rollers I put on to give my hair a semblance of volume. By the time the night ends, it’s going to be flat like an arrow again—bleh.

“C’mon, let’s grab our things and head downstairs,” I tell Marty with a little pat to her back.

“Fine.” She stomps her feet on the way back to the bed, where her study materials lay scattered. I do the same with all the paraphernalia I brought over to get ready with her.

Last night, when Miguel sent the request over via text, he added an apology like this was the biggest favor ever exchanged in our strange friendship.

I answered that it was absolutely no problem and that I love hanging out with Marty.

Both are true. His daughter is how I wish I had been like when I was her age.

The three of us are chatting up a storm about Marty’s history homework and how mush she’d rather work on the arts one, as we walk down the stairs together.

I spot Miguel in the middle of the living room, wearing an impeccably tailored green suit that matches my dress very well—his idea, by the way.

Although his is a deeper hue than my silky emerald dress.

His back is toward us, head bent forward like he’s reading something. Sure enough, he slowly turns as our racket approaches and he finishes texting whoever is on the other side of his phone, putting it away before he looks up.

Miguel’s jaw tightens so hard that I can see a muscle jump.

“—Bring me ice cream and we have a deal,” Marty’s saying as we reach the landing.

Without tearing my eyes from her dad, I say, “We may come back pretty late, so does a trip to the parlor count?”

“It so does!”

Consuelo leans to me and whispers, “I just want to know if something juicy happens between you two tonight.”

I inhale deeply and turn to her, but she’s already grabbing Marty’s hand and steering her toward the kitchen counter. That’s where Marty does her homework while Consuelo works in the kitchen. Meanwhile, it means that I’ve been left abandoned to the wolves.

Or wolf. There’s something sharp about Miguel’s eyes right now that is unsettling. I’ve never seen that look on his face.

Clearing his throat helps him relax a tad. He walks by me, leaving a stunning male scent behind him—something like cedar and spice—and places a big kiss on top of his daughter’s head.

They’re so friggin’ cute, and Marty’s so fortunate to have a dad like Miguel who is a complete simp for her. I bet he cried on her first day at kindergarten.

A moment later, as we walk toward the Maserati we borrowed from Logan Kim, I genuinely ask Miguel precisely that. “Did you cry the first time you had to drop Marty off at the kindergarten?”

He comes to a full stop, and I do too since my hand is on his arm. Miguel blinks up at the darkening sky, as if doing math in his head. “Maybe?”

That sets me off into a barrage of chuckles. “You so did.”

He helps me get into the uncomfortably low car, even going as far as picking up my skirt where it would’ve gotten jammed by the door, and closes it for me.

I watch as he walks around the vehicle, rubbing his chin like he’s maybe contemplating his life choices.

His left hand is on his hip, and I catch the glint of the wedding ring back on it. Seeing it is jolts me.

Miguel gets in with far more ease than I did, for someone who isn’t getting any help at all, and the one thing that throws him off is the dashboard of the fancy ass ride.

I’ve also never seen as many sleek buttons and lights in my life, and that’s saying something. Dad’s always been keen on the Bentleys.

Drily, I point toward the bigger one. “I think that one starts the engine.”

Miguel snorts through his nose, lips stretching into a big, amused smile. He presses the big button though, and the engine roars to life in a way that screams power.

Not gonna lie, it makes me nervous. I’ve never had a great relationship with cars. When I was a kid, Dad drove like he didn’t care about his life, ours, or anyone else’s. And in the end, it was a car what took my brother from me.

I clench my hands at my lap as Miguel pulls away from the curb, and then something odd clocks with me. The houses and the trees outside are passing by fairly slow for how hard the engine’s purring.

I whip my head toward Miguel. So, he’s a slow driver, huh?

Why’s he so intent in not looking at me though?

“Miguel?”

“Hmm?” he hums from deep in his throat, almost as rumbly as the Maserati engine.

“Are you okay?”

“What?” He finally glances at me. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve basically been quiet this whole time. That’s unlike you, you know?” We’re close enough that I can nudge his rock solid arm just a bit.

His response is to stay quiet even more, and I’m starting to worry.

Surely this can’t be about the blister in his hand, so does that mean he’s hurt somewhere else?

Sick? Should we turn back around? I’d much prefer that, actually.

But this isn’t about me. I already feel like garbage about roping him into all of this, the last thing I want is for the best baseball player in the world—and probably the best dad in history—to get hurt under my watch.

Before I suggest we cancel the outing, Miguel finally speaks. “I’m okay. I was just kicking myself for not telling you how beautiful you look earlier, but then I was wondering if it would make you feel uncomfortable.”

I’m stunned to silence, my mouth slightly open.

We’re at a red light, and Miguel turns to me with a little frown. “There, that’s what I was trying to avoid. Looks like overthinking it made it worse, huh?”

An ugly cackle tears out of my throat. It takes enough to calm down that the light changes and off we go. “Wow.” I cough a little and thump my chest. “Is this the real Miguel? An awkward turtle?”

“Yep.” He shrugs. “Don’t let the action shots fool you.”

Rather, this puts me at such ease that I don’t think I’ve ever felt so relaxed before in my life.

A certainty washes over me that there’s no one better I could’ve found to pretend to be my husband in front of my dad. Tonight won’t be a complete disaster after all.