Page 5 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

AUDREY

W hat is happening? What is my life?

Miguel Machado, a once in a generation baseball talent that most people can’t dream of breathing the same air with, has not only appeared in front of me once…

but twice. And for reasons that my brain hasn’t caught up to, my hand is on his rock-solid arm, which I guess is a step up from socking him in the eye.

“Thank you for helping me back there,” I say, my voice sounding foreign to myself. “I just have one question.”

He hums from his throat, indicating that he’s listening even as he keeps us moving farther and farther from my ex-high school classmates.

“Were you legitimately looking for me all night, or was that just a line to get me out of there? Because I already said I’m really sorry about the eye, but I can’t afford to lawyer up.”

“Considering how I still have full use of my eye, that something called concealer hides the bruise pretty well, and that I had no idea you were here until I chanced upon you getting bullied…” He trails off with a shrug, making my knuckles brush against the soft fabric of his suit jacket.

“I’d say that I have no motive to serve you with papers. ”

“Whew,” I voice in an exaggerated, yet flat way. “Also, I technically had it handled so I didn’t really need your knight in shining armor services.”

“I know you did. Let’s just say that it was my own sense of justice what I serviced instead.”

He slows down amid a moving mass of people.

Suddenly, he tugs me in a way that I end up facing him.

Next thing I know, one of his hands places mine on his shoulder before it circles my waist, resting in the middle of my back—which feels like nearly all my back with how enormous his hand is—and the other grabs one of mine.

“Wait.” Tingles rush from my chest to every corner of my body—the bad kind. The kind that usually precede an embarrassment rash, because of course I can’t be a pretty blusher. “What are you doing?”

Miguel’s eyebrows rise. “We’re going to dance.”

As if he had bribed someone, the band reaches the last notes of a jaunty tune and begins a slower one. It takes me another moment to recognize it as Fly Me to the Moon.

I shake my head like a robot. “Oh, no. I don’t dance. I just said that as an excuse to get away.”

“Where would our honor go if people don’t see us dancing?” he asks with an affected tone of voice and a twinkle in his eye that I don’t understand.

“Uh, this isn’t a historical ball where it matters who dances with who and how many times, you know?”

“Do you always challenge the people who are trying to help you so much? Because…” And here Miguel does something unprecedented.

He leans lower—lower still—until he’s so close that I can no longer see anything that isn’t his massive shoulder.

For a wild second I wonder if he’s trying to kiss me.

But of course he isn’t and just whispers into my ear, “Your bullies are watching.”

A shiver goes through my spine.

Am I creeped out that my ex-classmates are keeping tabs to see if I lied? Kinda, yes. Is my back cold? Very, but only because the heat that this man radiates has me well and toasty at the front.

Why does he smell so damn good, though? There’s something familiar about it, and the name of the scent is lodged in the back of my mind where I can’t pluck it out for my immediate satisfaction.

Yet, there’s also something even better that I can’t pinpoint, but I’d like to because now it’s going to nag me forever.

My lapse in self-awareness ends when I realize that I’m swaying. Or rather, he’s making us move somewhat in sync with the classic song.

Oh. Wow. How did that happen? I ask myself.

I pull back from him slightly, trying to bring oxygen into my brain instead of deliciously intoxicating man-cologne. I’m glad he’s just making us dance a little and not walking me down a plank or something.

It doesn’t seem to matter that I’m the stiffest dance partner this guy has probably ever had, he has enough command of his own muscles that I probably look like a professional to the untrained eye.

Peeking over my shoulder, I confirm that what he said is true, and the whole group of rich pests is watching our every move with avid interest.

It’s no surprise that half of the people in attendance at this gala have been in my father’s circle all our lives and comprise of his business associates, who in turn had kids I went to school with.

Tonight is the first time in years since I show my face in this polite society, so I was ready for some impoliteness in return.

I just could’ve never foreseen how the scene would unfold.

Playing damsel in distress to an elite baseball player whose future smells of hall of fame wasn’t on my bingo card.

Slowly, I drag my attention back to the front where Miguel Machado is watching me with some curiosity, and no obvious interest in suing the pants out of me.

I clear my throat, scrambling for some sense of normalcy, and say, “You really blended the concealer well.” Then I cringe. Of all possible conversation topics, why did I choose that one? “Or your wife, I mean. You probably don’t know anything about makeup.”

His lips draw into a smile that forces back laughter.

“I don’t have a wife and my daughter’s toy makeup kit wasn’t good enough, so I actually had to get my makeup done professionally.

” He pauses for a moment, grinding me to a stop as well, and looks off into the distance.

“Wow, that’s a sentence I never knew would come out of my mouth. And I’m a girl dad—I’ve worn tutus.”

He catches himself, eyes widening like he can’t believe all that just came out of his mouth.

“Hmm.” I press my lips. “Debating whether to tease you or allow you to keep your dignity since you’ve been nice to me.”

“I would absolutely tease me if I was you.” His face stretches into a full grin of contagious proportions.

Using my vast reserves of willpower to stay serene, I say, “You said tutus, meaning that this happened more than once?”

A snort from Miguel turns into a full blown laugh. “And here I thought you were gonna ask me what color it was.”

I narrow my eyes in thought. “Definitely pink. Purple would wash out your complexion.”

“It was black, actually. My daughter is kind of goth.” He displays his pearly whites and dimples appear on his cheeks. They’re more like the bracket kind than the dots one. “By the way, we haven’t formally introduced each other.”

“If we shake hands the vultures will know we’re complete strangers but hi, I’m Audrey Winters, nice to meet you.”

Miguel tips his head. “Likewise, or better now that you’re no longer causing me bodily harm.”

“I could still change my mind,” I add offhand.

Ignoring that, he asks, “By the way, you never answered my question.” I raise my eyebrows in confusion, and he explains, “Last week, when I asked if you knew me because you were a fan.”

“Oh. That.” I cringe a little. “I assure you I’m not a stalker. The truth is that I’m?—”

“Audrey.”

The new voice makes us stop dancing at the same time, and that’s when I notice a few odd things. First, that the song must’ve changed at some point already. Just how long have we been dancing?

And second, that I lost sight of the most important self-preservation tactic of the night. The biggest threat wasn’t my ex-classmates, but my dad, and now he’s right next to me and I’m trapped in a man’s arms—arms that are made of steel and heat, not likely to pry away easily if I try to run away.

Also, how pathetic would that look? It’s not like I’m some Cinderella.

Sighing, I face my progenitor. “Dad.”

This perks Miguel’s attention. “Dad?”

“I see you’ve met my daughter,” the older man says. “And perhaps I should also thank you for helping me locate her.”

“Is that what you were doing?” I slide a suspicious look at Miguel, but dude looks confused.

“That’s news to me.”

I don’t know why this is the moment when he decides to release me. His hand slides off my back and he steps back a polite distance, not that we were grinding on each other or anything, but definitely like he doesn’t want my dad to think something’s going on.

Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his slacks, Miguel looks first at my dad and then at me, no doubt finding that I have the same nose—girl version—and that I got my hair color from Charlie Cox. “Did I hear different last names, though?”

“It’s a long, boring story.” Dad waves his hand like the topic is unimportant. “She’ll be changing her last name soon anyway, isn’t that so?”

Great. The rash of embarrassment that I had somehow managed to contain is taking over. I regret wearing a dress that keeps the top of my chest and shoulders visible, because not even my loose hair will hide the angry, red splotches.

I brush at my skirt, trying to pretend like that’s enough to rearrange my own thoughts and feels. “You’re right, Dad. Let’s not bore Miguel with those details.”

I don’t know the slugger very well, but the spark in his eye tells me that if he could, he’d grab some popcorn and sit down for the whole tale. No wonder my roommates say he has fit so well with the bunch of goofs that make up the Orlando Wild team.

“In that case, allow me to steal my daughter away so we can bore each other instead.” Dad gives one of those curated laughs that sound warm and friendly to the untrained ear, and I know to just be a mechanism for him to get what he wants.

He offers me his arm, which, unlike Miguel’s gesture earlier, isn’t meant to help me out of an awkward situation, but the entire opposite.

“Of course.” Nothing in his neutral expression prepares me for what Miguel says next, “Please enjoy each other’s company.”

My jaw slacks.

That little jerk. He could’ve pretended like I was the most riveting creature he’s ever met.

But he did allow me to tease him earlier, so I mouth touché at him before Dad grabs my hand and steers me away. I do my best to keep my composure and not show Miguel or anyone else that I’m not comfy with my dad, even if it’s the truth.

I huff. “Did you have to say that in front of a random guy?”

“Random?” Dad glances at me. “You two looked pretty chummy.”

“Our definition of that word is clearly different. For example, anyone who sees us right now would think that we’re a chummy pair of father and daughter, and they’d be completely wrong,” I say with total calm.

That quiets him for only a brief moment. Dad isn’t a guy to turn the other cheek. “That’s going to change now that you’re making public appearances with me again, isn’t it?”

For once, I can’t come up with a clever comeback.

Unlike Miguel, who took me away from annoying people, Dad does entirely the opposite. As he takes me on a seemingly endless parade of small talk with strangers and familiar faces—most of them undesirable—I almost wish I could go back to talking about tutus with Miguel Machado.

And that’s when I have a sudden realization. No one at work knows that the team’s owner is my dad—no one but the new guy who is getting chummy with my roommates, who are the very last people on earth I want this secret revealed to.