Authors: Mindy Klasky
Tags: #Romance, #Adult, #office, #wedding, #baseball, #workplace, #rich, #wealthy, #sport
“What are you doing now?” he asked, but before she could answer, he said, “I know. You’re working.”
“Got it in one.”
“God, I wish I was there right now.”
She laughed. “Why? You have a thing for graph paper and pencils?”
“We could chart a measurement or two.”
The blatant flirtation caught her by surprise, even though she’d been looking forward to talking to him, even though she’d purposely made her dinner of ramen noodles early, slurped them down in a hurry so he wouldn’t hear that awkwardness over the phone. She raised her eyebrows and let her smile sift into her words. “And what exactly did you have in mind?”
“For starters, I take that pencil out of your hair. Let it fall down around your face. Against your neck.”
“How did you know?” she gasped.
“Lucky guess.” His chuckle made her want to hear more of his guesses. “Next, I’d take off your glasses.”
“I’m not wearing them.” She made the admission, stated the simple truth, before she realized her words sounded flirtatious, like she was admitting to not wearing other things—a bra, panties, whatever.
The amusement in his voice let her know he was thinking the same thing. “So you weren’t really working.”
“I was,” she corrected. “But I don’t really need the glasses. The lenses are just plain glass. I wear them so people will think I’m smarter than I am.”
“Right,” he said. “Because people always think you’re dumb.”
“Some people,” she said.
“They’re the dumb ones.” Before she could recover from the surprise rush of pleasure his words raised in her, he said, “So, I don’t have to worry about taking off your glasses…”
His teasing tone was perfectly clear. This was ridiculous. Absurd. She was supposed to be working, and he was supposed to be… Well, he’d already played his game that day. His work was done. And truth be told, her concentration was pretty much shot for the night.
She pulled the pencil out of her hair, shaking her head to free the pinned-up length. “Okay,” she said, purposely making her voice as throaty as she could. “My hair’s down. What’s next?”
And that was her turn to catch
him
by surprise. She could tell by the way his voice sharpened, by the way his words were strained as he said, “All right, then.” But he barely gave her a chance to change her mind. Because the next thing he said was, “Those sweatpants you’re wearing are tied awfully tight.”
“I’m not—” she started to protest. But she was. She was wearing sweatpants. And they were cinched close around her hips. She licked her lips and cradled the phone against her shoulder as she picked the knot loose. “Okay, Mr. Know-it-all. They’re not tied anymore.”
“Excellent,” he said. “That opens up an entire world of possibilities.”
She closed her eyes and listened to his voice, rich as caramel, warm as sunshine, and she let those possibilities became reality.
~~~
The team had a killer schedule. Those four games in St. Louis, and one day off to fly out to San Diego. Now they were three games into their West Coast stand, playing some of the best teams in baseball. If they could break even by the time they got back to Raleigh, they’d be lucky.
This was the strangest road trip of his life. In the past, he’d played the game and taken his chances. He’d hung out in the bar at whatever hotel he was calling home, sipped his tonic water while the guys waited to see what baseball fans showed up, waited to see how many willing women hung around. That’s the way it used to be. Now, most of the guys headed up to their own rooms early, saying they had to check in with their girls back home. There was something in the air, or maybe it was the water back at Rockets Field. The guys were dropping like flies, handing out diamond rings and tying themselves down for the rest of their lives.
Through it all, Kyle had shaken his head and told himself to stick to what was important. He’d shot the shit with plenty of bartenders, asking them to change the channel so he could pick up game highlights from around the league. He’d talked to guys from conventions, men who were on expense accounts and all too happy to buy him a top-shelf drink, even though he always settled for tonic. He’d even taken a girl up to his room once or twice after making sure they weren’t looking for anything other than a good time. He’d had some fun, and he’d always slept soundly, alone in his bed.
But that was all before. That was before he’d broken out of his hitting slump. That was before he’d met Amanda.
Now, he watched the other guys on the team—Tyler Brock, who shrugged off a good-natured mob in the lobby and fought his way over to the elevators so he could phone home before it got too late. Josh Cantor, who always made sure he had a good dinner out, but hit his room as soon as he was back at the hotel. Adam Sartain, who didn’t even make it through most meals, just headed upstairs, saying he’d order room service.
They were whipped, all of them. And they’d never been happier in their lives.
It was one thing for a guy to call his
fiancée
at three in the morning. Those girls had signed on for the good and the bad. They expected to be woken up after a West Coast game. He couldn’t do that to Amanda. It wasn’t fair.
But he could text her. Take advantage of her turning off her phone to sleep.
He stared at his screen, trying to be smart. What could he type that would make her smile in the morning?
Weather is beautiful. Wish you were here.
He typed it in, rolled his eyes and deleted the words before hitting send.
The only thing this room is missing is you.
Right. Like this chain hotel was different from a hundred others, like it was any different from the cookie-cutter places he spent half his nights. Delete.
I want to tear your clothes off with my teeth and make you scream my name a dozen times over
. Sure. That wouldn’t scare the crap out of her. Delete.
I miss you
.
He’d barely hit send when the phone rang. “Amanda,” he said, not bothering to disguise the pleasure that brightened his voice.
“I was hoping you’d call.” Her voice was thick, soft, and he knew she’d been sleeping. Her hair would be spread across her pillow. Her body would be warm. He’d smell soap on her skin, toothpaste on her lips.
His cock swelled so fast he grunted. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I’m up now.”
So was he. He tried to make himself concentrate on batting averages, on slugging percentages, on a thousand dry and boring numbers. “Tell me about your day,” he said, desperate for distraction.
But she didn’t tell him about being a lawyer. She didn’t talk about depositions or interrogatories or requests for admissions or any of those other things she’d mentioned before, all those things that were the difference between her winning and losing the big case she was working on.
Instead, she told him to lie back. She told him she’d been dreaming before he called. And as she shared exactly what she’d been doing in those dreams, he slipped his hand beneath the elastic waistband of his shorts and gave up on being any sort of gentleman.
~~~
Amanda handed over a stack of files to her paralegal. “These are the next ones to review. The other side says they developed their product sixteen months before we did. But these lab records should contradict that, if we can just pull the facts out of all the scientific jargon.”
“Got it,” Shay said. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
Her cell phone rang as he stacked the files beneath his chin and left. One glance at the screen, and she felt her cheeks heat, despite the fact that she was in the office, that a couple of dozen co-workers were within shouting distance.
She got up and shut her office door. “Hey there,” she said, crossing back to her high leather chair. “I thought you’d be in the air by now.”
“I wish,” Kyle said. “There’s weather here—a monsoon, it looks like. We’re grounded for another three hours at least. Maybe more.”
She did the math without thinking. “You’ll still come by after you land?”
“Not a good idea.” She heard noise behind him; it sounded like he was surrounded by his teammates. “We’ve got that one o’clock start tomorrow.”
“Who planned that?” she asked with surprise.
“Some asshole who didn’t take into account the fact that we’d be flying cross-country to get home. The front office is all about trying new things this year. A ‘businessman’s special’, they’re calling this one.”
“Like any real ‘businessman’ has time for a mid-week game.” Amanda tried to hide her disappointment. She’d been looking forward to seeing Kyle. Hell, she’d been looking forward to a lot more than
seeing
him. Not that she would ever admit that to herself. Not here. Not in the office. Not when she was supposed to be the ice queen of the patent practice.
He managed to laugh, even if the sound was rueful. Her lips curled at the thought that he was as frustrated as she was. “Get some sleep tonight. I’ll see you at the park tomorrow.”
“Yeah, right.” She looked at the boxes Shay had carted in that morning. It was just as well Kyle wasn’t going to distract her tonight.
No, her body informed her, with no mistake in its twinges. It
wasn’t
just as well. There were a number of parts of her that had distinctly looked forward to distraction.
But those new boxes weren’t going to empty themselves. It was better for her to work straight through. She might even spend the night here, try to pick up some of the hours she’d dropped during the past week and a half of late-night phone calls.
“Hey!” Kyle’s voice was sharper than she expected. “You’ll be there, right?”
“I’m a lawyer, remember? Big office? Partners breathing down my neck? Trial in a month?”
“Amanda, you promised!”
He hissed the last word. She could imagine him cupping his hand around his phone. She heard the urgency in his voice—an entirely different push than the ones that had captivated her for the better part of the past two weeks.
“I promised to go to your day games. No one ever said they’d be in the middle of the week.”
“It’s on the schedule! It’s been on the schedule for the past six months! I gave you the tickets!”
There was real panic in his voice. This was ridiculous. He was a grown man, putting stock in some silly joke. Like she could just drop everything and trot down to Rockets Field whenever she wanted. Whenever he wanted her to. “Kyle,” she said, and this time she put on her lawyer voice, the one she used with junior associates when she needed to explain how they’d screwed up a brief. “I have a meeting with opposing counsel tomorrow. We’re setting the final briefing schedule.”
“Push it to Wednesday.”
“I can’t
push it to Wednesday
. I have a job to do.”
“So do I. And you swore you’d be there to help me do it.”
“I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation.” As if to emphasize her obligations, her office phone rang. “I have to take another call. Travel safely.”
“Amanda—“
“Goodbye,” she said. Her heart was pounding when she hung up. And not in the way she’d hoped for when she’d first taken his call.
What the hell am I doing here?
That refrain kept going through Amanda’s head as she passed through the gates of Rockets Field, making her way through the sparse pre-game crowds to her seat in the right-field stands.
She’d spent the better part of the night debating what she should do. She had an obligation to UPA, and nothing could change that. They’d hired her. They’d paid good money—and would continue to pay a lot more—for her to fight the other side in a patent case that would determine whether they would continue to exist.
But Kyle had hired her too, in a manner of speaking.
She’d created the problem herself, first by demanding money for the partnership buy-in, then by staking a claim for her brother. She’d convinced herself that she had the upper hand, that the Spring Valley documents locked in her desk drawer were the very definition of power and control.
But in the deepest corners of her brain, she knew that wasn’t true at all. By blackmailing Kyle, she’d handed power over to him. Sure, there were criminal masterminds who could do what she had done—threaten to expose a man’s past for personal gain. But Amanda wasn’t that sort of person. She knew she’d never be able to live with herself if she exposed the truth about Kyle.
Nevertheless, he’d paid her. And she’d cashed the checks. So that meant she owed him something, owed him a hell of a lot. Because what value could she truly place on her career with Link Oster? What price could she attach to Hunter’s health?
One phone call—that’s all it had taken to make everything right. One call to opposing counsel, requesting that they postpone their meeting for a day. The other lawyer could have played hardball, but he didn’t. It was to his benefit to have Amanda in his debt. She had no delusions—she’d pay him back before the trial was over, probably a hundred fold. She’d accept a deadline that was inconvenient to her; she’d end up taking depositions in a place or at a time that made her life miserable.
But she was here, at Rockets Field. And a pasteboard box was waiting on her seat.
She opened it with savage little motions, tugging at the lid, shoving aside the tissue paper. Sure enough, her sunglasses were waiting for her, reflecting red in the noon glare. A note was tucked between the earpieces.
“I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
He’d dashed off a K to sign the note. The easy familiarity sent a
ping
down her spine, and every nerve in her body started campaigning for how Kyle could fulfill his promise. She shook her head and slipped the note into her pocket.
Out on the field, the grounds crew was setting up batting practice. They’d already rolled out the giant cage that protected the pitcher, and they were placing the barriers at first and third base. Every man moved quickly, efficiently, like he knew his place in a complicated ballet. The routine was soothing, and Amanda relaxed in her seat.
One of the Rockets’ trainers came onto the field, working with a couple of the players to help them stretch their hamstrings. Two other guys started running wind sprints, loosening their bodies, preparing for the game that meant everything to them.
As Amanda watched, Kyle stepped to the top of the dugout. She could see him clearly; his white uniform shimmered against the shadowed benches behind him. Her breath caught as the sun highlighted the gold in his hair, sparking glints in his rough beard.
He looked at her.
Halfway across the stadium, she felt the iron link of his gaze. She watched their connection straighten his spine, roll his shoulders back. He grinned as he sprinted out to right field, and he flung his arms wide when he came to a stop below her. “Hey, sweetheart,” he called. “If you really want to thank me, let me wear your glasses!”
She wanted to say that she had no reason to thank him. She wanted to tell him
he
owed
her
. But she’d come to the park for a reason. She knew the role she was supposed to play. And so she plucked the glasses from the V of her blouse and extended them over the edge of the fence.
“Go ahead,” Kyle shouted, and he was laughing—not at her, but
with
her, because she really was amused. She really was laughing as he slipped off his glove. “I’ll catch them.”
“Sure,” she called, and she let the glasses fall.
Of course he caught them, easily. She expected that. But she didn’t expect him to raise the glasses to his lips. She didn’t expect him to kiss the frames. And she definitely didn’t expect to feel that kiss on her lips, to clutch the edge of fence as every inch of her traitorous flesh reminded her how his body had felt in the parking lot at Artie’s, how hard he’d been, how much she’d wanted to let his fingers continue their evil magic beneath her blouse.
And the worst thing was, he
knew
. From his slow smile and his sly nod, he could tell exactly what she was thinking. He could probably see the note he’d left her, his promise to make it up to her suddenly in danger of bursting into spontaneous flame.
“Norton!” She heard the shout from the center fielder. She watched Kyle slip on her glasses and turn away, immediately submerging himself in the game that was his life.
She’d done her part, assuaged his silly superstitions. Now she could settle back and watch the rest of batting practice, followed by the game. It was good for her to get away from her desk once in a while. Being out of the office cleared her head. Taking a break gave her a chance to think about the big picture for UPA, about strategy for the trial, about how all the little pieces fit together.
By the end of the game, her subconscious had stepped forward and presented her with a gift, another argument she could weave into the brief she was filing by the end of the week. That was a good thing, too. Because when she got back to the office, all hell broke loose, with a single phone call.
~~~
I shouldn’t be here
. That’s what Kyle told himself, as he parked his BMW under a street lamp. It was better to get a ticket for being too close to the crosswalk than to leave his car in the middle of the sketchy block.
What the hell was he doing?
That afternoon, sitting in the dugout before the game, he’d thought it was over between them. He’d been certain Amanda wouldn’t show—she’d made it perfectly clear that she didn’t value anything as much as her job.
But he’d left the sunglasses for her because he couldn’t walk away from that part of his ritual. And when he’d looked out into the blinding sunlight, she’d been there. In that suit, with her hair off her neck, and those sexy librarian glasses… She’d been waiting for him, and he’d gone running like a mutt chasing after a T-bone steak.
Everything had been perfect. She’d laughed. She’d thrown him the glasses. He’d caught them and put them on and everything had slipped into place.
Until he started playing the fucking game. Sure, his hitting streak had continued; at least he could say that.
But the Rockets had lost, six to four—a game they should have won against a crappy opponent, at home. Any idiot could argue the team was exhausted; they’d spent all of yesterday flying cross-country. Nevertheless, every game counted on the march to the post-season, travel days or no travel days, and this game had been shit.
Then he got the real kick to his balls. A text from Amanda, buzzing in just as he got to his car after the game.
50K by Monday.
What the fucking hell? Was he a goddamn bank? Did she think her leash was that tight—she could just yank his chain, and he’d show up, checkbook in hand?
He’d been a goddamn fool, thinking all those late-night conversations meant something. He’d been blind, thinking Amanda wanted to talk to him, wanted to flirt with him, wanted to
be
with him, after he finally got back from California.
He punched the button in the overheated elevator lobby that smelled like mildew, and he stepped into the car. Hell, she might not even open her door for him. He’d planned for that, though. He’d brought his goddamn wallet.
He stalked down the hall on the third floor, passing a dozen closed doors. He breathed in the stink of onions from one apartment, of cabbage from another. He knocked on her door, and he waited.
He thought he heard something shuffle on the other side. He knocked again, purposely making the sound sharp, loud. When that didn’t do the trick, he thought about curling his hand into a fist, about pounding hard.
He fished out his phone instead, pressing the button to dial her number. He heard it ring inside, a retro sound, just like the old phone that had hung in his family’s kitchen back in Kansas. Her voicemail picked up, and he ended the call, immediately pressing the button to dial again.
A chain slipped free on the other side of the door, and the rattle amped up his pulse. A deadbolt turned. The door opened.
And there was Amanda.
She wore sweatpants, bulky ones that swamped her body and looked like she’d stolen them from a giant. She had on a skimpy top, one of those T-shirt things with tiny little straps. Her feet were bare, except for bright red polish on her toenails. Her hair was pinned off her neck, with a pencil holding it in place, and she held a white carton, some sort of Chinese food, with two chopsticks standing at attention. A dollop of sauce was smudged beside her lips.
Christ, she was gorgeous.
Amanda in the flesh was a thousand times better than anything he’d pictured from those hotel rooms on the road. She was hotter than she’d been in those shorts she’d worn that first day, sexier than he’d ever imagined she could be when she was buckled into her suits, into her office straitjackets.
“Go away,” she said.
“What? You don’t want to be paid in person?”
“Hush!” She glanced past him, darting frantic glances at her neighbors’ doors. As if any of them would come running for anything short of a fire alarm—and probably not then. Amanda tightened her lips into a frown and stepped back, letting him bull past her into the apartment.
He wasn’t prepared for what he found inside. He was expecting her home to be sleek and spare, hard lines and bare surfaces, like some architect’s drawing of the perfect home.
Instead, he found a whirlwind of chaos. A quilt was tossed over the back of a beat-up old couch, bright colors fighting with each other to cover the mismatched cushions. Books and magazines were scattered across a coffee table,
People
fighting with college textbooks, with graph paper, with enough pencils to keep an entire elementary school in business for a year. A bright blue bowl held the remnants of soup—hot and sour, by the look of it—along with a tangle of Szechuan peppers that looked like they’d come out of the carton she was still holding. A can of PBR sweated onto some scary-looking legal document.
“So you
are
human,” he said, turning to face her.
“What do you want, Kyle?”
He laughed. “You mean, aside from seeing where my hard-earned money is going? What the fuck, Amanda? Another fifty grand? What are you doing, setting up a meth-distribution ring on the side?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, nearly sending the chopsticks toppling. “You don’t get to ask me that.”
“Why the hell not?” He took two steps forward, but stopped when she cringed. He held up his hands in exasperation, making a show of proving that he wasn’t a Neanderthal. “Fine. Let’s do this your way. Tell me your goddamn rules, so that I know what game we’re playing.”
“I’m not playing a game.”
“Right. That’s what you told me every night of the road trip. Or am I the only one who remembers those conversations? Maybe I’m the only one who got off on the sound of—”
“I remember them!”
“So, what’s the deal? Was that all some elaborate cock-tease? You wanted to see if you could make me want you, so you can twitch your little ass and walk away?”
She flushed, her cheeks flaming darker than the peppers in the bowl on the table. “I didn’t mean to tease.”
“Then help me out here, Amanda. Is this some sort of fucked-up role play? You’ve always had some fantasy about being a high-priced hooker? Because I’ve got to say, I’ve never paid for sex before, and I don’t plan on starting now.”
The sound of her slap echoed louder than his angry words.
He could have stopped her. He had the reflexes to clench his fingers around her wrist, to pin her arm to her side and force her back against the wall. But even in his anger, even in his rage, he knew he didn’t want to hurt her. Not physically.
And so he let her slap him. He sucked his breath between his teeth as his cheek burned, and he forced himself to take a long, steady exhale. He stepped back, and he twitched his open hands beside his legs.
~~~
“Jesus,” Amanda breathed. What the hell was she doing? As the imprint of her hand mottled Kyle’s cheek, she shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that.” Belatedly, she nodded toward the couch. “Do you want to sit down? We can talk.”
For a moment, she thought he would refuse. He actually took a step toward the door, and she was surprised by the twist inside her, the knife-sharp disappointment when she realized she might not have a chance to make things right. But in the end, he sighed, and he rolled his shoulders. He stepped past her and collapsed into a corner of the couch.
“Do you want something to drink?” she asked. “I have beer and, um, water, and, um, beer.”
“I’m fine.”
She gestured absurdly with the Chinese food that, somehow, she still held in one hand. “I’ve got Hunan chicken. And there’s plenty of rice.”
“I didn’t come over here for dinner.”
Right. He came over here because she’d sent him another text demanding money. He came over here because she’d pushed him past any reasonable limits, because she’d let the mess of her own life overflow the boundaries
again
. Because she couldn’t afford to protect herself.
Her fellow partners at Link Oster had held an emergency meeting that morning, conducting a special confidential vote to establish a Washington DC office. As a new partner, she’d been astonished to discover the expansion was in the works. The enterprise had been completely hush-hush, and it would have to remain so for at least another two weeks. Link Oster couldn’t risk competitors finding out, couldn’t chance other firms trying to lure away the top lawyers in the deal, trying to interrupt the transaction.