“I just want someone to fuck my brains out. Is that too much to ask?” I say into the phone pressed to my ear. I’m recounting another date disaster to my best friend, and the thought alone is enough to conjure up memories from seven months ago. Also known as the last time I had sex— no, mind-blowing, alter your brain chemistry sex—at my best friend’s wedding in St. John.
The newlyweds had already departed for their honeymoon, but the rest of us headed to The Beach Bar where I got drunk, let my guard down, and slept with someone much younger than me. I suspected he was a player with how quickly he picked me out of the crowd, which was only confirmed by the filthy words he whispered into my ear later. But god, was it good. I can still feel his touch feather across my skin. Images of tattooed arms spreading my legs open flash in my mind, taking center stage in my dreams on an almost nightly basis.
I need to get laid ASAP.
“Nah, seems pretty simple.”
My pulse skips a beat at the sound of the voice surely conjured up in my head from thinking about that night. Because the same voice I hear in my head telling me to come when I’m trying to soothe the ache between my legs can’t be here in real life. There’s no way the owner of that voice can be in my office on the fourth floor of the Music City Troubadours business complex overlooking Stella Stadium in Nashville.The office IthoughtI was alone in while having a very personal and private phone call.
When I don’t respond, he continues with a tinge of humor, “I could help you out with that, Princess.”
The color drains from my face and my cheeks feel hot. Not my imagination. He’s here. Why is he here? He, of all people, shouldn’t have heard me say that. Much less volunteer to rail me. Oh god, who is he with? Who else heard me say that?
Taylor’s voice through the phone snaps me back to the present.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I have to go.”
“No, wait!”
Hanging up, I drop my phone on the desk and square my shoulders as I turn in my chair to face the man lingering in my doorway. Thankfully, he’s alone, which easessomeof the anxiety humming through my bloodstream.
His eyes glow mischievously, and his smirk is as sinful as his tongue was on my body. I have to stop thinking about that night. Trailing my eyes down his body, those tattooed forearms I was just daydreaming about are crossed over his chest. He leans slightly into the doorframe, the Troubadour shirt he’s wearing is stretched tight across his broad chest, stopping where it meets the waistband of his navy workout shorts. The unmistakable bulge makes my knees weak and I’m grateful to be sitting down. It’s only when I continue my perusal back up his body, taking in the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck peeking out from the brim of his backward baseball cap, that it registers that he’s dressed in Troubadour gear from head to toe.
“Why are you here?” I blurt. Hoping and praying to the baseball gods that my voice came out sharp instead of breathless. He pushes up from his slouched position as Coach Crenshaw comes around the corner.
“Oh good, you’re already here.” He slaps Matt on the shoulder as he stalks into my office.
“Daddy Mike!” I can’t keep the excitement from my voicewhen it comes to teasing my best friend’s father. Ivory Crenshaw and I met in college while she was taking a break from acting. Our other best friend, and the current reason I’ve put my foot in my mouth, is Taylor Baker, who coined Daddy Mike’s nickname solely to piss Ivory off, but it stuck. We both pull it out every now and then to get a rise out of them both. Ivory’s husband, Preston, was playing for Mike in Tampa when they met, but he asked for a trade to Nashville shortly after to be closer to Ivory.
“You girls have to stop calling me that.” Mike grins as he shakes his head. He’d never admit it, but I think he secretly likes it.
“Now what fun would that be?” I ask. Mike looks down at his feet to suppress his smile before a look of business crosses his features, reminding me he’s not just here to chat. “What brings you by today?” Having Mike here gives me a chance to refocus and ignore the cocky, tatted nuisance’s presence for the time being.
“Showing the Rook around and introducing him to the staff. Thought you may have some paperwork for him to sign too since he’s making his big-league debut tonight.” Mike responds, bringing my attention back to the source of my internal freakout. I brace my hands on the desk, attempting to look unaffected. If my boss would actually tell me important thingsbeforethey happened, I would know he was getting called up.
“There shouldn’t be anything more that he needs to sign besides what he already signed when he was added to the active roster, but I can take a look.” I walk around the desk, extending my hand to shake Matt’s while doing my best to keep my face impassive. “Gabrielle Pierson. Welcome to The Show.”
He quirks a brow but doesn’t call me out on the fact that we’ve met before. I told him my name was Bree, and he said his was Matt, but as my luck would have it, Matt isn’t Matt after all.
“Chase Bennett.” His callused palm slips into mine, giving it a rough shake. My entire arm tingles at the contact. “Happy to be here,” he adds, and I can’t help but feel like his response has adouble meaning. We didn’t exchange real names during our one night together on the island. My tequila-fueled brain didn’t register who he truly was until the next morning. Looking at him in the bed, I knew I fucked up. It’s part of why I ran out so quickly. I couldn’t risk it. Everyone with an eye on sports knows Chase Bennett’s stats—on and off the field. He’s the rookie making a name for himself and, as of today, the newest member of our team.
“Gabby here is the best lawyer we have. Listen to her and you won’t have any issues,” Mike says proudly yet pointedly. Chase has a reputation as a party boy off the field. And, because of his big name, his antics are highly publicized. Just last year he was involved in a brawl at a bar after starting with the Troubadours Triple A team.
“You flatter me,” I say at the same time, Ma—Chasesays, “I don’t doubt it.” A spark flies behind his brown irises.
“We’ll get out of your hair. Will you girls be at the game tonight?” Mike asks, referring to me and Ivory.
“Yep, we’ll be there. Tay will be here soon.” Taylor splits her time between New York and Los Angeles, but she was at the airport for a flight to Nashville when we hung up just a few minutes ago.
“Oh great, my favorite heckler behind home plate.” Mike winks and leaves the room.
“Good luck,” I say to Chase, who is slowly walking to the door. He looks back over his shoulder, stopping in the doorframe. His eyes scorch a trail down my body while he licks his lips. I feel that look as surely as if it were his hands blazing the path instead.
Meeting my eyes again, he says, “When I score tonight, I’ll do something special so you know I’m thinking of you.”
Shock has me backing up to lean on my desk so I don’t fall as he winks and leaves my office.
When, not if.
