“Oh, it was fun,” I deadpan, taking another practice swing. The motion grounds me, the satisfying pull of muscle helping to keep my temper in check. “But he thinks we’re getting everything annulled.”
Alex arches a brow. “And you didn’t correct him?”
I shrug. “Timing matters.”
It’s not that I’m scared of my father. Not anymore. It’sjust, I know how he works. He’s a strategist. A manipulator. If I give him this information now, he’ll start circling the wagons and calling Madeline, his donors, his PR team, anything to find an angle, a way to spin it, fix it, or control it.
But if I wait and make it clear that this marriage is real, established, and already tied to a dozen media cycles and public goodwill. Well, then he can’t touch it. Can’t spin it. He has to live with it.
“He’s smart, though, too,” I add, “so convincing him it’s real will be key. The fact that I’ve refused every conservative debutante and donor’s daughter he’s pushed on me for the last decade? He’ll be suspicious either way.”
Alex grins. “So, you’re playing the long game.”
“Exactly,” I say, lining up another swing. “This time, I want the win to be checkmate.”
“Unless Jess can be your excuse?” Alex suggests, tilting his head.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you’ve always rejected his pairings because you’ve been in love with Jess all this time.”
The words land harder than they should. There’s this half-second pause in my chest, like my heart missed a step and is scrambling to catch up. In love with Jess? No. That’s not what this is. It’s proximity. History. A shared past and a ridiculous present. It’s chemistry, sure, but we’ve always had that. Doesn’t mean it’s anything more.
Does it?
I scoff, shaking my head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Alex raises a brow.
“I mean,come on,” I add. “It’s Jess. We spend half our time trying not to strangle each other.”
Alex shrugs. “Sounds like foreplay.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m already walking away because, if I stay in this conversation any longer, I might start asking myself questions I’m not ready to answer.
“Hey batter, batter, swing batter! They’re waiting for you in the box!”
The low, husky quality of her voice flows through me like a shot of whiskey mixed with warm honey. It’s familiar, soothing, yet unexpected. It heats my blood and somehow steadies me at the same time.
I turn to see Jess standing just outside the fence along the third baseline. She’s in cut-off shorts that showcase her long, toned legs and a fitted tank that reveals the benefits of her early morning surfing habit. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and oversized sunglasses hide her eyes. Somehow, she makes baseball casual look like a magazine spread.
My mind immediately, traitorously, flashes to how it would feel to wrap that ponytail around my fist.
Alex isn’t wrong. She does have a certain magnetic effect, the kind that people can’t look away from. Like lightning strikes. Or car crashes.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
“Austin’s here,” she says, gesturing to where her brother is laughing with some of the guys near the bench: Austin Lexington, the Tampa Bay Thunder’s star pitcher, currently sidelined in rehab after Tommy John surgery.
“I saw him before the game,” I say, gripping the bat a littletighter. “He congratulated me. Slapped me on the back and said, ‘Welcome to the family.’” I smirk.
The guilt’s been sitting like a stone in my gut ever since.
We made plans to grab a beer later this week and catch up. It’s a conversation I’m absolutelynotlooking forward to. Austin’s a good guy, one of the best, and he deserves more than half-truths and a PR-friendly version of whatever this is with his sister.
Jess leans against the fence, her smile syrupy-sweet and weaponized. “Plus, I couldn’t miss watching my husband pretend he’s still in college, trying to live out his lost dreams of making it to the MLB.”
I smirk as I step up to the plate. “Scoop, if you wanted to stare at me wielding my bat, all you had to do was ask.”
