From Left Field: A Hot Baseball Romance (Diamond Brides Book 7) (11 page)

She glanced at the kitchen table, at the half-filled coffee mug that sat beside a box of corn flakes, testimony to Adam’s ability to forage for breakfast. The coffee-maker ticked on the counter, hissing a little as it finished its brewing cycle.

Haley busied herself at the cupboard to the right of the sink. “I thought…” She told the neat rows of coffee cups, “I just…”

That was stupid, her throat closing up like that. She shouldn’t have to
blink
just to choose a mug. There was no reason she should need to swallow hard, just to catch her breath.

Adam’s arms folded around her from behind. Without planning to, she leaned back against his chest. His breath was warm beside her ear as he whispered, “Let’s try this again.” His hands were firm on her hips as he turned her to face him. “Good morning.” His kiss was sweet, gentle, his lips soft as they brushed against hers.

She leaned her forehead against his. “Good morning,” she whispered.

“That’s better,” he said matter-of-factly, and then he reached past her to select a mug.

As he poured coffee for her, adding just the right amount of cream, she caught herself thinking,
This is how he does it. This is how he gets women in every town the team visits. This is how he makes friends, how he keeps them. He’s like a puppy, happy and sweet and easy to play with
.

But she took the cup of coffee. She dug an apple out of the fridge. She tossed a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster. And she told her rioting heart to stop pounding, her lungs to breathe, her mind to stop racing. And by the time Adam left for Rockets Field, she could almost believe everything was going to be okay.

~~~

Three nights later, Adam pulled into his driveway, shifting into first and pulling up the handbrake before he switched off the headlights. As he extracted his key from the ignition, the radio strangled itself to silence.

It was late. The game had gone into extra innings—twelve before the Rockets lost in a heartbreaker they could ill afford before they hit the road in the morning. He glanced across the lawn to Haley’s house. The porch light was off. In fact, the entire house was dark.

He could still go over there. Twenty years ago, he’d mastered hoisting himself onto the roof of the porch, step-sliding his way over to the boys’ bedroom. If the window lock had ever worked, it had long since been jimmied out of commission. Hell, he could take the key out of the mailbox and let himself in the front door, just like he belonged there.

But that wasn’t going to work, long term. Not with Haley.

He’d brought over dinner on Sunday night, chasing away a miserable shut-out with greasy hamburgers and mountains of fries, all washed down by the beer she kept in her refrigerator. That had been the plan, anyway. They’d made it through three bites each before they were ripping the clothes off each other. The dogs got to the burgers long before he and Haley made it back to the kitchen. The humans had needed to settle for late-night bowls of pasta with olive oil and Parmesan, while the dogs barked their unhappiness at being banished to the backyard until their guts caught up with their pin-size excuses for brains.

On Monday, Haley had begged off from an afternoon visit—she said she had a board meeting she couldn’t miss. Tuesday, he’d been the one making excuses; he was too pissed off after three consecutive losses to be decent company. He’d talked to the press after the game; that was his job, and he wasn’t going to start shirking now. But if one more person reminded him of Marty Benson, if one more reporter asked about how the old man was doing, if the players could see the owner from the on-deck circle, if they knew the guy was celebrating his eighty-second birthday at the end of the month…

Yeah, the Rockets were pretty damn sure this was the last season they had to get Marty Benson the championship ring he deserved. Every single one of them thought about it every time he stepped to the plate. And every single one of them knew the chances were getting slimmer with every game that slipped to the loss column.

And so it was Wednesday, and Adam was set to hit the road in the morning. Tomorrow was a travel day to Kansas City, then Cleveland: a week before he’d be back home.

He wanted to see Haley before he left. But if she’d wanted to see him, wouldn’t she have left a light on? Wouldn’t she have sent him a text, an email, left a voicemail sometime during the hours his phone had been locked up at the park?

Why was he standing here in the dark, like a pimple-faced teenager, holding his dick and wondering if the cute girl next door would give him the time of day?

Shit. He was lousy company anyway. Time to go to bed, pack in the morning, and see Haley after the team got back above .500.

~~~

Haley stood in the center of the parking lot, waving as the last of the car wash customers turned onto the main road in front of Paws for Love. The Saturday traffic was brutal. That had been part of Haley’s master plan—she’d hoped drivers would prefer to avoid the crowd and spend an hour in a parking lot, sipping a soda and eating a donut while their car was detailed by eager volunteers.

And her prediction had been right.

It was the detailing that got people’s attention. Any high school activity club could provide a basic car wash. Paws for Love had upped its game, though. They’d advertised full detailing, and they’d delivered.

When it became obvious that dozens of Raleigh drivers were eager for properly cleaned cars, Haley had rolled up her figurative sleeves and gotten to work with the rest of her staff. In the past three hours, she’d vacuumed gallons of Cheerios out of back-seat crevices. She’d sprayed vats of blue ammonia onto windshields, wiped away streaks of things she didn’t want to imagine. She’d polished hundreds of tires, leaving the rubber gleaming like it had just rolled off a factory floor.

Now, as the last car rolled off the lot, Haley was hot and sweaty, grateful that she’d opted for shorts and a T-shirt, despite a day that had started off in chilly fog. Kate approached with a lockbox and a triumphant smile. “Almost eight thousand dollars!” she announced.

The staff cheered and gave each other high fives. Haley laughed at their enthusiasm. “Thanks, guys. We couldn’t have done it without everyone pitching in.”

She watched as they moved toward the shelter, boisterous and giddy. Kate led the way, asking if anyone could
believe
how filthy that minivan had been, the one where the second seat was matted with dog fur.

Eight thousand dollars.
That
was the difference between a couple of buckets of soapy water and high-end supplies. But even as Haley gathered up the last of the squeegees, she knew the haul wasn’t anywhere near enough. Sure, they’d put any ordinary car wash to shame, the same way they’d run rings around a regulation bake sale.

But they’d managed to raise what? Fourteen thousand dollars so far? They were raising too little money, and they were running out of time.

Pet Ownership University. That was the only possible hope for Paws.

Haley shuddered as she thought of the work the University would entail. She believed she was tired now, after a single day of physical labor. How would she feel after putting countless pets through their paces? After grappling with owners who refused to do what was right, refused to work
with
her, instead of against her? How exhausted would she be after dealing with Missy Newton, with an
army
of Missy Newtons?

She shook her head and pulled her phone out of her pocket. In anticipation of the day’s hard work, she’d slipped the device into a plastic bag before she’d left home that morning. She was pleased to see that her planning had paid off; the phone was dry and undamaged as she checked the time.

The sun was bright enough that she could see her own reflection on the sleek black face of the device. That reminded her—she’d planned on taking pictures throughout the event, photographs to use for future fundraising, to show interested donors how hard the Paws staff worked.

Well, she’d missed the chance for action shots. But she could still take a selfie, to memorialize the day. She turned her back to the shelter’s front door. Facing the brilliant sunshine, she smiled and clicked.

And she was mortified when she checked the results of her handiwork. Between water and sunshine, her T-shirt revealed every stitch of her bra. She might as well not have bothered with a top at all.

She started to delete the picture. But even as her finger hovered over the miniature trashcan on the phone’s control panel, she had another thought. She certainly couldn’t share the photo publicly. But there was no reason she couldn’t use it in a little … private communication.

Shaking her head at herself, she sent the photo to Adam with a few quick taps, adding the message, “Another successful fundraising event. Go Paws! Thinking of you.”

It wasn’t like she was sending him some boudoir shot. It was just a little pick-me-up. The guy needed something. The Rockets were in the midst of a killer losing streak—six games and counting. And going against Kansas City’s ace at 4:00, they weren’t likely to stop the slide any time soon.

Haley used her shoulder to push her way into the lobby at Paws. Her staff was gathered around the front desk, still trading war stories from the event. She lugged her armful of squeegees back to her office, dumping them all in a corner until she could figure out a better long-term storage solution.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She fished it out and swiped in her password. A picture waited for her—sleek, grey baseball uniform pants, zoomed in to catch only the hips. A pair of hips that she knew surprisingly well. A pair of hips that framed an impressive bulge.

She scrolled down to pick up the message Adam had sent along with his photographic commentary. “Two can play at that game. Congrats on the car wash. You’re still going down.”

Her cheeks heated at his words. He had to be issuing a challenge, boasting that the Foundation was still going to outpace Paws for funding. The double entendre had to be an accident.

But when she glanced at the photo again, she knew Adam had meant every single letter he’d typed. And she curled her fingers in frustration, because a seven-day road trip was exactly seven days too long for him to be away.

A week later, Adam eyed the massive steak knives on the table and wondering if he’d made a really bad mistake. He should have thought this through before he’d invited Michael and Billy to Artie’s. He’d be a hell of a lot safer at some fast food joint, where all the knives were plastic.

Time to man up.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I appreciate it, on such short notice.”

“Yeah,” Michael drawled, leaning back in his chair. “My social secretary had a hell of a time clearing my schedule.”

Billy smirked. “Hell, I just told mine this was an event I couldn’t miss.”

Shit. They both knew exactly why he’d invited them here. And they were going to milk this conversation for everything they could.

He nodded at their glasses. “Want another drink, while we’re waiting for our food?” He should have slipped Artie an extra twenty to get their steaks on the grill faster.

“Nope,” Michael said, although he helped himself to a long, slow sip of Four Roses. “We’re both fine.”

Time for Adam to get to work then. Time to tell his oldest friends in the world… He stared at his own glass, wondering when it had gone empty. He looked around for the waitress, but she was nowhere in sight. He chickened out on his big confession and said instead, “I hope you guys didn’t have any money on today’s game.”

Michael, the asshole, actually started smirking. But Billy looked earnest as he said, “Would you cover me if I did?”

“Right,” Adam said. “And then I’d be in worse shape than I am with this Reiter shit. The League loves a guy who gambles.”

Billy snorted and looked like he was willing to talk about the game, ready to ask what had happened in the bottom of the sixth when the Rockets’ four-run lead slipped away. And Adam was just desperate enough to avoid the
real
conversational topic that he was willing to dissect the loss—the pitcher’s inability to pick off a guy stealing second, another guy hit by a pitch, a goddamn balk. He’d even toss in a dissection of his own throwing error to second—it was fair game, if only he didn’t have to say what came next.

But Michael wasn’t playing that game. Michael just looked him in the eye and said, “Sounds like you’ve been spending a lot of time over at our house.”

It’s not your house any more.

What do you mean by “a lot?”

Who told you?

But Adam might as well act like he had a pair. “I have. And Haley doesn’t seem to have any complaints.”

Billy was the one who asked questions. Billy was
always
the one who asked questions. “Does she know the three of us are having dinner tonight? Did you tell her you’re asking our permission?”

“I’m not asking your permission, asshole,” Adam said, keeping his voice light. “I’m telling you what’s happening. I’m giving you two a chance to tell me every way this is fucked up, so we can get past it all and still drink a beer together in Haley’s kitchen.” He purposely emphasized her name, just a little. She’d be royally pissed when she found out the three of them had gotten together like this.

Michael said, “Does this mean you’re backing off on buying the Reeves place?”

That was a fair enough question. Adam said, “I still want it, but I don’t know if I can string together the financing. An army of investigators is crawling up my ass with this Reiter stuff, and my personal accounts are pretty much locked down until we figure out exactly what’s going on. That’s why I held the gala. We got close, but I still need more. So no, I’m not backing off.”

“And Haley knows that?” Billy sounded shocked.

“She knows.”

“And she’s okay with it?”

“We’ve agreed to fight fair. After all, we’re neighbors.”

“Shit,” Michael sighed, stretching the word with disgust. “What the hell is it with you two? Neighbors don’t…” But he trailed off.