Getting Lucky (The Portland Pioneers Book 2) (43 page)

Maggie glanced up and looked around the Café that she’d built with her own two hands. It would still be here whether Noah played next season or not. And eventually, she knew with a deep conviction, that he’d be back. It was just a matter of how hard things would be before that.

“What I had before was enough. It’ll have to be enough again,” Maggie said. “Besides, I don’t even know what he decided or when he’ll decide. He’s probably got more meetings. And I even told him not to call me.”

Cal sighed emphatically, clearly not pleased with that particular confession.

“It made sense at the time,” Maggie said defensively. “I wanted him to make the decision on his own. And I thought if he called, he might. . .well,
I
might beg him.”

“Did you?”

“Actually I didn’t.” Maggie
was
rather proud of this. She’d wanted to badly. It had only been two days since he’d left and she missed him so much. What was she going to do if he basically left her for the entire baseball season?

It was pathetic, Maggie decided.
She
was pathetic.

“Good on you, Mags,” Cal said approvingly, reaching across the table and squeezing one of her hands in his. “I bet it wasn’t easy.”

Maggie spent the evening quietly, doing some paperwork and bills, huddled in front of her laptop on the couch, wrapped in blankets with a movie playing quietly in the background. She’d never worked harder at turning her mind and her anxiety off.

She’d also never felt like this house was particularly empty before, mostly because it was so full of memories of her family and her childhood. But tonight, she couldn’t help but feel the cold bite of loneliness as she got ready for bed.

Cal had been right, it wasn’t easy and it didn’t get any easier. She fought every moment the desire to text or call Noah and confess just how much she wanted him here with her. But she didn’t give in.

She should be exhausted, Maggie told herself, because it had been a horribly draining day, but even as she lay in bed, the darkness surrounding her, she couldn’t seem to fall asleep. Finally, she switched on the lamp and reached for her tablet, thinking that maybe some recipe browsing might make her tired enough to sleep.

She’d just opened her favorite recipe app when she heard a key scrape in the lock of the front door. Remembering the last time someone had “broken in” and it had only been Tabitha, Maggie grimaced and rolled out of bed, pulling a sweatshirt on before she headed towards the tiny foyer.

In the hallway, Maggie grabbed the baseball bat Noah had left propped up in the corner, just in case it was an actual burglar and not Tabitha, though since this was maybe the first time Maggie had ever held a bat before, it wasn’t like she was going to be all that effective with it.

“Maggie?” she heard a voice call out, and she stumbled backwards, shock running through her veins like lightning. She flipped on the light in the hallway and came to face to face with a beaming Noah. “Maggie,” he repeated, with a shit-eating grin, “I’m home.”

Relief cascaded through her in a rush, leaving her lightheaded and giddy. “For good?”

“Definitely for good.” Noah just grinned at her. “I’m never leaving again, even if you beg me to.”

This had always been her home. Even when she’d been in San Francisco, she’d always considered Sand Point and
this
house her home. She’d never really known another, but she’d never felt more at home than she did at this moment, with Noah wrapping her in his arms and murmuring incoherent sentences full of love and apologies and entreaties to remember that he was just a man and he fucked up sometimes.

She grinned hard against his shoulder, feeling her fingertips dig into the broad muscles of his back. If he hugged her any tighter, she might not be able to breathe, but Maggie figured that at this particular moment in time, breathing was rather overrated.

Noah pulled back a little, so he could see her face. “Are you mad?” he asked seriously. “Because you can be, you know. I was an idiot. I should have called. I should have told you the moment I decided.”

“No,” she said.

“No to being mad or no, I’m not an idiot?” he asked with that crooked smile she adored plastered across his features.

“Well, no you
are
an idiot,” she huffed affectionately, “but no, I’m not mad.” She pulled him tight against her again. “I love you.”

She heard him practically giggle against her hair. “Actually, I think I love you more.”

Maggie couldn’t help but roll her eyes at this. “Always the last word, Fox.”

“Always.”

Acknowledgements

I am so grateful for everyone who helped make
Getting Lucky
a reality. Writing a book in four months is tough, and didn’t only require so much of my time and energy but the time and energy of everyone around me.

Cory, for always being there and for always being willing to step in and help out. Unfortunately laundry doesn’t wash itself and the floor doesn’t magically get vacuumed.

Angel, for being incredibly supportive through this entire process. Also to the other Frequent Flyers girls--writing
Eye of the Storm
and putting out the collection right in the middle of writing a novel might have been a little insane, but we got through it together and I am so proud of the result.

Stacy, from Apoidea Editorial, who had so many wonderful insights on my manuscript.
Getting Lucky
wouldn’t be the same without you.

My beta readers: Nicole, Erica, Andrew, Libbi and of course, my mother. Thank you for always being honest.

Tammie, who provided the perfect solution when I was stuck on the “Thanksgiving” chapter.

Thank you all!

If you missed it, make sure you check out Jack and Izzy’s book . . .

IT’S THE BOTTOM OF THE NINTH . . .

Izzy Dalton’s about to strike out. Her new job as the sideline reporter for the Portland Pioneers major league baseball team is problematic on several levels:

1. Baseball is her least-favorite sport. Falling behind golf, tennis, and maybe even curling.

2. What Izzy knows about baseball could fill about three minutes of airtime.

3. Her last experience in front of a camera was in college. Six years ago.

4. The Pioneers’ second baseman has a wicked sense of humor and even wickeder blue eyes.

AND A FULL COUNT. . .

Jack Bennett couldn’t be more uninterested in a little sideline action. He just wants to show up at the park and win baseball games. Izzy is the one woman he should steer clear of, but she’s also the key to his success–and his heart, too.

All Izzy has to do is convince her misogynistic boss she’s competent, learn what the heck an RBI is, and stay away from Jack Bennett. Izzy tells herself it’ll be a snap, but 162 games is longer than she ever imagined and Jack more irresistible than she counted on.

Jack stumbled onto Izzy and Noah almost completely by accident.

And by accidentally, he meant he’d figured out what time Izzy typically arrived at the park, and in the last two weeks, had learned to time her arrival with his. After all, he had a reputation to protect, and that meant he couldn’t exactly approach the media for the sheer hell of it. No, every approach had to be a carefully arranged accident.

Which was why he just happened to accidentally be in the parking lot at 10:03 a.m., and when he exited his rental, he just happened to, you know, accidentally scan the parking lot for her.

But today, it wasn’t just Izzy that he’d managed to catch, but Noah, too.

They were laughing together, and Izzy’s smile was genuine—not that completely fake, dead-eyed imitation that she used most of the time. Jack had gotten a few of the real articles out of her, but Foxy was in a rare—or maybe not-so-rare—zone, and Izzy was clearly very amused by whatever charming bullshit he was spouting.

Even worse, they were standing between her rental and Foxy’s rental Mercedes, white with gold trim, an ostentatiously shiny example of everything Jack didn’t give a shit about. He barely gave his own black SUV an off-handed glance as he swung his bag across his shoulder, pulled his ball cap low over his eyes and stalked over to confront his best friend and the woman he hadn’t been able to get out of his head since he’d taught her to smell a steal a mile off.

“Fox.” It was rare he called Noah by his real last name—almost always it was the bastardization of his last name that he claimed had originated in high school—but right now, Jack wasn’t in the mood for jovial bullshit. Okay, he hadn’t exactly called dibs on the new reporter, mostly because that required admitting she was his brand of cute, but Foxy still should have known better.

Noah looked up and Izzy’s eyes widened in what had to be fake surprise at his appearance. Jack had met her in the parking lot a good ten mornings running. If he wasn’t so desperate, it would nearly be embarrassing. He’d nearly had her giggling, Jack thought and casually considered smacking his best friend in the face, right in those unbearably shiny silver aviator sunglasses that probably cost a month of renting that god-awful Mercedes.

“Jack, I’m glad I caught you,” Izzy said, and the undeniable eagerness in her voice went a little bit toward soothing his temper. “I read this blog last night and I want to do a story on it. I saw Noah and already got his opinion.” Izzy looked straight at him, totally professional but with just enough heat in those incredible eyes to grab every last bit of his attention. “I know you usually pull into the lot right after me, but not today, I guess.”

Okay, so she’d noticed his consistent presence. He’d been a little worried that she hadn’t. You had to hope the girl you liked was smart enough to pick up on the fact that she’d developed a semi stalker.

“I’m all about the routine,” Jack said with a lame smile. “So what’s the blog about?”

Foxy leaned against the bumper of Izzy’s rental, crossed his arms, biceps bulging in what Jack disgustedly assumed had to be on purpose and smirked. “You’re not going to believe this. Someone’s posting rumors about major-league wives. Some real Page Six juicy stuff.”

“Uhhh,” Jack wasn’t sure what to say. This was the piece Izzy was excited about doing? And what was Page Six?

“That is not it,” Izzy laughed, “though I did run across that blog, too. But the actually interesting blog was about baseball superstitions. I couldn’t believe the crazy things some players did.”

“Superstitions are tricky like that. They don’t mean anything if they’re not crazy,” Jack admitted.

A sly look dawned in Izzy’s eyes. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

Noah chose that moment to laugh long and hard. “Better you don’t ask, Dalton. Don’t want to scare you away.”

But Izzy wasn’t so easily persuaded and she gave him another cool, serious look. “Seriously. What’s your superstition, Jack?”

“Honestly, superstitions are a load of crap. I know a lot of ballplayers have them, but I’m a rational guy. I train hard, I play well. End of story.”

“You really don’t, do you?” Izzy seemed almost mystified at the truth. “I never would have believed you’d be the one to go all straight on me.”