The Change Up (22 page)

“Bring me one,” her father said.

She gave her father a cookie and sat beside him. “Dad, I need to tell you some things.” He worked the cookie over, making satisfying sounds. “We may have a buyer for the team.”

“It's not for sale.”

“Yes, it is,” she said gently. “That's why I'm here.”

“I'm not selling my team!”

Rachel looked at her mother pleadingly, hoping for some help, but her mother balled up cookie dough as if this conversation didn't concern her.

“Dad, please …”

“What's going on?” Helen Anne stood in the hallway, her chin up, and her lips in a hard line.

“We're baking cookies,” their mother said.

“We may have found a buyer for the team,” Rachel said.

“Nobody's selling my team!”

Helen Anne put her arms around his shoulders from behind. “Of course not, Dad.”

Rachel wanted to scream. How was she supposed to do her job and take care of her family when nobody would back her up? “Mark Olean quit today, too,” she said. “I want to hire Benny Bryant to replace him.”

Her father's forehead wrinkled with confusion. “Who?”

“Let's not do this today, Rachel,” her mother said.

“You know what we need?” Helen Anne asked. “We need some milk!”

Rachel sat there, stunned. What was she supposed to do? Wait until her father had a better day to discuss their next step? That would only drag things out more. She had the legal power to make this decision, which would keep them on track and get her back to Philadelphia, where she had more work than she wanted to think about. But hiring the GM was a major deal, and she felt like a villain sneaking Benny Bryant into the role without her father's explicit approval.

She needed to get out of here, clear her head. “Enjoy your cookies,” she said. And then she left, headed for the one person who was as interested in this baseball team as she was.

“Hey,” she said when she'd reached her car and dialed Sam.

“Hey yourself. What's going on?”

“Where are you?”

“Messing with Mrs. Applebee's rose bush.” He chuckled. “It's perfectly innocent despite how it sounds.”

And despite the shit she was wading through with her family and this team, she smiled. “Do you ever take a lunch break?”

“Are you asking to see me in the middle of the day?”

“Maybe.”

“Then, yes. I can take a lunch break.”

“Your place?”

“I'll meet you there.”

Twenty minutes later, she was naked in his bed, flat on her back, with his head between her legs. Her life was officially out of control. Maybe this was the proverbial midlife crisis.

Rachel gripped the cold, metal headboard and tried to concentrate on the steady stroking of Sam's lips and tongue as he teased her, filling her belly with a luscious heat that displaced the upset of that morning.

“So good,” she said, her voice scratchy and low.

His fingers circled her entrance, dipped in and out. One. Then two.

She rocked against him, close to release, wanting it strong and long—enough to make her forget her own name.

“Sam!” she screamed when he pulled her sensitive nub between his lips. That little trick proved to be the epicenter for her orgasm, shattering her into a million glittering pieces. She hovered nowhere and everywhere. No thoughts. Just feelings.

“Again,” she finally said when the ecstasy wore off enough that she could feel her limbs. But then the distinct sound of her phone buzzing in the front pocket of her purse, which was on the chair in Sam's bedroom, distracted her. She propped up on her elbows, even as he planted kisses on her inner thighs. “That's my phone,” she said.

“So?” He was near her belly button now, rounding it with his tongue, while his fingers extracted a few more tremors from the swollen flesh between her legs.

“What if it's important?”

He looked up at her, eyes dark, mouth never leaving her skin. “This is important.”

Too important, maybe. She'd never had sex in the middle of a workday, not to mention a workday as fucked up as this. “I have to get it,” she said, swinging out from underneath him.

She scrambled to her phone in time to miss the call from Liv, and then she stood there, watching the screen, waiting for the voicemail. Behind her, she could hear him moving, probably getting dressed, probably pissed she'd turned her back on him.

“Hi, Rachel. Nothing new here. I'm bored. You sure you don't need me back in Arlington?”

So much for the call being important. Rachel returned the phone to her bag and faced Sam, who wasn't dressed at all. He was under the sheets, propped up on pillows with his arms behind his head. Beautiful. Strong. Dark against the white sheets, and despite the thin layer of covering, clearly still aroused. So much for being pissed.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Don't be. It's one hell of a view.” He looked her over and licked his lips, and she decided,
Screw it
, and crawled under the sheets with him.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her close, while she kissed his chest and took her time exploring his erection.

“Was it important?” he asked, sounding pained and pleasured all at once.

She teased his nipple with her tongue. “Not as important as this.”

In a flash, she was beneath him, her mouth covered with his. The kiss was hot and deep. All-consuming. She shuddered when his fingers found her folds again, and she lifted her hips eagerly when he was sheathed and ready.

He drove into her. Hard and long. Over and over. Branding her with his body in a way she'd never experienced before. Dominant. Possessive. And yet, when she opened her eyes on a swallowed moan, she found him staring at her, something soft and wondrous in his eyes.

He slowed his pace. Cupped her face. And said, “You are … amazing.”

More luscious and addictive kisses followed. Their bottom halves moved in sync. And when they pulsed together, wrapped in sweet sweat and delicious aftershocks, Rachel truly felt amazing, too.

This time, she didn't rush to dress. She waited in his bed when he left to clean up. There was no use in pretending to be a hard-ass who'd had another lapse in judgment. This was more than that. She was more than that.

“Hey.” Clad in his boxer briefs, his hair curling wildly at the ends, he looked pleasantly surprised to see her there.

“I'm not quite ready to go back to the real world,” she said.

“Well, then, you're in luck, because as the head of commercial landscaping for Sutter & Sons, I'm fully within my managerial boundaries to send my crew to finish out the day without me. Which means”—he slid into bed beside her—“I'm all yours.”

It sounded wonderful, but she didn't have that sort of freedom. “I lost my GM today.”

“Olean?” he asked, clearly remembering their past conversations.

“Yes. And I want to hire the second guy on the list … Benny Bryant.”

She saw the shock in his eyes even before he said, “No fucking way!”

“I looked him up after you mentioned him, and I found an interview where he said he was interested in moving into the front office at a lower level. Well, you can't get much lower than this.” She smiled sadly. “Unfortunately, Benny is not who my father would hire. His list defaults to Gordy Stallman. Do you have any idea how hard it is to have your guiding principle be ‘what would Dad do' when Dad isn't even himself anymore?”

“Here's a thought,” Sam said. “Make your guiding principle ‘what would Rachel do?'”

She smiled and snuggled closer to his chest, liking the simplicity of that. But it was too good to be true. Too easy. She had to reconcile the wants of two Rachels now. Business-minded Rachel would sell the team, bank the commission, head back to her life in Philadelphia, and assuage her guilt by knowing she'd done what she'd been asked to do. But the Rachel lying in Sam Sutter's arms couldn't get excited about that scenario, because she wanted …
this.

She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. But what was this, and where would it lead? Marriage. Kids. She almost laughed. That train had barreled past her ten years ago. Could she really see herself married and starting a family at this point in her life? Imagine the sacrifices it would take. She tensed, because she wasn't at liberty to make a single one. Her father was counting on her to follow his business plans. It was the last thing he would ask of her.

Loosening her grip on Sam, Rachel said, “I really should go.” And this time, when she left the bed, she gathered her littered pieces of clothing and got dressed.

“Ready to tackle the real world?” He looked as relaxed as ever.

“I don't have a choice.”

“You're the boss, Rachel. You always have a choice.” He smiled, extra wide and alluring, patting the sheets beside him.

“Maybe, but this boss has to hire a GM.”

A thoughtful look crossed his face, and she braced herself for the enthusiastic speech on behalf of Benny Bryant. She suddenly wished she hadn't said anything.

Instead, Sam asked, “And then?”

“I have to prepare for a meeting.” With prospective buyers, but she didn't feel like divulging everything. She wasn't required to simply because they were sleeping together.

Thankfully, he didn't push. Of course he didn't. This was a little uncomplicated fun. Those had been his words, and she needed to hold them both to that. In fact, she needed to pull back and put some space between them. Although, she didn't feel the need to tell him that, either. It was her body, her decision. It was also time to get serious.

One week was all she had to hire a GM, court prospective buyers, and see that a team was ready to take the field for Opening Day.

• • •

Over the next five days, Sam and his crew worked long hours getting the field into playing shape. He didn't need to stop by dressed in his jeans and work boots at 6:15 a.m. on the first day of tryouts to double-check anything. No, that wasn't why he was here. He was here hoping to calm his nerves and absorb some of the peace he could only find on an empty baseball field … or in the trees. That's why he'd walked over, figuring the one-two punch would do him wonders.

He climbed onto the roof of the dugout, like a king admiring the view from his watchtower, and took a deep breath. The newly risen sun filtered the scene like an artsy photograph, and he thought about pulling out his phone to capture it. Instead, he took another deep breath, held on to the soothing scent of healthy grass and damp dirt, and let everything else slip away. He could do this. He wanted to do this. He'd spent the last week dealing in hypotheticals, figuring out the logistics, when he would be gone and who would pick up the slack. It was complicated by the fact that Ian was trying out, too. But they'd hired enough people to make things manageable. And his father was on board—happy, even. That was the most important thing. Sam wanted to play ball again, but this time, he wouldn't forsake his family. Not even Luke, who was handling things much better since they'd both blown off a little steam.

“Sam?” He turned to see Rachel behind him, clutching the rail and looking at him like he was a ghost. “What are you doing here this early? Tryouts aren't until three.”

“Focusing,” he said, thinking she looked even more beautiful than usual dressed in a pale-blue pantsuit with her long hair piled high on her head.

“Good luck today.”

“Thank you.”

Her pink lips parted, and her lashes fluttered like she wanted to say something else, but then she just smiled.

“Will you be at tryouts?” he asked.

“I'll be watching from up there.” She gestured to the wall of windows overhead. “My father will be, too.”

“Good. You know I perform much better when you're around.”

This time, her smile was livelier and a little wicked. “I'm sure you're wonderfully capable on your own.”

The sun had barely risen, and already he could feel a full day's heat between them. He wanted to make her writhe right here on top of the dugout, but that ever-present phone made its presence known, and he knew she wouldn't ignore it—not even if his mouth were on her body.

“We'll talk later,” she said before she answered the call, which gave him hope they could keep this thing going right up until the last minute. He hated that the thought simultaneously buoyed him and dragged him down, so he hopped off the dugout and wandered the field, breathing in and out. Refocusing. Until tryouts were over, he couldn't afford to be distracted by any more changeups.

Eight hours later, Sam walked onto the field dressed in an old practice uniform.

Ian was at his side, a bag slung over his right shoulder. “It's a busy place.”

At least a hundred guys littered the ground they'd babied for the last two months. “I hope to God this sod can handle two hundred feet.”

“Is that a woman?” Ian stopped short of second base and dropped his bag. “
That
is a woman on the mound.”

Sam was about to argue that some men had ponytails, too, when the pitcher turned, and her profile sported obvious breasts. “That is a woman,” he confirmed. That was a first.

“You've got to be shitting me.”

Sam shook his head. “Who cares? As long as she can throw, I have no problem with it.”

“That's because you won't have to catch for her. Maybe she won't make it.”

Maybe Sam wouldn't make it, either. He took stock of the competition while he and Ian warmed up. Some of the guys looked barely out of high school and green around the gills. They misread pop-ups and overplayed grounders. Other guys were seasoned. They were strong and sharp, snagging anything that came near them.

“Sutter?” He caught the last toss from Ian before he turned to see Benny Bryant striding across the outfield toward him.