After Emmett handled the restaurant bill, refusing to let Lyra or me pay for our meal because he swore his momma would roll over in her grave if he took a dime from a woman, he stopped by his house. While he and Matt were inside, Lyra excused herself from the truck to make a call. After a moment of watching her scowl and flush as she paced from one curve of the circular driveway to the other—it was easy to figure out exactly who she was taking to because only one man could evoke that kind of emotion from my best friend—I ripped my gaze away to check my own messages.
Somewhere between sitting down at the restaurant and now, I had gotten four new texts. I responded immediately to the one from my friend Kat asking if I could sing at a last minute wedding this weekend, then I moved along. Since my dad and the guys were back to work today, I almost guaranteed I had at least one message about either the picture of me making its way around the Internet or an update on the renovation. I dreaded reading that something had gone wrong or they needed me to cut my trip short and come home. Realizing just how much the latter scared me sent a chill rolling down my spine because it reminded me of the girl I was before.
The girl who hoped for an endless summer because Emmett Hudson had become a part of her life.
Tightening my grip on my phone to control the tremor in my hands, I swallowed down the dryness that clung to the back of my throat and refocused my attention on my messages. The other three messages were from the same number, but my father wasn’t the sender, like I had assumed. Looking at my screen now, I decided I would’ve welcomed a renovation disaster text from Dad or even one of those annoying little appointment reminders my gynecologist shot out before my yearly exam instead of this. Although I had removed his contact information awhile back, I was all too familiar with the ten-digits on my screen. A metallic taste flooded my mouth as I opened the first message.
10:59AM: If you can give your ex (who left YOU AND HIS OWN KID) a second chance, you’d think you could cut me some slack. I’ve said sorry. Don’t know what more you want from me.
11:05AM: Are you planning to ignore me or do I still have a chance?
11:23AM: McKinsey?
Scrubbing one hand over my face, I exhaled harshly through my nose as I reread Dylan’s three messages. There was no doubt in my mind he’d already seen the photo from the Hudson’s party—he’d told me himself that his sister-in-law followed Emmett’s career—but I hadn't expected him to contact me. He hadn’t messaged me since that very brief, very frustrating call last Friday night, and I had hoped he had gotten the clue.
Apparently, my hopes were as wrong as my assumptions.
I hovered my thumbs over the screen for a long pause as I tried to come up with the best way to shoot him down once and for all, but then I shook my head. If I humored Dylan with any sort of response, his entitled brain would see it as an invitation to keep bothering me. I’d be damned if I let him ruin this trip with his craziness. I blocked his number and dropped my phone into the side pocket of my bag just as Lyra climbed into the backseat.
“Ugh,” she muttered. “Your boyfriend’s lift kit is hell on my Oompa Loompa legs.”
I turned to look at her, giving her a sympathetic frown. “I’m sorry. And Emmett’s not my…” But my voice trailed off at the tail-end of my denial, and my best friend snorted.
“Of course he isn’t.” She buried her face in her hands and shook her head from side to side. “Kinz … why do I do this to myself?” She pushed her hands away from her flushed face, raking her fingers through her black bob. “I could’ve just erased his voice messages without even listening, but not only do I push play to hear him out, I call the asshole back.”
“He wants you to reconsider, huh?” I asked softly, and she nodded.
“Because obviously, telling him to blow his fire sticks wasn’t enough to convince him I’m not right for his show.”
Over the next few minutes, she gave me a summary of her call with Ronan—yes, definitely he wanted her for his show and he’d do anything to get her. He had even suggested resuming their relationship if that was the push Lyra needed to get on board.
“That,” she told me with a hard gray stare, “was the last thing fucklet got out before I hung up on him and turned off my phone. Sex with him is the reason we’re in this mess. Why on earth would I fall into bed with the guy again?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she shook her head fiercely. “I swear if we talk about the R-name anymore today, I will vomit all over that pretty pink top of yours. What I want to talk about is you and what happened at Outlaw Country’s parents’ place last night.”
When I was done giving her the Cliff Notes version of the night before, she leaned forward and rested her chin on the top of the leather driver’s seat. “So, Gabe sounds like a certified jackass and we’ve already established that Hazel is a super cun—” The last letter of her insult died on her lips as she gazed past me and out the windshield.
“Jeezus, that man makes jeans and tee shirts look better than Armani suits, and you know how I feel about men in tailored suits.”
I turned to look and my stomach fluttered at the sight of Matt and Emmett approaching the truck. Our son was as cute as ever, still dressed in his khaki shorts, turquoise and white surf-themed tee shirt, and the Atlanta Falcons hat he wore earlier, but Emmett had done a complete wardrobe change. Gone were the gym clothes he had on at brunch. He’d replaced them with a stark white V-neck and dark wash jeans that seemed to be made exclusively for him because there was no way in hell another man could take my breath away in only jeans and a simple tee shirt.
Before they reached the truck, Lyra scooted over so that she was directly behind my seat. She put her mouth into the wedge of space between my headrest and the doorframe. When she spoke, I didn't even have to see her face to know she was wearing a massive, shit-eating grin.
“That little sigh you did when you saw him … you sure nothing else happened last night you want to tell me about?”
“No,” I growled.
“Oh, come on, Kinsey. Not even—”
“Nothing,” I said as Emmett opened the door for Matt and hoisted him into the truck. Climbing into his seat, Matt gave me a giddy look. I kept my gaze zeroed in on that instead of his father’s knee-weakening, brain-melting grin because the last thing I wanted was to give Lyra more to speculate about. Still, she nudged me as Emmett started the ignition.
When I glared at her over my shoulder, she mouthed, “God, the looks between you two…”
For the next forty minutes, she and Matt grilled Emmett about our destination, but he deflected all their guesses. Occasionally, he glanced in my direction and smiled that beautiful, confident half-smile. I tried to look straight ahead—tried to play a one-man game of “I Spy” so I wouldn’t react to him—but by the time he pulled his truck into one of the entrances of Globe Life Park, my heartbeat was in an utter state of chaos. Again.
Seconds after Emmett parked in the Tundra Lot, I heard the snap of Matt’s seatbelt. He clambered onto the wide center console and shifted his bright green gaze from Emmett to me.
“Baseball?” Clenching his hands in front of him, he gave us a hopeful nod. “Please, please, tell me it’s baseball?”
Emmett pushed the bill of Matt’s Falcons cap down. “Even better,” he drawled and Matt gasped. “It’s a musical.”
“Huh?” Whipping the hat off completely, he cocked his head and gave me a skeptical look. I bit the inside of my cheek to suppress the grin threatening to split my face. “Ma, what’s that mean?”
I cleared my throat and offered him the most serious expression I could manage, but lord, it was difficult. “Remember that play we watched with Kat in Atlanta last year?”
“You mean the one with all the opera singing and dancing and funny clothes?” I bobbed my head, and Matt’s mouth dropped open in horror at my confirmation. “Noooo! Dad, really?”
Emmett was in the process of shoving his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans, but as soon as Matt said it, every muscle in his body tightened. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights as he let those three letters—that shift he’d been waiting for since the day he found out he was a father—sink in.
Hell, even I held my breath.
At last, Emmett’s moss green eyes locked with my gaze over the top of Matt’s dark head and a slow, hesitant smile quirked the corners of his mouth until I felt a light whisper of air in my chest. Matt was oblivious to what was happening, and he continued talking, trying to convince himself that maybe this musical wouldn’t have strange costumes or songs that made his ears bleed.
“—and I guess if we could go eat chicken wings after we’re done, it wouldn’t be that bad,” he was saying when Emmett lowered his stare to our boy.
“On a scale from one to ten, how much would you rather watch baseball?”
Pressing his lips together, he arched a dark eyebrow to give his dad a look. “Are you kidding? Twenty billion!” he almost shouted as Lyra mumbled, “I think even I’d go with baseball today.”
Drawing his own brows together, Emmett nodded toward me. “What about you, Ma?”
“If I say what I’m really thinking, Matt’ll disown me, and—”
“Please, Ma,” Matt pleaded.
I raced my tongue over my lips and shrugged as I opened my door. “But I really, really like musicals, kiddo.” He held his breath while I swung my legs out of the truck, and he didn’t move until I turned to wink at him. “But it looks like the majority rules here. Let’s go watch some baseball.”
* * *
Just as the game went into the third inning, Lyra touched my upper arm. “If I had seats like this, I’d become baseball’s biggest fan because that pitcher is gorgeous,” she sighed. “This is incredible.”
I had to admit, it truly was. We were in an exclusive box positioned right over home plate, and it was almost like we were right smack dab in the middle of the game from our cushy, oversized leather chairs.
Shifting in my seat, I lowered my mouth to the long red straw poking out of my Coke in the cupholder. I swallowed hard, then turned to my best friend and whispered, “I don’t even want to imagine what he paid for these.”
When we finally entered the park itself a few hours ago, Emmett had shown Lyra and me to the suite where we’d watch the actual game before he and Matt went down to watch batting practice. They returned to our box half an hour ago, both carrying an armful of Texas Rangers merchandise and Matt sporting a brand new baseball cap that he made me swear not to tell Grandpa Rich about since Dad was such a huge Braves fan.
“Two grand,” Lyra murmured close to my ear, her soft voice breaking into my thoughts. When I cringed at the cost that was almost three times more than my monthly mortgage payment, she added, “A seat.”
“Wow, thanks for making me feel better about it,” I said dryly, fumbling with the hem of my pink shirt because I was trying desperately to avoid the tell-tale necklace clutch of doom. I glanced at Emmett, who was on my other side, to see he was in the middle of a conversation with the couple sitting behind us, and I swallowed hard.
As if she knew exactly what I was planning to do, Lyra was slowly shaking her head when I returned my stare to her delicate features. “Even if you’d asked him not to, he wouldn’t have listened, so there’s no point saying anything about it now. He wanted to do this for you guys. You know I’ve been critical about the guy before, but please don’t take that away from him.”
Yeah, but I still wished he hadn’t spent so much, especially since Matt would have been just as excited sitting in a standard seat. “You know me too well,” I muttered.
“Like the back of my tiny, child-sized hand.” Glancing over her left shoulder at the epic buffet spread out on the side of the suite, Lyra let out another sigh. “Ugh, I said I wouldn’t, but that stupid mesquite chicken is calling my name.”
“It’s probably asking you not to eat it,” I teased, and she gave me a dark look as she stood and started to make her way past the other spectators in our row.
“Ass,” she mouthed.
“Love you too,” I mouthed back. With Lyra at the buffet, I fully intended to focus on the game below. Then I felt a mouth against my right ear, and every muscle in my body went taut.
“What are you doing?” I breathed, and Emmett’s chuckle against my skin sent an electrical jolt from my face to the tips of my toes and back up again.
“Asking you what you’re thinking about.”
Twisting so that we were face-to-face, I ran my teeth over my bottom lip. His green eyes darkened as he watched me. “What I think,” I started, and he moved his face closer to mine.
“Yes, Angel?”
“Is that you’re officially his hero.” I bobbed my head toward Matt, who was out of his seat with his face practically pressed up against the screen as he cheered for the ballplayer on third base to run home. “This is amazing, Hudson.”
“Amazing, huh?” His left hand found my right, and he linked them together before resting them on his lap. I hoped and prayed he didn’t notice the muscle spasm in my fingers that came from such a simple touch. “I’m not gonna let you forget that when the Kiss Cam comes our way.”
My brow knitted together. “You’re kidding, right?” When he lifted one of his toned shoulders, I relaxed and laughed. “Good. Since we agreed this morning to stay out of trashy tabloids.”
“Me kissing you on a big screen ain’t a flashy tabloid, Angel.” There was a playful gleam in his eyes as he gave me an apologetic ghost of a smile. “But honestly, the camera operator is a big fan of my music.”
Of course he was. It seemed like everyone I met here lately was an Emmett Hudson fool. Including myself. “So, let me guess—he always makes sure to get a good shot of you and all your dates you bring up here?” I hated the twinge of jealousy in my voice, but he must have loved it because that partial smile widened to a huge grin.
“I don’t bring women to baseball games.” He gave my hand in his lap a squeeze that went straight to my core. “I’d rather bask in the ambience that’s America’s greatest pastime without someone asking me a million and one questions about what’s going on.”
I tilted my head to the side and narrowed my blue eyes at him. “And what exactly am I? Since, you know, I’m not a woman?”
Cupping the back of my head, he leaned in to me and skimmed his lips over the tip of my nose. “You’re everything, Angel.”
Everything. Sitting on the edge of my seat, I let those words creep under my skin as I struggled to keep my attention on the game. It was until a timeout during the seventh inning that Emmett made good on his promise when the camera panned to our faces and the crowd erupted.
I looked up at him, my eyes wide and stunned. “I thought you were just screwing with me.”
“About kissing you?” He framed my face with one hand and bent his head until our foreheads touched. My breath hitched. “Never,” he murmured just before slanting his lips over mine.
The crowd in the stadium, a few of the spectators in our box (including Matt who half-cheered, half-groaned), and my heart—especially my heart—went wild.
I was still feeling the effects of that brief but very public kiss after the game when he held my hand as we descended the suite for what he called round two of Matt’s surprise: autographs.
I watched my son come alive when the pitcher, the ridiculously tall and equally good-looking blond Lyra had ogled the entire game, spent a good five minutes talking to him about the game and school. Matt told Bryce he wanted to be a baseball player one day—before he swam in the Olympics, of course—and Bryce let him know he needed to keep his grades up and mind his mom and dad.
Just as they were wrapping up their conversation, Lyra shoved herself forward, fluffing her black bob. When she caught the look I was giving her, she paused. “Don’t make that face at me, love. They just won.” She took another few steps in his direction. “Of course I want his autograph.”
“Five bucks she goes for his number,” Emmett whispered in my ear, and I tilted my head back to look up at him.
I wasn’t betting him because, knowing Lyra, she would. Especially since she was hellbent on putting Ronan out of her mind after speaking to him earlier. “You think he’ll bite?”
He nodded, and the friction between his chin and my ear made my stomach twist into a delicious knot. “I’ve known Bryce for the last five years. He’ll probably get hers before she asks for his,” he said before standing upright to go meet Matt who was racing toward us, waving his newly signed baseball cap.
Sure enough, when Lyra sauntered over to me a couple minutes later, there were ten digits written directly beneath Bryce Armstrong’s signature.