When I arrive at the spa Friday morning, ready for another fun-filled, adventurous day, I’m surprised to find a fog of gloom. Asher has his arms crossed, talking in a low voice to Paloma, as others hurry around, heads down. Normally, at this hour, things are bustling—people moving to and from the fancy coffee machine, swapping morning greetings.
“Who died?” I ask, greeting them. Then I stop. “Oh God, did someone actually die?”
Paloma sighs. “Just our entire launch.”
“What?” I exclaim, looking around for Austin. “Why?”
“Our biggest investor just got tied up in a massive scandal,” Asher explains.
“Wait, do you mean that Sinclair guy?” I ask, recalling the video Austin was watching.
He nods. “Without his money, we’re fucked.”
Oh God, and I was laughing over the eccentric guy’s antics!
“How’s Austin taking it?” I ask, anxious.
“About as bad as you’d think,” Paloma says grimly.
Crap.
I hurry down the hallway. Outside Austin’s office, I can practically feel the barometric pressure change. He’s slumped in his desk chair, scrolling something on his phone.
“Hi,” I say quietly.
He looks up, straightening. “I guess you heard?”
I nod.
He’s got a shadow of stubble on his face and undereye circles like he hasn’t slept. “Is it really so bad?” I ask.
“The launch is up in flames.” Austin says flatly. “Unless I can find a new investor in the next… week, we’re out of cash before we even open the doors.”
“What about your friends?” I suggest. “You’re partners in the bars, aren’t you?”
Austin lets out a hollow laugh. “I love those guys, but they’re small fry compared to what Sinclair was putting in. Serious cash. The kind that doesn’t just fall from the sky.”
“You’ll think of something,” I tell him gently, hating how stressed he looks.
“Will I, though?” he counters. “I already did a massive round of pitches to get Duncan on board in the first place. I’ve been wracking my brain, but I’ve exhausted all my contacts. Anyone who was going to invest already has.” He looks around. “Fuck, half the people here walked away from good jobs because I promised them something better. How can I tell them they put their trust in me for nothing?”
I shake my head. He’s in a doom spiral, I can see it in his eyes, and no good ideas ever came from blind panic. Sitting around here blaming himself won’t change anything.
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands. “Get up.”
He blinks. “Why?”
“We’re playing hooky,” I announce. “Sometimes it’s easier to solve problems on your feet, not chained to your desk chair in an act of self-punishment.”
“I’m not—” he protests, but I cut him off.
“You are. I can practically see the flogger you’re beating yourself with.” I stop, realizing too late how dirty that sounds. “I mean… You know what I mean.”
At least my double entendre has lightened his frown. “Where are we going?” he asks, reluctantly getting to his feet. “I’m not in the mood for some new-age management pep talks,” he adds, warming. “Manifesting success, and all that bullshit.”
I smile. “No manifesting necessary, unless you want to think real hard about our next snack.” I steer him to the door, determined. “I’ve got something even better in mind.”
The destination is a gamble, but once we arrive at the batting cages at Hudson River Park, I can tell Austin will need the hard sell.
He stands there glowering as I check in and grab us a couple of bats and helmets. “No way,” he vows.
“Yes way,” I reply brightly. “You told me that baseball clears your head. Helps you rely on instinct. We just need to tap into those instincts now.”
But Austin shakes his head stubbornly. “This is different,” he argues. “This is my business, and I’m failing.”
I take a deep breath. This man and his spirals. I can see it swirling behind his eyes, that he sees catastrophe instead of an annoying hiccup. “Humor me,” I ask. “If this doesn’t help, I’ll… Take you to bottomless mimosa brunch, or fishing with Hal. Whatever you want.”
“Anything?” his eyes drift over me, and for a moment, I could swear there’s a spark of heat there.
But that’s impossible.
I clear my throat. “Within reason,” I add. “But you have to take a few swings first.”
He sighs. “Fine. It won’t help,” he warns me, following me to one of the batting cages and grabbing a bat. “This is serious shit going down.”
“Uh huh.” I move behind the netting and stand back. “Do your worst.”
Austin gets situated. He strips off his button-down, so it’s only his undershirt, tucked into jeans. My eyes dart to the shape of his chest, and I swallow, hard, before glancing away. I did this to myself…Why did I do this to myself?
Oh, right—for his business slash my job.
He tugs on the helmet, second nature.
In the batting cage, he squares his stance. Inhales. The ball leaves the machine with a pop and, a split-second later, clangs off Austin’s bat.
Damn.
I admit, the swing is something to behold: The way his strong body twists, concentrating all that power. I’d watched a few videos of Austin Banks at bat, but, in person, the motion feels different—elegant, but shockingly sharp and fast. I can hardly take in the precision at that speed.
I watch, mesmerized, as Austin crushes a dozen more pitches.
Did I say I didn’t care for baseball? I stand corrected. I can see myself caring a whole lot more now that I’ve had such a… personal demonstration.
After the last ball has been sent careening into the nets, Austin looks over at me, his lips curled in a reluctant smile. “Okay, you were right. That didn’t entirely suck.”
I exhale in relief. Bringing him here was a risk that could have seriously backfired, but I had an instinct it might get him out of his head for a while. Let him unwind, away from all the pressure and responsibility of the spa.
He pauses, setting down the bat and uncapping a bottle of water.
“When’s the last time you did that?” I ask.
“My final MLB game.” He takes a long drink, leaning against the wall.
“But… That was years ago!” I exclaim, surprised.
He shrugs. “I really was burnt out. I needed to step away, just let the whole thing go… Otherwise, I don’t know, I would have been pulled back in. Not playing, but, coaching, maybe, sportscasting.”
“You didn’t want that?”
He shakes his head. “I needed a clean break. Some of these guys, they cling to their former glories… One of my old teammates is even trying to get me to play in a charity ballgame next month,” he adds. “You know, relive the good old days for the crowd. I told him thanks, but no thanks. I’ll write a check and cheer them on but get out there on the field again?” he shakes his head. “It would be like taking a giant step back.”
“You want to write a new chapter instead of rereading the old one,” I guess, and his face lights up.
“Exactly.”
He picks up the bat again and takes another couple of swings—but carefully. I remember him mentioning an injury. “Is your shoulder OK?” I ask.
He nods. “This is nothing. The training I used to put it through…” he chuckles.
“It must have been hard.” I say, thinking of Millie and her recovery from pregnancy and birth. She struggled to even sit up at first. It was bewildering to feel alien in her body, unsure of what she could do without pain—and how long it would last. “Not being able to predict what your body can handle, when you’ve taken for granted what it can do.”
“That’s it,” Austin nods, still engaged. “I knew my stats inside and out: What I could bench, how many throws I could make without fatigue, my sprint times… Next thing I knew, I’m geriatric.”
“A decrepit old man,” I joke. “A craggy thirty-five. One jogging suit away from driving a golf cart around the Florida retirement communities.”
He laughs. “That sounds kind of nice. Good weather, leisure... I think I’d look stylish in sweats.”
“You sure you don’t want to pivot the spa brand?” I tease. “Those grey dollars have real power these days.”
He laughs, an irresistible sound, and dammit,
I can’t help but swoon. Because as much as I want to claim this little field trip was purely professional—to pump up my new boss before I find myself out of a job—I can’t deny the truth.
I wanted to make Austin smile. To get him to feel better, laughing and joking again.
To hang out, just the two of us.
Crapwaffle.
I try to pull it together. I’m supposed to be proving myself professionally, not developing a major crush on my boss.
“So how hard is this batting thing?” I blurt, needing to do something with my hands, before I do something I’ll regret. Like reach for him. “If… Say, for example… You have literally never swung a baseball bat in your life?”
He grins, crinkling at the eyes. “Never?” he teases. “Not even in school?”
“I’ve held one,” I offer cheerfully. “When I moved into my own place in the city, my dad gave me one to keep under my bed as protection.”
Austin looks alarmed. “Have you ever had to use it?”
“Nope,” I grin. “And I took self-defense classes anyway, remember? The bat does feel kind of badass, though. But mostly in a Beyoncé-from-her-Lemonade album way.”
He laughs. “Then let’s do this.” He directs me to take his place in the batting cage. “Just grab the bat and try to find a stance that feels natural.”
I walk to the plate and try to do what he says. Nothing about it feels natural. Squatting while holding a minor weapon?
“I’m just going start you off with two pitches,” Austin calls. “Choke up a little.”
“Do what?” I ask him, frowning. Did he just tell me to choke? On what?
The ball explodes out of the pitching machine and I swing. I hit only air, spinning around with the force of my attempt and nearly falling flat on my ass.
“On second thoughts, I’ll leave this to the professionals,” I say, about to set the bat down.
“Never took you for a quitter,” Austin teases. “Come on, let me show you how.”
He ducks under the netting and moves to stand behind me.
Oh.
I freeze, my pulse kicking as his arms come around me, and I take a breath of his scent, woodsy and masculine.
He smells good. And dammit, he feels even better, the heat of his body surrounding me, even though he’s barely touching.
“You’ve got to ease your stance, get nice and loose.” He shifts the bat in my hands and bounces on his heels, encouraging me to do the same.
I manage to unclench, just a little, but still, the feel of his body curved around mine is overwhelming—in all the best ways. Broad, muscled, taut… I feel small in his arms, protected. Have I ever been up close to a man like this in my life before?
No. The answer to that question is a resounding no.
Because I have a sneaking suspicion that I’ve never met a man like Austin before.
“There you go,” he says. “Feel that?”
Yes. Yes, I do. “Uh huh,” I manage, my head spinning from his nearness. And other parts of me…?
Well, they’re waking all the way up.
He nudges my arms, moving the bat a little higher. “Try to stay relaxed.”
I bite back a strangled laugh. Relax? With six-foot-two of bronzed muscle wrapped around me, so close I can feel his breath hot on my cheek?
I’m feeling plenty of feelings right now, and not one ounce of them is ‘relaxed’.
“There. Looking good.” Austin steps away, and I stifle a sigh of disappointment losing the contact. But I don’t have time for regrets, because the machine spits another ball at me, fast.
CRACK.
This time, I somehow manage to connect—barely, and the ball flies off to the right side. But Austin whoops like I just hit a home run.
“You connected!” he cheers. “Now, next step, we put some force and direction behind that swing.”
He steps close to adjust my stance again, just as I’m turning to look.
And just like that, I’m in his arms, our faces only inches apart.
Double oh.
I feel his startled inhale—and see the way his gaze drops to my mouth, something flaring in those blue depths. A spark, temptingly close.
Impossible to resist.
The bat falls from my hand, but I don’t even notice, I’m too lost in the sensory overload as Austin’s hands close around my waist, and my body automatically stretches up to him, and our mouths meet in a breathless, sizzling kiss.