“Bates! Open the damn door!” My sister’s shout sounds loud and clear, right through my front door and into my sleepy brain.

I groan, rolling off the couch. My temples throb, and the rancid taste of puke lingers on my tastebuds. I stumble to the door and swing it open. Lennon stands on the other side, her fist raised to pound the surface again.

I glare at her. “The fuck, Lenny?” I grumble.

Her eyes narrow to lethal slits. Ah shit, I’m way too hungover to deal with one of her rants right now. I make to slam the door in her face, but she wedges a booted foot in the jamb.

“I don’t think so,” she hisses, shoulder barging the door and forcing her way inside.

I run my hand through my hair as I close the door and heave a sigh, resigning myself to listening to her telling me off for whatever it is I did this time.

“Can’t this wait until my brain doesn’t feel as if it’s going to explode out of my eyeballs?” I ask.

She scoffs then bites out, “Fuck no.” Lennon tosses a folded newspaper at me.

I catch it despite my current condition—because I’m a fucking boss—and glance down at the page. My brows furrow as I take in the grainy picture of myself, naked, straddling my bat. At least, I hope it’s my bat…

At my silence, Lennon says, “What, nothing to say for yourself?”

“Uh, not really? What do you want me to say?”

My little sister and, coincidentally, my agent, throws her arms in the air. “I don’t fucking know, Bates. Maybe an explanation as to why you’re buck-ass naked, riding a baseball bat like it’s a fucking hobby horse on the front page of the sports section might be nice.”

I scratch behind my ear as I stare at the picture. It’s totally something I’d do, but I have zero recollection of it. Shrugging, I toss the paper on the couch as I stride past it on my way to the kitchen with Lenny hot on my heels. “Sorry, Len, I got nothin’.”

The screeching of a bar stool dragging across the floor grates on my whiskey-addled nerves, and I shoot Len a glare over my shoulder. The evil-ass smirk on her face tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing as she sits, resting her elbows on the bench.

Yanking open the fridge, I grab a bottle of OJ then kick it closed. “Did you just come here to yell at me?” I ask, leaning a hip against a cupboard.

Her expression goes from pissed-off agent to concerned sister in a heartbeat. “What’s going on with you? Talk to me,” she pleads.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and avert my gaze. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“No, big brother. You’re not.”

No, I’m really not. But I can’t talk to her about it. I can’t talk to anyone. I don’t even fucking know how. Unscrewing the cap on my juice, I knock back a few swigs, washing away the acrid taste still lingering in my mouth. When I turn to face her, she’s watching me like a hawk.

I arch a brow and smirk. “Len, don’t you have better things to do than ride my ass this early on a Sunday morning?”

She steeples her fingers, tapping them against her chin. Then, she nods. “Okay. You don’t want to talk to me, fine. But this behavior has to stop. Your contract is coming up for renewal, and if you keep this shit up, you’re going to lose it all. So, being the kickass agent that I am, I’ve devised a plan to keep you playing the sport you’ve worked your entire life for.”

I eye her suspiciously. “What kind of plan?” I ask. I know I’ve gone off the deep end, and management is less than happy with me right now. If I lose baseball…fuck, I can’t even think about that. I’m already a fucking mess. That would push me over an edge I’m not sure I’d ever come back from.

Lennon’s mouth curves in a sadistic smile. “You’re getting married.”

Two Days Earlier…

“Ugh, I thought Lennon said she taught him how to do his own damn laundry…” I mutter to myself as I pick up another pair of nasty-smelling socks from Bates’s hallway and toss them in the basket balancing on my hip.

I learned a long time ago to search the entire house before putting the washer on. The guy leaves a trail of clothes in his wake everywhere he goes.

My nose wrinkles as I take in the state of Bates’s guest bedroom—the one he uses for sex. That’s right. He has a sex room. In the two years I’ve been working for him, never has his actual bedroom housed his female companions.

How do I know this? Because I’ve never found panties stuffed under his pillow when stripping his sheets. I have, however, come across some weird-ass shit in this room—like a love note attached to a used thong, placed lovingly atop the pillow. Gag.

Placing my basket on the floor, I jerk a pair of disposable gloves from my back pocket and tug them into place. Ain’t no freaking way I’m touching anything in here with my bare hands. The sheets are a tangled mess. It smells like sex and—yep, there they are—the signature pair of panties left on the floor.

Do these women think he keeps them as a memento or something?

Gingerly, I reach for them. “Ew, ew, ew.” I cringe as I pinch the fabric between two fingers and toss it in the trash.

One would think I’d be used to it by now, but nope. It still grosses me out as much today as it did the first time. Partially because not only does it reek of sex in here, but also desperation. And partially because hygiene, man.

It’s a wonder Bates isn’t riddled with STDs. But his condom game is strong. I wouldn’t be surprised if he double-bags it with the amount he goes through. Not that I have to pick those up—thank God for small mercies. Bates always bins his own rubbers.

Personally, I think Lennon should get him an endorsement deal with a love glove company. It’d be perfect for him.

Yanking the sheets off the bed, I toss them in the basket then go back for the pillowcases. Once I’m done, I take it all to the laundry, up-end it into the washer, then add a generous amount of detergent, followed by a crap-ton of bleach.

I flip down the lid then remove my gloves, dropping them in the trash beside the dryer. Dusting my hands off, I turn to grab the vacuum cleaner from the cleaning supply closet. I push it out to the main living area, plug it in, then pop in my AirPods, clicking into my cleaning beats and getting to it.

I dance, sing, and shimmy my way around the miniature mansion with the vacuum as my dance partner slash microphone. I’m belting out “Rabbit Heart” by my girl Florence + the Machine when the song is interrupted by my ring tone.

Sighing, I slip my phone from my back pocket to check the display before answering. It’s Lennon. With a frown, I slide my finger across the screen to accept the call.

“Hey, Len,” I greet.

“Hey, Tia, how’s it going?” She sounds awfully chipper.

My frown intensifies. Chipper is one of the last words I would use to describe Lennon Handler. “Um…I’m fine. What’s up?”

“Sooo,” she drawls. “I’m just going to cut straight to it. Are you single?”

I sputter, “Wh-what? Why?”

“I need a favor. But if you’re not living the single life, I won’t bother asking.”

What the hell does my love life have to do with anything I could possibly do for her? Clearing my throat, I admit, “I’m currently flying solo.”

“Excellent! Can you meet me at Bates’s place on Sunday, say around ten?” she asks.

To say I’m intrigued is an understatement. But I’m also highly suspicious. “Possibly,” I hedge. “Depends why.”

“I’ll fill you in on Sunday. Just meet me there, and I’ll explain everything. ‘Kay, thanks, bye!” she chirps then ends the call.

What the actual heck was that? I stare at my cell, bewildered. My tunes come back on now that the call is over, so I slip my cell back into my pocket and get back to work. This place ain’t going to clean itself after all.

Present Day…

I’m slurping on a jumbo green juice that I picked up on my way to Bates’s place when I knock on the front door and wait. It swings open a moment later, a confused and obviously hungover Bates standing in the entry, scratching his temple.

“Hey, Tia, I wasn’t expecting you,” he says.

I shrug. “Lennon asked me to drop by.”

His brow crinkles, then he glances over his shoulder, back into the house, before returning his gaze to me. “Did she say why?”

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “Do you know why I’m here?”

He swallows—hard—then slowly nods. “I think so…”

I widen my eyes at him. “Care to share? Or maybe, I don’t know, let me inside? It’s freaking freezing out here.”

“Oh, shit. Yeah,” he mutters, stepping back and waving me in.

He’s in nothing but a pair of snug-fitting boxer briefs. And damn the man looks F.I.N.E. But I’ll never in a million years admit I might, maybe, be attracted to him. He has enough cleat chasers boosting his ego; he doesn’t need his housekeeper drooling over him too.

When I first saw him in his underwear, I admittedly came close to swallowing my tongue. But I’ve gotten pretty used to seeing him like this. He runs hot and doesn’t like to wear clothes around his house—I view it as a perk of the job.

I stride in, finding his sister—and agent—Lennon, perched on the edge of the couch, a huge smile on her face. It’s super creepy. “Uh, hey, Lenny,” I mumble, eyeing her cautiously.

Bates steps up next to me, and I give him the side eye. He’s acting weird, just standing there, wringing his hands together like a nervous kid. My gaze flits between them a few times. “What’s going on?” I eventually ask at their continued silence then take a sip of my juice.

“She wants you to marry me,” Bates blurts, causing green juice to spray out my nose and all over the pristine white rug at my feet.