Page 31 of SALT

I hate that she knows my mannerisms so well. She can read me like a book in ways no one ever has. I hate that the one person who ever paid attention is the same one I can't have, and more than that, I hate that I can't truly say no. How do you say no when all you want to say is yes?

"Six o'clock. Don't be late or you'll miss the most important part. I don't measure my seasonings when putting them on the steak."

This time, she's the one with no words, which is new. Lately, she's been determined to have the last one. Or maybe it is like she said and she's not pushing me. Instead, I'm pushing her because she's everywhere I want her to be and nowhere she should be. She pulls the clipboard to her chest and gives me a nod before heading out of the shop.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see it's from my brother Colton.

Colton: I'm stopping by the stadium around 4 pm. I found something and before you call me immediately, no, I won't answer. I want to see what my nephew has created.

Fucking ass. I'm sure I already know what he has to say; however, I'm nothing if I'm not thorough. That's why I asked my brothers for help in the first place. We all have our areas of expertise. We get the same information, but how we process that information is different. It's good to be smart, but it's better to be wise, and a wise man knows only fools believe they know everything.

"Can you spread your legs just a tad wider?"

My eyes instantly leave my screen to watch as Cameron measures the inseam on our shortstop. I don't even know what I've been looking at on my computer. I think it's some crap about a settlement for one of my clients, something I typically drop everything to comb through meticulously, but I can't find it in me to care.

"Parker," she calls. He's currently in the dugout engrossed in something on his phone. "Come on, you're my last measurement. I need to get these numbers to the supplier ASAP. Let's go."

I am still trying to understand what his deal is, whether it's about me or something else. He's been running hot and cold. At practice, he's been keeping his tongue in check, mostly because he knows his words negatively impact the team and he doesn't want to be the reason they stay late to run laps. Instead of lashing out with words, he's been giving me the cold shoulder and looks that could kill were they tangible. But even now, as I watch him put away his phone, there's a vexation in his movements, which wasn't caused by my doing.

"Coming, boss," he says as he jogs out to the field where I had the team line up.

There was no way in hell I was letting her measure the team one-on-one in the shop. After I saw how precise her measurements were with the first player, I almost lost my shit. I would have gone down to the local sporting goods store, bought pants and jerseys off the rack, and ironed letters on myself so that I didn't have to watch her hands wrap around another man's middle to measure his waist. These are baseball uniforms, for crying out loud, not suits, but I kept my mouth shut. I'm determined not to stick my foot in it more than I already have. This is important to her, which makes it important to me.

Her measurements of Parker feel like they take a small eternity, probably because I know they are close. I watched every small smile that pulled at his pretty boy mouth, a mouth that's been on hers, and I waited with bated breath to see it happen again. To watch her pick him, but she didn't. Instead, she swatted his chest and pushed him away, rolling up her measuring tape before picking up her clipboard.

"Parker!" she calls out again. "Can you grab one of these boxes and take it to the shop on your way out?" He nods, throwing his bag on his back before grabbing the box with the small jerseys.

She's just starting to walk off the field when I hastily catch up and cut her off before she can pass through the gate. "You're missing one."

"What?" her brow furrows before her eyes drop to her list, scanning all the names. "Everyone's here," her pen traces down the sheet.

"You forgot the head coach."

Her eyebrows raise in surprise as she pulls in a stuttered breath. "I did." I watch as she adds my name to the bottom of her list. The slant in the way she writes my name is now etched on my heart. Setting the clipboard on the half-wall that divides the fields from the stands, she pulls her measuring tape from her back pocket.

"I'll start with your neck and work my way down," she says before setting my laptop on the dividing wall for me. Her ice-blue eyes briefly flash to mine before I feel her delicate fingers graze my neck as she positions the tape. It's hot as fuck out here, but her touch sends a chill down my spine all the same. I've touched her, but as I stand here, allowing her to take my measurements, I realize I've never let her touch me. "Raise your arms," she commands before the hands that chilled my body suddenly leave. I feel the tape on my back before her fingers run along the edges, skimming my sides and causing my skin to break out in goosebumps. I close my eyes in an attempt to tamp down my reactions. I'm forty-six years old. This isn't high school. She's not a conquest or a lover, and yet here she is, making me feel more with the back of her hand than either ever have. Letting the tape go slack, she drops it to my waist, and fuck me if it doesn't cause a sensory overload. My heart rate kicks up a notch, and a blistering inferno has now replaced the chill I felt seconds ago. It doesn't help that this time when she brings the tape together to collect the measurement, her fingers gently push into my lower stomach.

My entire body goes rigid. It's as if it knows it's not supposed to like her touch, but fuck if it doesn't care the second she drops to her knees and says, "Can you spread your legs wider?" I've heard her say it countless times today, each time my anxiety ratcheting up a notch as I debated whether or not players were intentionally not standing as requested to hear her say those words while on her knees.

Her thumb gently presses into my upper thigh, and I grind my teeth hard, willing my cock not to react with her head mere inches away from it, and when I feel her hand leave, I revel in my victory until I make the stupid mistake of looking down. Her eyes immediately latch onto mine, and I'm confident she sees my desire. What's fucked up is I'm momentarily incapacitated, too bewitched by the image before me to clear the fog that's settled over me. "I'm done," I hear her words. Words that should be a cue, and still I don't move, but neither does she. There's a slight twitch in my hand, one that's dying to reach out and caress her perfect jaw before running itself through her red locks. Her eyes soften just the slightest as her chest heavily rises. She saw it. Even if she didn't, the electricity between us is humming at deafening decibels that can't be ignored. My hand moves an inch before reality beckons, stilling my hand and reminding me of what's not mine.

"Everett, I've been looking for you," Lauren calls out as I hear her heels click across the concrete as she exits the tunnel, making her way toward us. Cameron quickly gets to her feet, straightening her blouse and pants before grabbing her clipboard. "Oh, hi. I don't think we've met. I've been meaning to make it down to the team shop, but I've been swamped. My niece has told me a lot about you. I'm Lauren."

"Your niece?" she questions, putting her hand in Lauren's outstretched one for a shake.

"Yes, I'm sorry, my niece is Stormy. I believe she works in the shop with you."

That's news to me. I pinch my lips together hard. I don't like knowing someone closely related to Lauren Rhodes has access to Cameron.

"Oh, she hadn't mentioned that she knew anyone at work," she says, releasing her hand.

"That doesn't surprise me. She's very…" she draws off as she searches for the right word, finally landing on, "Contemplative. It takes her a while to warm up to people."

Contemplative, more like calculated and conniving.

"Cameron, I'll meet you in the team shop when it's time to go." My tone comes out more terse than I'd like. It's not her. It's Lauren. She just dropped a bomb after I warned her, and I have words, but Cameron doesn't know that.

"Sure," she answers just as curtly.

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