Page 24 of Wild Hit
What would Rose and Hope think of all this? I’m sure they’d say I’m being a fool—because, yes—but they’d also ask me how they could help. And them taking on a fight against my powerful father is the very last thing I want.
Like a plant, though, I need some hydration. I grab my tumbler and find it empty, which gives me a great excuse to pace. With my iPad, I make an excursion out of the communications department toward the nearby kitchenette. Miguel agreed to meet me around here, so I’ll be ready in case he shows up while I’m in the middle of panicking.
A small group of people walk out of the kitchenette together, masking the sound of someone behind me. Only when I’m filling in my tumbler with ice does he show himself. By leaning against the counter like he owns the place.
“You don’t have to be so caustic,” Henry says, folding his arms. “That’s actually what’s going to make people think there’s something going on between us.”
I force myself to keep my attention ahead. “Is there? Something going on between us that I don’t know about?”
Screw asking Dad. I’ll try to get info out of this jerk.
“Would you like there to be?”
Damn it. Of course he won’t cooperate.
I have enough ice now, so I stop dispensing and sadly turn to him. He’s in the way of the water dispenser. “Of course not. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
He doesn’t take the hint. Rather, he moves closer.
I’m so confused that I don’t react at first. Guys don’t just get in my personal bubble very often.
But when it becomes clear that he’s going to continue, possibly until there’s physical contact, I take a step back. Then another. And a larger one. And it’s the one that makes me bump into a wall behind me, which Henry takes advantage of by corralling me against it, placing his hands against the wall until I can go nowhere.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a very low voice.
“Flirting.” He lifts the corner of his mouth. “That’s what I’m here for. And also for the brand sponsorship, I guess.”
My mind races. Out of the two possibilities I had in mind, one being that Henry was after the team, and the other that he was after me, somehow I wouldn’t have bet my money on the latter.
“Why? I’m the only person in this building who knows the real you.” I frown like my stomach isn’t churning with sour bile. I clutch at my tumbler harder, a pastel green Stanley I’ve covered with Orlando Wild stickers that I’m not afraid of using as a weapon. “Can’t you just go flirt with Karen instead?”
“That’s why. I don’t have to fake being nicer than I actually am around you.” He leans lower and I glue myself to the wall. “I’d rather have a thrilling marriage with you than a bland one like our parents.”
“Marriage?” I exclaim, my jaw dropping in uncertainty.
“You didn’t know?” I hate the amusement that expands in his face. Now his whole mouth smiles and while his eyes also show a glint of amusement, it’s a rather predatory one. “Charlie told my dad and I about your little deal with him over golf, and I might have made one of my own.”
“No. Shut up. Move away.” I shake my head and push against him.
He doesn’t budge. “Think about it. You change your last name to mine, get your inheritanceandmine, and you won’t have to deal with your dad anymore if you don’t want to. We’ll be too powerful together.”
“Move, I said,” I all but growl, pushing at him hard enough to bruise.
“Audrey?”
The new voice is what makes Henry stumble back, and I manage to free myself from the physical trap.
Miguel Machado stands at the entrance of the kitchenette in his training uniform, stained with reddish infield dirt down the entire left side of his body, and his cap turned backward.His eyes are a light brown under the white office light, yet they darken as he glances at Henry and me, back and forth.
Relief washes over me. He’s early, I’m sure of it. But if he’d been on time, who knows what Henry could have done. Or me. I could’ve smashed my tumbler against his head for all I know.
I nearly trip on my own feet as I rush over to the baseball player. “Miguel! It’s so great to see you. Are you ready for our meeting?” I ask with a hell of a lot more pep than I intended.
Without tearing his eyes from the other guy, Miguel says, “Yes, of course. Sorry I’m late.”
But he’s not. And in my nervous state I almost blurt it out and blow it, when he’s just trying to help me.
Swallowing hard, I grab at his arm—which I would never, under normal circumstances, do to a player. “Not a problem. Let’s go.” And without further ado, Miguel lets me lead him away at a punishing pace.
