Page 77 of Stepping Up to the Plate

She peeks up at me through her lashes, worrying her red painted lip. “You don’t care that it’s slutty?” she whispers the last word so quietly I almost don’t hear it.

“Slutty? Why would you think that?” She glances around avoiding my gaze. “Lola,” I warn. I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with what her mom’s creepy boyfriend said.

“Last year, I sent a picture of my outfit – which covered more than this one – to Phil. He said it was slutty, and I ‘didn’t look like someone’s wife,’” she admits.

The douche canoe strikes again. Phil’s shittiness never ceases to amaze me. How he could talk to his partner that way is beyond me. When he should have been instilling her with confidence, he brought her down.

“Look at me, sweet girl,” I say, tipping her chin up with my fingers, forcing her eyes to meet mine. “Nothing you could wear is ’slutty.’ Nothing you could wear makes a statement about your relationship status. I don’t care what you wear as long as you feel beautiful. I may have to break a few hands tonight if they try to touch you, but that is a sacrifice I am willing to make.” I finish my statement with a wink and she offers me a shy but genuine smile.

“Okay,” she breathes. “Let’s go.”

A few hours later, the girls are coming back from their latest stint on the dance floor to get more champagne. I slide a glass of water to Lola and she smiles at me gratefully. When I am about to ask her if she is enjoying herself, Tiffany lets out a squeal as two men approach the table, “Valentino! Stefano!”

I am firmly team-female, but even I can admit these guys are exceedingly attractive. I am confident in my own appearance, but that doesn’t mean I want them near my girlfriend. While one of the men stays to chat with Tiffany, the other comes up to Lola and embraces her. “Gemma preziosa,” the mystery man states. “Come stai, bella?”

“I am good, Stefano,” she answers in English as she steps out of the hug, not a moment too soon. The possessive caveman inside me was clawing to get out. I want this dude away from my girl pronto. Before I can pull her away, Lola introduces us.

“Stefano, this is Brady. Brady, this is Stefano. I met him last year at this same party.”

Stefano gives me a firm handshake as he appraises me. I scowl back at him. Turning to Lola, he speaks in Italian again. “È questo il marito?”

Rolling her lip, Lola shakes her head. “No, Brady è nuovo. il marito non c'è più.”

With a pleased expression, he counters, “Ti tratta come la sua luna e le sue stelle?” What the hell is this guy so happy about? I have no idea what she said to him, but I don’t like that it has him grinning at her.

Lola unabashedly returns his smile and replies,“SÌ.”

Stefano’s grin grows even wider and before I can ask what the fuck they’re talking about, he shifts to address me. “It is wonderful to meet you! When I met thisbellezzalast year, her eyes were sad. Now they are filled with light. She deserves the light.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say.

“We must celebrate. A bottle on me!” he exclaims, causing Tiffany to cheer in Valentino’s arms. Lola laughs. When I glance down at her, she is beaming up at me.

“What?” I question.

“Seeing Stefano reminds me of how far I have come in the last year. A large part of that is because of you.”

“I haven’t done anything but treat you the way you should have always been treated,” I remark.

“Come la tua luna e le tue stelle,” she whispers with awe in her eyes. I don’t know if it’s wishful thinking, but I see love in there, too. We haven’t said the words yet, but I feel them pulsing between us. Moments later, Stefano returns with a round of drinks and we spend the rest of the night together like old friends. I get the sense we may be. That he may have planted the seed that led Lola to me.

ChapterThirty-Seven

• BRADY •

Pulling into the parking garage, I glance over at Lola, who is asleep in the passenger seat. The girls made the most of their getaway, and are now paying for the lack of sleep and overexposure to the sun. She and Carina may have gone on and on about how they’re Italian and “the sun loves us,” but all three women – Carina, Tiffany, and Lola – were incredibly sleepy when Robby and I met them at the airport.

They didn’t have the luxury of riding on the team jet, but we swung around from the private terminal to take them home. Robby slides out of the car and tells me he will return for their bags after he gets Carina upstairs. I make a similar plan as I don’t want to wake up my girl when she is sleeping peacefully.

When I asked Tiffany if she needs help, she mumbled something about being an ’independent woman who don’t need no man,’ and wandered to the elevator with a salute. I manage to get Lola out of the car and all the way to my doorstep while she snoozes.

It takes some maneuvering to unlock the door with her in my arms, but I am able to without waking her. That is, until a familiar woman yells, “Surprise!”

The second I open the door, I hear the greeting. Lola jolts and I almost drop her in my startled state. It takes a moment to register that my parents are standing in the living room of my condo, greeting me as if it’s a birthday party. My mom has the decency to appear embarrassed, but not as much as Lola as I lower her onto her feet.

“That’s one way to welcome them, Marilyn,” my dad laughs.

“I guess we should have called first,” she responds. “Hi, honey. We came to surprise you with a visit.”

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