4. Matty
Matty
All-Star Break
Eastern Oregon looked a lot like Alabama . . . minus the mountains.
Alabama didn’t do mountains.
It was hard to believe that after three years of living in Oregon, this was only the second time I had ventured east of Mt. Hood.
The first had been a disastrous camping trip with Soren, Pink, and Roman, one that had ended with Roman attempting to “optimize” our campfire using lighter fluid and Pink deciding, at some point after his fourth beer, that he needed to relocate our entire campsite farther upstream to “improve the vibe.”
We’d spent nearly two hours wandering around in the dark with our phone flashlights, trying to track down the missing cooler that Pink had insisted had been hijacked by Bigfoot. Needless to say, we had all gone to bed hungry and stinking of smoke.
It was about three hours into my drive when the Wallowa Mountains first came into view, rising like something out of a children’s pop-up book. By hour four, the dry, sunbaked landscape gave way to lush greenery, like something out of an entirely different country.
No wonder they called it Oregon’s “Little Switzerland.”
And then there was the inn. Juniper Ridge. It was idyllic in that quiet, storybook way that made you feel like you’d accidentally driven onto a movie set. Technically, I guessed I had. This was where we would be staying and filming for the next five days.
“I still can’t believe the Matty Miller is staying at my inn.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, struggling not to smile. “Er, thank you—”
“Lolly."
The silver-haired inn owner might’ve been older than my father, but she had the energy of someone thirty years younger and a wardrobe similar to my nine-year-old niece. How many adult women could pull off a striped jumpsuit and glasses shaped like strawberries?
“I actually bid on you at the team's bachelor auction a few years ago," she said with a wink.
My eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"
"I was outbid by some twenty-year-old tart."
"Oh."
I still remembered the woman who’d "won" me, some influencer barely out of high school who’d wanted to use me as clickbait for her page—My Date with a Baseballer, or something like that. I’d smiled through our awkward dinner, counting down the minutes until it was over.
"Don't worry, you can make it up to me by signing my calendar when it arrives." She spun toward the woman at her side. "Bernie, honey, do you know who this is?"
“I do.”
Bernice stood a head taller than her wife, wearing a crisp white button-down and jeans that had clearly seen real work.
“Matthias is a two-time Golden Glove award nominee and the American League West’s Sexiest Player, and—”
“Christ, Lollipop. Do you know his shoe size, too?”
“Eleven-and-a-half,” Lolly said, grinning widely. She turned back toward me. “Right?”
“That’s right,” I told her, my Southern drawl slipping out the way it always did when I was nervous or, in this case, embarrassed. “I, uh, take it that you’re a baseball fan?”
Bernice scoffed. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“I’m the baseball fan,” Lolly explained. “Last year, we visited seven MLB stadiums. That’s twenty-four total for me and twenty for Bernie.”
“Twenty-one, dearest,” Bernice corrected.
“It’s twenty, my love. You were still doing the circuit the summer I visited Baltimore.”
I arched my brow. “The circuit?”
“Rodeo,” Bernice clarified.
“Bernie’s a three-time state rodeo champion.” Lolly leaned over the front desk and winked. “She knows her way around a rope, if you catch my drift.”
Well, shit.
Apparently, everyone was having hotter sex than I was.
Tires crunched on the gravel outside, making my stomach turn. It did a goddamn somersault when a familiar SUV pulled up in front of the front door.
Diaz climbed out looking unfairly good for someone who’d just spent the past four hours driving. Dark joggers, a simple, gray T-shirt that hugged his shoulders, sunglasses pushed up onto the top of his head, and that signature, devilish smile he wore like armor.
Lolly let out an actual squeal. “Goodness me, it’s a two-for-one special. Matty Miller and Peter Diaz.”
Bernice simply shook her head when her wife all but sprinted toward the door to help him with his bags. Mo took off behind her, making a beeline for Diaz.
He crouched without hesitation, scooping her up and nuzzling her scruff like she was the most important thing in the world.
That was Diaz’s superpower.
Charm.
From the crotchetiest of fans to sapphic innkeepers, it seemed there was nobody immune to Diaz’s magic. He had this way of making people feel seen. One warm smile, one lingering look, and people lit up like he’d handed them the sun.
It was magnetic. Disarming.
And it was driving me insane.
Because if he treated everyone like they were the center of his universe, how the hell was I supposed to know what was real when it came to us?
I swallowed hard when he laughed at something Lolly said, tipping his head back just enough to expose the clean line of his throat—and the black-and-gray dove inked there, a quiet tribute to his mom.
Fucking hell.
Since when was I attracted to throats?
By the time they made it back inside the house, Diaz was grinning ear to ear with Mo caught up in his arms and Lolly was practically vibrating.
“Look who missed me,” he said, scratching under Mo’s chin.
She gave a happy yip of agreement, attempting to burrow further into his chest.
Not today, traitor.
“I’ll take her.”
Diaz’s eyes met mine as he handed her over. Our fingers brushed. The contact was brief, but it still sent a spark straight up my arm. Mo whined in protest at being transferred, shooting me a betrayed look before settling against my chest.
Lolly beamed at both of us like we were her favorite reality show. “You two—well, three—are just the cutest. Everything ready, Bernie?”
“Yes, my love.” Bernice slid two brass keys across the desk. “Pinecone for Matty, Cedar for Peter.
I quirked a brow and nodded toward the stairs. “Oh, I thought—”
“The guest rooms inside are already booked up,” Bernice quickly explained. “You boys will be staying in two of the cabins on the property.”
“But don’t worry,” Lolly added. “They are adorable. Each one is only about four hundred square feet, but they’ve got everything you need. Plus, you’re only a two-minute walk from the barn where you’ll be filming. Come on, I’ll give you both a quick tour on the way out.”
She ushered us outside. As we walked the gravel path lined with wildflowers, Lolly offered a cheerful running commentary.
“The main inn was built in 1892 by a lumber baron who wanted a summer retreat for his family. Bernie and I bought it fifteen years ago and spent the last six restoring it. All the woodwork is original, but we added more modern fixtures, like Wi-Fi and air conditioning, mostly because our kids insisted.”
She pointed toward the big white structure off to the left.
“The barn over there used to house draft horses, but now we use it for special events like weddings, parties, and, for the first time ever, filming my personal favorite baking competition show. It’s a bit of a mess right now with cables and equipment, but don’t worry.
They’ll have everything ready to go for y’all tomorrow morning. ”
We passed a small orchard and a chicken coop before the path split toward two identical tiny cabins nestled under a stand of old ponderosa pines.
Four hundred square feet my ass.
I’d seen closets bigger than those cabins.
“Cozy,” Diaz mused, rocking back on his heels.
Lolly handed us our keys. “Pinecone is on the left; Cedar’s on the right. Dinner is served between six and eight. Any questions before I leave y’all to settle in?”
Diaz shook his head. “Everything looks great, Lolly. Muy preciosa.”
Lolly pressed a hand to her chest like he’d just proposed marriage.
My eyes rolled into the back of my head. Unbelievable.
Once she was out of earshot, the silence between us felt heavier than the high-desert air.
I cleared my throat. “So . . . here we are.”
“Yeah.” Diaz shoved his hands in his pockets. “Baking. Did you ever think you’d see the day?”
I resisted the urge to smile. Just barely.
“I know tomorrow is just the first challenge—”
“The Naughty and Nice Bite,” he corrected.
“—but we should probably talk about the final bake since that one’s worth the most points. I brought three recipe options for us, including my granny’s award-winning Alabama Lane Cake.”
His lips tilted up in a grin. “Award-winning, you say?”
“Four blue ribbons at the state fair. Plus, one white ribbon, but everybody knows that that’s only because Ellen Sue Hausauer blackmailed one of the judges about his affair.”
Diaz’s jaw dropped. “Damn, Alabama. Who knew you were such a chismoso?”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not gossip if it’s true.”
Mo pawed at my chest, clearly done being held. I set her down so she could sniff around the small patch of gravel between our cabins.
Diaz leaned back against the iron railing surrounding his porch, arms crossed loosely over his chest. I had to remind myself not to get distracted.
“Now, the recipes—”
“About that,” he interrupted smoothly. “What if we just wing it?”
“Wing it?” I echoed, staring at him.
He shrugged “They’re gonna throw curveballs at us anyway. No point in overplanning and stressing ourselves out before we even get started.”
“Says the guy with an eight-step pregame process.” I was seconds away from reaching over and knocking that infuriating smile off his face.
“We’re about to be on national television.
Millions of people, our family, our friends—they’re all going to be watching.
Better we go in with some kind of plan instead of looking as lost as last year’s Easter eggs. ”
“You really think a perfect plan is gonna save us if the judges ask for something completely off the wall?”
“I think it gives us a better chance than flying blind, Peter,” I shot back, frustration bleeding into my voice. “Some of us actually care about not humiliating ourselves in front of the entire country.”
Diaz tilted his head.