Chapter 6
6
[Ruthie]
I was having a trifecta of bad luck when it came to Bolan Adler.
Working for a sports agency, I was well-versed in baseball terms, and three strikes meant I was out.
First, there had been that stupid kiss experiment back in college, where I’d quickly learned after the project who Bolan Adler was. He was an athlete, popular, and arrogant.
Next, I had what I’d thought would be a one-night stand turned into a two-time tryst with the man.
And now, I am sitting across from him in my father-in-law’s office where Bolan is our newest client with an absurd plan to return him to professional baseball in the United States.
I hadn’t typed up the report, having another, more pressing client to work on while Jared himself took over the entry of our newest case in the Imperial Sports Management family.
Ha, family! Bolan had been part of mine all these years .
And now, one ridiculous line in the unofficial Repair Reputation Report is ludicrous.
Bolan Adler needs a wife .
Equally preposterous is the gleam in Bolan’s eyes as he stares at me across the white tabletop in the sunny morning conference room.
His gaze assesses me, questions me.
Dark as a forest and equally enticing, his eyes lure me into their mystery and mirth.
Fooling me once had by no means been Bolan’s fault. I’d signed up for that experiment.
But fool me twice had totally been on me. I recognized who he was—as my kiss partner. He, however, did not remember me. I hadn’t made an impression on the campus-popular jock who was an all-star baseball player and a relentless manwhore when he was twenty-something.
Those labels certainly explained how he knew how to kiss so well. Years later, my lips would still tingle, like a phantom kiss lingered on them, whenever I thought about that moment. A kiss that marked me because it was given by him.
The ghost-kiss could now be attributed to the kisses he’d given me in the past forty-eight hours.
I’d never been so reckless. I was a rule-follower. Responsible Ruthie . I was damn sick of it.
Especially with Clifton gone, I want to take back my life, whatever that might mean. I’d been his girlfriend and wife for so long, I no longer knew myself. My journey had been Clifton’s adventures. NFL player. Military man. All around good guy, just not a great husband. His final years had been the most difficult.
Signs everyone wanted to ignore but me.
As I sit across from Bolan, I’m thankful there is no resemblance to Cliff. Bolan’s rusty-brown hair is cut stylish, shorter up the back and a bit longer on top, with a matching trimmed beard along his rounder face. His cheeks aren’t edgy, but firm and proportionate to the broad width of his shoulders and thickness of his thighs. At just over six feet, he’s a powerhouse of a man in comparison to my late husband.
I am not a sports agent. I had a failed attempt at being one roughly ten years ago for an up-and-coming fighter named Abel Callahan and never wanted to look back on the experience. The forceful nature required to be an agent wasn’t in my makeup. I was better as an assistant, and I’d been one to Jared Jacobson ever since the incident during my first assignment.
As to Bolan needing a wife, my thoughts flip back to yesterday evening, and the sexy, red-dressed brunette and her red nails on Bolan’s chest.
I hated those red nails.
I hate him more.
And myself.
My inner core disagrees with the strong emotion. In fact, my body has quite the opposite reaction to Bolan Adler, who sits across from me and stares at me like he wants to devour me on this conference room table. Spread me wide and make another feast of me.
He’d fucking rocked my world. There was no less floral way to put it. The way he’d kissed me. The way he moved me. The way his fingers felt, and his tongue worked and his thick?—
“Ruth?”
“Yeah.” I choke, quickly turning my head in my father-in-law’s direction. A man who is a reminder of my late husband and what he would have looked like, had he grown older. The thin face. The perfectly sculpted silver hair. The soft, brown eyes, staring at me with concern.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes. Sure. Of course.” Absolutely not . I fidget in my seat, straightening my shoulders and smoothing down my skirt beneath the table. Today’s outfit is a dove-gray pencil-cut skirt and a matching silk blouse. While the color sounds pretty, the combination is dull against my pale skin and a reminder of my even duller wardrobe. I’ve paired the ensemble with bright red high-heels and red-framed glasses. My little act of rebellion against both the outfit and my life lately. Perhaps I’ve been a little emboldened since Valentine’s Eve.
“Bolan asked if there was any chocolate milk,” Jared clarifies for me.
“Chocolate milk?” I repeat, like I don’t understand the concept. Or maybe it’s that I don’t understand why a grown man, mid-thirties, wants a child-like drink.
I glance back at him, where he’s casually leaning one elbow on the thick armrest of the swivel chair on the opposite side of the table from me. His fingertips brush over his lips as he watches me. Lips that kissed me. Fingers that intimately touched me.
As I continue to stare at him, the corner of his mouth curls. A knowing spark lights those damn eyes.
“I’ll go find some.” I stand abruptly, roughly pushing back my chair, in my need for space from him and distance from this room. If I need to drive to a suburb outside this Los Angeles office to find chocolate milk, I will. Hell, I’ll even milk a cow and melt the chocolate necessary to combine the two ingredients if it gets me away from Bolan.
And the conflicting tingle on my flesh that’s a combination of both the pleasure he brought me and the shame I feel that I slept with an engaged man.
“I’ll help.” Bolan swiftly presses up out of his chair and straightens the two sides of his suit jacket. The same jacket he’d been wearing the other night when we?—
“I could use a stretch,” Bolan adds.
“Is your knee bothering you again?” Jared asks. An injury is one of an athlete’s greatest fears and an agent’s biggest worry. A catcher with knee problems is a major red flag.
“Just need a moment to loosen up. And get some chocolate milk,” Bolan replies jovially to Jared but keeps his eyes trained on me.
On hasty legs, I exit the conference room, turning left toward the office’s kitchen. I doubt I’ll find chocolate milk in there, but stranger items have mysteriously appeared in the refrigerator.
“Ruthie,” Bolan follows close behind me, whispering my name in the empty hallway.
I ignore him and walk faster.
“Flower,” he calls next, groaning the term of endearment in the same way he spoke to me before we learned each other’s names. Or at least, before he learned mine.
“Nope.” I hiss, giving him the back of my hand and speed-walking what is only a few feet and yet feels like a mile to the dang kitchen area.
Only I’m not fast enough for a man who averages four point three-five seconds from home plate to first base, which is roughly ninety feet on a baseball diamond.
His hand gently cups my elbow, causing me to stop and face him.
“Rue.”
“No.” I shake my head. No more nicknames. No more touching me. No more looking at me with eyes that appear contrite, almost sad, when he should not feel anything but apologetic. Even regret.
Regret at what we did. Regret over who I am.
Regretful Ruth . That should be my new label.
“What do you want, Bolan?” Besides chocolate milk.
“I want to explain.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” I glance away from him, staring absentmindedly into the vacant kitchen.
Today is Sunday, and Bolan is being given special treatment as both our newest client, and apparently as a distant family member. The deadline for a new acquisition to a major league team is the opening day of spring training which is rapidly approaching. As a catcher, he should have reported to a team last week.
While I’m saying I don’t need an explanation, I’d still like one. I’m so tired of cheating men. Men who think they can get away with anything with a smile on their lips and a twinkle in their eyes. And a damn dimple near their mouth. Charismatic men who lure you in with promises, keep you with apologies, and then do the same thing over and over again.
Fool me once or twice? Ha . I’ve written the playbook on being fooled three times, and I’m not thinking about Bolan right now.
But he is a man, so hear my wrath. Well, the mental one. Because Responsible Ruthie does not complain. She does not speak up or cry out. She does not have sex with a man on a whim in a deserted ballroom. And then fuck him a second time on a balcony wearing a ballgown.
I close my eyes, not wanting to remember those reckless acts with him.
How many more missteps can I take with this man?
“I need to explain and apologize. I?—”
I hold up my hand to stop him and tilt my head, certain I’ve heard a noise. A sound one typically does not hear in our office. The sharp strained sound of?—
“Is that a baby?” My brows severely crease as I glance around Bolan’s broad shoulder toward the hallway at his back.
“What? A baby? What baby? Here?” Bolan scoffs, then stiffens. His face goes ashen. He heard it too, and suddenly those moss-colored eyes are wildly shifting side-to-side.
“I think—” I step left but Bolan follows blocking my path.
“I swear I heard—” I step right, and Bolan moves again as well.
Until once more, the disconcerting wail of a young child echoes down the hallway from the opposite end of the office .
Bolan closes his eyes and then spins on his hard-soled shoes and struts down the hall with me on his tail. He snags his foot once on the carpet, curses, and then continues.
As he breaks through the entrance to the lobby, my heels skitter to a halt as I take in the sight before me.
Nylah is holding a young child in her arms. A red-headed cherub I’d put at roughly a year, year and a half old, who is crying unconsolably. Nylah Jacobsen is a pillar of strength despite her small stature. She’s a force, as in she knows who she is and what she wants, and she wants it yesterday.
“Yesterday, I said. Now, would you like a chocolate or vanilla frosted donut with a sprinkle of pistachios?” Commands wrapped in kind acts are not uncommon from her. She’d make a great sports agent.
Holding a baby, though, clearly makes her uncomfortable and is the last sight I expected to see.
“Whatsamatter, Tulip?” Bolan coos. His typically rugged voice drops down to light sandpaper against wood as he reaches for the little girl who spins in Nylah’s arms and tips toward Bolan.
In comparison to Nylah, Bolan Adler holding the child looks right.
And out of place.
I mean, this is Bolan. Phantom Kisser. One-night Stand Man. Fiancé to Another. With a baby.
“You’re a father?” My voice comes with a squeak.
A baby . The words are a soft whisper through my head as my eyes are locked on the sweet child in his arms. The term is a soothing coo of excitement while my heart shatters in a new way which has nothing to with Bolan and yet he’s a catalyst once more.
“You have a baby?” My throat is tight, the question constricting my airways, coming out quiet and strangled .
“Rue,” Bolan states, although I’d just told him no more nicknames. No more soft growls and placating tones.
He glances at the bundle in his arms, jostling the crying toddler. “Meet my Tulip. Tulane Adler, my daughter.”
Bolan Adler has a baby .
Despite learning that Bolan Adler was a future client, but not knowing he was a distant relative, I hadn’t run an internet search on him. I’d made assumptions that he probably had numerous girlfriends, maybe eventually settling down with a wife. I suppose children were a possibility, in the recess of my thoughts, but I hadn’t looked him up. Initially, I was trying to stay objective. Preserve my personal experience with him. That treasured secret in my heart.
I didn’t need the rest of his life to interfere with that memory. I’d certainly lived mine.
Which causes the deep well of longing within me to open like a chasm. With tenderness and desire, I stare at the downy, red curls on Tulane’s head, and the softness of her cheek, wanting to run my fingertips over that delicate skin. I bet she smells amazing. All baby soap on her flesh and special detergent on her clothes.
Everything in me wants to step closer to them, soothe her tears, even take her in my arms, and snuggle into her.
But all of that is wrong, and after a soggy smile at the toddler, I excuse myself, holding up a finger to wordlessly signal I need a minute. Spinning on my rebellious shoes, I wobble once before catching myself on the hallway wall then fast-walk toward the ladies’ room, pushing the door with more force than necessary, causing it to slam against the opposite wall.
Only the resounding slam of it falling back into place doesn’t happen, and I twist to find Bolan, still holding his daughter, catching the open door and softly shutting it behind him. He turns the lock. The sharp snick cages us in, setting off another wave of cries from his child.
“Shh, precious girl,” Bolan murmurs to the side of her head, pressing his lips there as he attempts to soothe her.
I close my eyes and turn toward the sink, resting my hands on the edge of the counter to hold myself upright. My legs tremble. My feet ache in these heels. But my heart hurts the most.
Seeing Bolan Adler again like this has been too much for my already fragile mental state.
Handing me my panties. Fetching him chocolate milk. Staring with longing at his child.
I hadn’t expected to see him again. Hadn’t expected the initial sex. Hadn’t expected this additional encounter. I wasn’t supposed to be in the office at all when Bolan had this meeting, but I’d been called in last minute as a favor to my in-laws.
And I just need sixty seconds to compose myself.
“Ruthie.” My name is a yearning plea. A deep need in the tone to speak to me, to listen to him.
Something tells me I’m not going to like what I hear, but I nod once, the motion suggesting he can talk.
He begins with, “I didn’t know I had her.”