13. Everett
Chapter 13
Everett
" T ell me again why you're here," I ask Lauren Rhodes as I sip the old-fashioned I ordered for lunch.
"You already asked me that last week when you followed me out to my car, and I explained that I didn't realize who I would be working for when I accepted the job."
I thought I was seeing a ghost when she walked past my office last week on her way out. At first glance, you'd mistake her for my ex-wife. They have strikingly similar features, which caused quite the controversy back in the day. Immediately, I was out of my chair and chasing her down the hall. That's when she explained that a headhunter got her the job, and she didn't realize who her new boss was until she was shaking his hand and taking a tour of the stadium.
"But you know now, and yet you're still here."
She swirls the cherry around in her Manhattan. "Are we not adults now? This isn't high school anymore, Everett."
"Did you get a DNA test?"
"Seriously, brown hair and brown eyes don't make us blood. Fuck, I've been gone so long I forgot what it's like to come back." She rolls her eyes and takes a drink. Moira's father was rumored to have been cheating, and Lauren's mother was the other woman. Lauren and Moira have birthdays three months apart. Their similar features, birthdays, and rumors made them natural enemies. The rumors intensified when Moira's parents died suddenly from carbon monoxide poisoning during her freshman year of high school while she slept over at a friend's house. Following their untimely death, Moira felt even more compelled to defend their memory. Lauren's mother never commented on the situation and was never seen with any men before or after Lauren was born. You were either friends with Lauren or Moira. There wasn't a middle ground, and now my son has hired his mother's archnemesis. "And I don't need one. I know who my father is. He's alive and well, living his best life in Spain."
"Then I'll ask again, why are you back?"
"Is this about Moira? Because as I hear it, the two of you aren't even hitched anymore, so what is this? Do you dislike me that much because of an ancient rumor?"
I pull in a deep, cleansing breath and settle into the booth. She's not going to make this quick, but ghosts don't just show up for no reason, and I'm determined to find out who she's haunting.
"I don't have a problem with you, Lauren, but your presence here will undoubtedly cause havoc in my life. We both know my son has no idea the history you have with his mother, and since Moira hasn't shown up on my doorstep, I'm going to venture a guess and say she has yet to hear that you are back in town."
Had I not had my hands full with Cameron this past weekend, I may have considered giving Moira a heads-up, but since the divorce, I've been trying to keep my distance and disentangle myself from her. After spending twenty years together, it's easier said than done.
She subtly clinks the ring wrapped around her middle finger on her glass. "I'm not here to raise the dead, but I have roots here too. My business here is mine and mine alone. I don't owe you an explanation, but I'll tell you this: it has nothing to do with your family. As for the job, I'm fucking good at what I do. I can help the organization attract big names, but I think you already know that, which is why I'm still here. So the way I see it, we can keep the past in the past and work amicably, or I walk and take my event schedule with me four days before opening day."
I can't help the subtle smile that tugs at my lips. It's been a while since someone besides Cameron has dared to threaten me.
"I'm not going to fire you." It doesn't matter that Connor hired her. I know he'd trust any decision I made. "But not because of the schedule. Connor built this place without it, and we both know I have the resources to make things happen. That being said, my plate is full, and I've seen your schedule. I don't care to recreate it for the sake of letting you go on the grounds of ancient history…" My phone lights up on the table with a security alert at my front door. When I click into the app and pull up the camera, I see Cameron entering the front door, and I reach for my glass, needing the smoky caramel brew to settle my nerves. I specifically told her I would be driving her, and she left work without me. Annoyance and dread settle over me before I down my glass in one go. I'm out of the booth when my eyes meet Lauren's. "Don't cross me, Lauren. If you do, you'll wish you never crawled out of whatever rock you've been hiding under." I toss cash on the table for our order. "Let's go. I have somewhere I need to be."
T he ten-minute drive back to the stadium to drop off Lauren felt like an hour. My skin grew hotter, my heart pounded faster, and what had been annoyance turned into fury as I contemplated why Cameron went against my orders. I specifically told her where she goes, I go. How could she be so careless? I wasn't worried about leaving her at the stadium. She wasn't alone there. It's training week—there are staff around every corner preparing for opening day—and I'm not concerned about her security at my house. It's her intent that has me driving like a reckless fool, breaking every speed limit. If she left work without me, there's a good chance she plans on leaving the house too, and then I can't protect her.
Pulling into the driveway, the adrenaline coursing through my veins settles a notch as I hastily exit my car, knowing she's still inside and I'm home. With my hand on the front doorknob, I breathe deep. I don't want to lose control the way I have been so easily with her lately. The second I pull open the door, I hear laughter coming from the kitchen and immediately follow the honeyed sound. It's like sunshine on a rainy day. Her laugh has always had a soothing effect on me. It's deep, genuine, and real, just like her. I can't tell you a time when her laughter didn't come from her whole heart. It's part of her appeal, one that should have me turning away instead of running headfirst. But here I am, rounding the corner into my kitchen anyway, only to find her talking to another man.
"What did she say after that?"
"She told him the only reason he thought she belonged in the kitchen was because he didn't know what to do with her in the bedroom." A man I've never seen before answers as he opens the refrigerator. My refrigerator!
"Oh my god. I can't believe they said that in front of you."
"It's what happens when people assume they know you based on your appearance. They thought I didn't speak English."
She hops off the counter and places her hand on his lower back, alerting him to her presence before reaching around to grab a coconut water. The move is innocent enough, but he has at least a foot on her, and I see what she doesn't. I see the way his back tenses and his head slightly turns toward her, assessing her intent, looking for his moment. They're so caught up in their conversation that they haven't realized I'm standing at the entrance.
Clearing my throat, I startle them both. His black eyes find mine, and I'm certain I've never met him before. I never forget a face, but something about him looks familiar. However, I leave it be. It doesn't matter because he will never step foot in this house again.
"A word, Cameron," I say, my tone firm, leaving no room for debate.
She glowers as she twists the top on her coconut water. I know that look, but it's just usually never directed at me. She has no interest in heeding my request, but right as I'm about to speak again, she does. That's when I notice her outfit—or lack thereof. She's practically naked, wearing a long flowing dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. You can see her undergarments, and every stride she takes reveals her bare thighs. When she walks past me and into the library, my eyes land on the mystery man standing in my kitchen whose gaze is fixed squarely on her ass. What was a slow, simmering fury is quickly starting to boil over.
When he catches me staring hard, my displeasure evident, he quickly turns back toward the fridge. I won't waste my words on him when she's been my sole focus for the past thirty minutes.
Entering the library, she's sitting on a wingback chair with her arms crossed when I close the French doors behind me. "Did you forget the rules?"
She rolls her eyes. "You're going to need to be a little more specific. You've been demanding a lot of things recently. I'm not sure what's a rule and what's a mandate anymore because, I can assure you, I've broken no rules."
I don't know where the attitude is coming from or why she chose to leave work without me. When I told her I didn't want her driving and refused to hand over her keys, I sensed a little agitation but not anger. She's a smart girl. I know she hasn't forgotten the rules, so the question is: what game is she playing now?
"You left work without me. I told you I didn't want you driving?—"
"I didn't drive. Parker did," she answers sardonically with a smirk.
She's poking the bear, and she knows it. I know what I said. "I said you'd be riding with me for the foreseeable future, Cameron. Me, not Parker or anyone else. Me."
"You left," she comments as she looks down at her manicure, seemingly unaffected by my terseness. "And I was done with my shift." She rests her arms on either side of the chair before giving me her eyes. "I didn't want to interrupt your lunch," she says, drawing out the last word. So that's what this is about. She saw me leave with Lauren. Rising from her chair, she says, "So if we're done here?—"
I step further into the room. "We're far from done here. Rules are rules, Cameron. I'm trying to keep you safe," I say, my voice peaking with indignation as I grab the back of the wingback chair opposite the one she vacated.
"Fine. I'll only ride with you… Happy?" she questions apathetically, only further adding to my irritation.
I don't appreciate the dismissiveness in her mannerisms, and I hate believing she'd rather be in the kitchen than here with me, even though it's exactly where she should be. I wouldn't say I'm a greedy man, in fact I'd defend that I'm far from it, but right now, I'm the very definition because the last thing I want is her giving an ounce of attention to someone who isn't me.
"Far from it. Leaving early wasn't the only rule you broke. I specifically said no boys in the house, and yet there is one in my kitchen. If you are determined to feel what being held against your will is like, continue to test me. I promise you won't like the outcome."
She puts her hands on her hips, and her piercing blue eyes connect with mine, making my insides coil with dread and desire. I fear her as much as I fear for her. Her safety is paramount, but as she stands before me, looking like every man's dream, I'm worried that it's me she should fear the most. I'm the monster hiding in plain sight.
Her lips quirk to one side before she smarts. "I didn't invite our guest over—you did."
"Nice try, but I've never met that man in my life, and I wouldn't invite someone into my home without checking out their background given the events of this past weekend."
She rolls her lips and drops her gaze, shaking her head before saying, "I warned you, but you refuse to listen. You continue to talk at me instead of with me, continue to see me as a teen living under your roof instead of an educated adult." She pauses, her eyes still downcast as her hands ball into fists, drawing my eye toward her body and the nudity that lies beneath the sheer fabric covering parts of her I shouldn't see. Cameron has always put a lot of care into her wardrobe. She's far from shy, and while she likes to show skin, this outfit pushes a limit I didn't know I had. Her lips pop before she gives me her full attention once more. "The man in the kitchen is Camila's son. You ordered groceries this morning. Camila got sick, and her son, Diego, delivered them for you."
It's getting harder to ignore the blind spot that's growing when it comes to her. I'm so singularly focused on the feelings she evokes that I'm losing my damned mind in other regards. Camila has worked for me for ten years. I knew she had an older son, but I'd never met him. That's not Cameron's problem. It's mine, and I refuse to let it show.
"Even better. New rule. I expect you to wear clothes around my employees. Not whatever lingerie this is," I say as I gesture toward her attire.
She runs her tongue over her teeth before pulling the drawstring on the front of the sheer dress she's wearing, revealing a baby blue swimsuit. "Relax. It's just a swimsuit," she says as she lets the material fall down her arms before tossing it on the chair behind her. "I was heading to the pool when he walked in with your order." Then, turning on her heel, she gives me her back and an eye full of her ass in yet another thong bikini. "I'll go outside. You can see him out."
I want to slap her ass so hard for testing me. She knows exactly what she's doing, and the mere thought of watching her porcelain skin redden from the sting of my hand makes my cock twitch. Fuck. She only gets two paces toward the door before I say, "Are you trying to get him fired?"
"What?" she whips around, her face full of concern.
"I said you need to wear clothes around my employees. That's not a fucking swimsuit, it's a damn thong."
Her brow furrows. "Since when have you had a problem with my swimsuits? Women wear these, Everett. Go to any swimwear website and look for yourself."
"I don't care what other women wear. I care what you wear." Her eyes widen, and I realize what I've said. Before she can react or think to tease me further, I shut it down, knowing I don't have the strength, not when my nerves are wrecked, not when she's the reason for my sleepless nights, and sure as fuck not with her standing before me practically naked, knowing exactly how soft her milky white skin feels beneath my palm. "Don't make this into more than it is. It doesn't change anything. I won't hesitate to fire Camila and send you away. When I said I'd hold you against your will, I didn't say I would be doing the holding. I have zero qualms about sending you away until I get to the bottom of who broke into Connor's house."
Her blue eyes have darkened to shades of gray, and I know I've struck a nerve. Good. I need her to take me seriously. She can be mad all she wants, as long as she's safe. When she gives me no words, I head toward the door. With my hand on the knob and my back to her, I pause before exiting. "There's a blanket in the ottoman. Use it if you plan on leaving this room."
Cameron's determined to test the water and see how far she can push me. The problem is, she doesn't know how to swim, and if I jump in to save her now, we'll both drown.
" B anks, you need to keep your weight back. That's the second curveball he's thrown at you, and you won't hit with all that weight out in front. You react after the ball leaves his hand, not before. Try again."
Banks is one of our best hitters, but for some reason, he's acting like he's never hit a curveball. I'm watching his every move, trying to determine the root cause. His stance just now was laziness. Everyone knows you lean back, not in. His head isn't in the game, and I'm trying to deduce if it's physical or mental. Sometimes, players will over-compensate and make rookie mistakes to hide injuries. Other times, outside factors are the issue. Home life, school, work, and girlfriends can easily distract a player from staying on their game. They can't connect or stay focused. And other times, it's none of those things; sometimes, it's just a bad day. I've landed on the likely cause when a blur of red steals my focus as she rushes to the bench where Parker sits. I can tell from my spot behind second base, something is wrong.
After our exchange in the library the other day, she's gone out of her way to avoid me, which is good, but I can't stand it. I hate that she's not talking to me, and I loathe the irony in that statement because the opposite used to be true. I wanted her to ignore me. If she had, maybe I wouldn't have noticed her as much. Perhaps then, I wouldn't be obsessed and walking off the field. Whatever she said to Parker had him leaving the dugout and hastily following her down the tunnel toward the concourse without so much as notifying one of the coaches. The closer I get to the team shop, the more my anger spikes. I'm pissed she ran to Parker and not me, but the second my hand hits the metal of the door, I pause. Pausing is something new for me. I did it when I found her in the kitchen with Camila's son, and I'm doing it now, but it's not in my repertoire. I don't temper for anyone, but apparently, I do for her. I pull a deep breath into my lungs, letting them inflate, and hold it for a count of three before releasing it. I'm still livid, but at least I'm not unhinged. That is, until I open the door and find Cameron pulling his shirt off.
"Please don't tell me you left the field during practice for a quick fuck," I say, somehow managing to keep my voice level while my heart practically beats out of my chest.
Cameron turns to me, her cheeks tinged pink, but I don't see anger. I see panic. "The uniforms are too small." Turning back to Parker, she attempts to pull a new shirt over his head.
"I think he can manage that task himself," I assert as I walk further into the shop. His head pops through the top, and I see a telling smirk. It could simply be my remarks about the quickie, but I know it's more. He knows I don't like her touching him. There's this innate sixth sense all men and women are born with. We can sense competition, and right now, he knows he's mine. He struggles to get one arm through the shirt, and I ask, "How did this happen?"
"We wanted the uniforms to be fitted. Connor didn't want them to fit loosely, so he ordered them in a size smaller than usual. But there must have been a mix-up because these aren't just one size smaller; they are two. They sent us UK sizes, not American, which makes them two sizes too small."
"I found the measuring tape," Stormy says as she exits the back room. The girl looks like she stepped out of a hippie magazine, wearing a baggy, patchwork bohemian set of overalls with her hair in French braids down either side of her head. I don't know what her full story is. I've had my hands full between taking over for Connor and trying to go silent at Callahan 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.
" C an 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.
Letting her walk away pissed is better than feeding into whatever we shared moments ago. Her hate destroys me as much as her devotion kills me. Both have consequences, and right now, I'm not sure which is better.