Chapter Two
CHAPTER TWO
LIESEL
M y phone buzzes with text after text from my brothers while I stand in line at the check-in counterat the Desert Oasis Resort, where the Firebirds baseball organization is holding meetings. They’ve been fired up since I texted them about my encounter in the airport.
Logan
Man, I hate that guy.
Lucas
He’s everything that’s wrong with dudes.
And baseball.
And probably, like, toothpaste.
Logan
What?
Liesel
What?
Lucas
You know what I mean. He can make even normal stuff bad.
Logan
But toothpaste is toothpaste. It doesn’t matter if he uses it.
Liesel
Yeah, I’m not feeling it.
Lucas
You’d better not feel it.
And by it, I mean him.
Liesel
GROSS.
Like I want to *feel* Cooper Kellogg?
Logan
You sure about that?
Lucas
*snort*
Liesel
Don’t. You. Dare.
Logan
*GIF of kid whistling and twiddling his thumbs*
Lucas
Fine. We’ll let it slide.
Logan
This time.
Liesel
I will kill you both in your sleep.
Lucas
*gif of man yawning*
We’re going to drive to look at lights on Sunday, Lee. You coming?
Liesel
Not sure. Juliet may have a dress fitting.
Logan
You said that after Halloween when we wanted to put up the tree, and we still haven’t done it.
Liesel
Sorry guys. Things are just really busy.
Checking in at the hotel. Gotta run.
I drop my phone into my bag, feeling sick.
I loved ripping on Cooper with them.
I hate talking about Christmas with them.
I spin one of my earrings while I wait for the front desk clerk to call me forward and pull up my reservation.
“Ms. Fischer,” she says with a big smile, “I’m pleased to tell you that you’ve been upgraded to the Owner’s Suite. All incidentals have been covered.”
I shake my head and show her my ID. “No, I think you have me mistaken for someone else. I’m Liesel Fischer.”
The clerk smiles. “I know who you are, Lisa.”
“Liesel,” I correct her. The number of times I’ve been called Lisa instead of Liesel reaches into the hundreds. The sweet old gossip who used to live in my apartment complex always called me Lisa, and for a while, Juliet was the only person in the entire building who knew my real name. Including her freaking fiancé.
“My mistake. But you have been upgraded, Ms. Fischer,” she says, her tone not remotely apologetic. “Here’s your key card. Your private elevator is through the hallway behind the desk.”
What is happening? I push my ID back across the counter, knocking a gold garland off. I scramble to pick it back up. It’s been a long day, and I’m eager to get into my room. But the Owner’s Suite can’t be my room. “You don’t understand. I’m not a VIP. I’m front office staff for the Chicago Firebirds. I’m here for a staff retreat. Business meetings.”
“I understand your confusion, Ms. Fischer. Mr. Cruz contacted us personally and insisted that you take the suite. He left a note to say if you have any problems or concerns, he’ll be happy to ... ‘send his fiancée to clear up the confusion.’”
With a resigned exhale, I nod. “Right. I’m staying at the Cruz Desert Oasis Resort.”
My best friend is engaged to Nate Cruz, heir to one of the largest commercial real estate companies in the world. And because they inadvertently met through me, Nate has a tendency to overdo his appreciation.
Case in point? Nate gave me his white Prius last year. Literally gave it to me because my car was stolen. He just handed me the keys, signed over the title, and that was it.
Him hooking me up with a room in his family’s resort is nothing. To him.
The lobby has been quiet throughout our exchange—our meetings don’t start until tomorrow, and I took an early flight out to get my head in the game—but I hear footfalls behind me. The clerk hands me back my ID again , and I slide it into a slot at the back of my phone case.
“Ms. Fischer, we’ll have someone take your bags up to your suite.”
“Oh, there’s no need. It’s just a suitcase and a laptop bag.”
“We insist,” the woman says with a no-nonsense smile. I would think her smile should have a little nonsense, considering she’s wearing light-up Christmas tree earrings. But no. She slides a gold and black keycard across the marble counter.
Smaller than a breadbox , I think. Jules, you sneaky little liar.
“Your private elevator is at the end of this hall,” the clerk continues. “The keycard will grant you access, and it can also be used for any and all incidentals during your stay here, including spa treatments.”
“I won’t need a spa treatment. I’m only here for the meetings,” I say.
Her smile is getting more long-suffering by the minute. “There’s also a gift waiting for you in your suite.”
“ Another gift ? I don’t?—”
“There’s no shame in having friends in high places,” the clerk says.
I lean closer to her and whisper, “It’s not even like he’s my friend,” I say, although that’s not entirely true. Nate is awesome. “He’s marrying my best friend.”
“Congratulations to them.” Her polite grin has to be hurting her face at this point, right? “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
I don’t know why this bothers me, other than I’ve done nothing to deserve the Owner’s Suite at the fanciest resort in Scottsdale, Arizona. I don’t need this. I didn’t earn this. I just know a guy.
I sigh. “Yes, do you know if my itineraries for the teams are available yet?”
“Yours is already in your room.”
Of course it is.
A bellhop comes and ushers me to the side of the front desk. He makes a point of taking my things and pointing me in the direction of the private elevator.
“Hold on, please,” I say when we’ve taken a few steps across the beautiful natural stone flooring. I stop next to one of a dozen Christmas trees decorating the lobby. I don’t keep cash on me, and I’ll need to give him a tip. “I’m sorry, is there an ATM around? Or I can send you money through a cash app of some kind?”
He smiles. “Mr. Cruz already took care of the tips.”
I grumble. Juliet may like that she’s marrying a billionaire, but I’m glad I’m not. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against money. But I really dislike people doing things for me that I can do for myself.
While I’m in my bag, I spot my Cherry Chapstick. I’ve only been in Arizona for an hour, but the dryness is getting to me. I put it on my lips and notice the person who was standing behind me in line at the desk.
He must have shaved on the airplane and removed the temporary tattoo from his face. He looks much better. And much worse. I’ve seen so much of Cooper Kellogg’s flippant face in the year I’ve worked for the Firebirds that I want to vomit. He’s good looking—no question—but he’s so brash! He’s swapped his Christmasy cowboy hat for a gray baseball cap. I bet his thick, wavy brown hair sticks out of it when he wears it backwards in a way that drives women crazy.
It drives me crazy, too, but for an entirely different reason.
What is he doing here? This is supposed to be a front office staff retreat for our team and each of its affiliates. Is there a promotional event happening at the same time? Maybe he’s signing his tenth endorsement of the season.
I glare thinking of our exchange in the airport. He must be laughing about how he got the best of me with his dumb stunt. He had a beard and hat and wore a fake tattoo he could have stolen from a preschool Christmas party. How was I supposed to know who he was?
“Ma’am?” the bellhop asks, drawing Cooper’s attention.
He turns his face to me before I can look away, and when I meet his brown eyes, he cocks an eyebrow.
Irritation swells in me.
I glance at the bellhop. “I’m ready to go upstairs. Thank you for your patience.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He escorts me up the private elevator and leaves my bags in a suite that is twice the size of my apartment and a thousand times nicer. The fixtures are all marble, gold and crystal, with Christmas decorations throughout.
Ugh. Who decorates a hotel suite for Christmas? I poke my head into room after tinsel-strewn room, almost tempted to throw the decorations in the trash. There’s a grand piano in the living room! And I say “living room” to distinguish it from the family room, where the TV is.
There are Christmas trees in both.
My word.
I find the gift the clerk mentioned on the dining room table near my itinerary for the meetings. It’s ornately wrapped in gold ribbon and matching wrapping paper with a note.
If anyone messes with you, I’ll have Nate buy the baseball team.
XO,
Jules
I roll my eyes but laugh when I open the box and pull out a Stanley mug in the gray, blue, and red of my team. In the team’s classic-inspired font, there’s a customized message:
Lady in the streets, geek in the spreadsheets.
I snap a picture and send it to Juliet with a text.
LIESEL
Really?
JULIET
Just helping you project your best image to the team. You’ll thank me later.
LIESEL
Oh, I’ll project something, all right.
JULIET
Are you going to use it?
LIESEL
Of course I am! It’s hilarious and weirdly on brand.
You guys were nice to upgrade me, btw. Have you stayed in an Owner’s Suite before? This thing is insane.
JULIET
I know! Nate showed me the pictures. Opulent much?
LIESEL
Tell him I’m disappointed it doesn’t have its own gym. I’m going to have to use the resort’s fitness center like some common investment banker.
JULIET
It doesn’t have a gym??? Ew! I’m so sorry you’ll have to rub shoulders with all those basic millionaires.
LIESEL
lol
Okay, I’m going to sweat the airplane stink off of me. Thank Nate for me. You know, if my owner doesn’t fire me for having a nicer suite than he has.
JULIET
Good point. You should probably use the stairs instead of the private elevator so they don’t realize you’re better than them.
LIESEL
You’re just trying to make me take the stairs. But joke’s on you. I never take them when you’re not with me.
JULIET
So you’re NOT worried about getting trapped in an elevator with a hot guy? Like maybe Cooper Kellogg?
LIESEL
HA HA. Very funny.
Seriously, though, should I take the stairs? Will they think I’m some snob for using the private elevator?
JULIET
You’re not a snob and no one would think you are. The only reason you should take the stairs is because stairs can’t break down in the middle of a power outage.
LIESEL
You really cannot get over that, can you?
JULIET
*GIF of kid sticking her tongue out*
Have fun!
Jules may have been kidding about the private elevator, but I’m not. It’s not like I can walk out of the fanciest suite without attracting attention, can I?
Sure I can. I have a reason why I’m staying in this suite. It’s not a big deal.
Or is it?
Ugh. I’m overthinking this. Turn off, brain!
I walk into the master bedroom—not to be confused with the other two bedrooms—and change into my workout clothes. You know how some people are doers? I’m a stew-er. I think and stew and stew and think. I hate not having a reason for the decisions I make. Worse, I hate making the wrong decision. Oh, and I also hate feeling like I’m wasting my time, so I spend disproportionate amounts of time debating what the best use of my time is.
Go anxiety!
The one thing I know for certain is that a workout always makes me feel better. After putting ice and water in my new tumbler, I take my phone, keycard, and earbuds and sneak out the front door and to the stairs. I’m staying on the seventeenth floor, and the map in my room said the gym is on the fourth floor. I take them quickly.
When I’m almost to the ninth floor, the door opens. A man in a gray baseball hat and athletic wear steps out, and I internalize a groan.
Cooper freaking Kellogg.
I slow down, hoping he won’t notice me, but he does. He looks at my mug and then smirks before looking up at me. I wait for him to walk downstairs, but he gestures for me to go first.
“I’m fine,” I say. “After you.”
“No, I insist,” he says. “Even if I am a rude, classless, overpaid punk.”
I flare my nostrils but jog down the stairs past him. I refuse to worry about my pace the whole time. I run the stairs more than a professional athlete thanks to my ultra paranoid roommate. If he’s chomping at the bit to pass me, he’ll live.
At the fourth floor, I hold the door open for him—go manners!—but he winks and then continues downstairs.
He winks .
One conversation, one argument in an airport, and now he seems intent on messing with me. We don’t even know each other. We’ve never met before today, because it’s not like most stats nerds sit around the clubhouse chatting up players.
Who does he think he is? Walking into the fitness center, I can’t help but wonder where he’s going. Running outside, probably, so he can revel in fawning fans.
Okay, I’m being catty.
The weather is gorgeous out, and the Uber driver told me that nearby Pinnacle Peak has tons of pretty trails. Also, he played for the Diamondbacks before getting traded to the Firebirds last season. Maybe he used to live in this area and wants to reconnect with nature.
I start running on a treadmill that’s up against floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The fitness center overlooks a gorgeous golf course. I wonder if any of the people I see down there are Cooper. But no, he wouldn’t be running toward a golf course.
My feet pound on the treadmill deck, and my curiosity gets the best of me. I pull him up on Instagram.
Wow.
He’s already taken a selfie outside the hotel with a fan and shared it to his stories. And, naturally, it’s a woman. And she’s gorgeous.
I’m glad I don’t work directly with players. My dad and brothers have always warned me against them, but it’s a warning I don’t need. I would rather date the abominable snowman than a hotshot like Cooper Kellogg.