Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER TWELVE
LIESEL
W ith my feet soaking in the tub at the pedicure chair, I check my phone and see no less than twenty messages from my brothers in our group chat.
I don’t check them.
Instead, I snap a selfie and send it to Jules.
Liesel
I’m officially taking advantage of the spa! Aren’t you so proud of me?
Juliet
Holy freaking fruitcake. I never believed this day could arrive. It’s a Christmas miracle!
How are you liking it?
Liesel
You’re supposed to stay stiff as a board for the entire massage, right?
Juliet
Hardy har har. Were you seriously too tense?
Liesel
I relaxed eventually. It was nice.
Juliet
How did the presentation go?
Liesel
Really well! But one guess who showed up to watch his little girl?
Juliet
He didn’t!
Liesel
You’ve met Papa Fischer.
Juliet
Oh, Lee. I’m sorry.
Liesel
At least he didn’t bring my brothers.
Juliet
No kidding. They would have tried to snap Cooper Kellogg like a candy cane.
Liesel
Why? Nothing’s going on.
Juliet
Girl, stop. Like I didn’t see those pictures that were posted all over social media. You both look way too hot and happy.
Liesel
Whatever. We’re on opposite sides of the picture.
Juliet
He’s literally looking right at you.
Liesel
What? No he isn’t.
Juliet
Have you SEEN the pictures?
Liesel
Hold please.
Oh. Oh oh oh oh oh oh. I didn’t see the ones Todd posted! I only saw the ones on the team account!
Juliet
Yeah, the team shared his pictures in their stories.
Liesel
That explains why my dad tried to break Coop’s hand this morning.
Juliet
Coop, not Cooper? I thought you couldn’t stand the guy… ;)
Liesel
What? Sorry, the phone’s breaking up.
Juliet
HAHAHAHAHAHA YOU LIKE HIM
Liesel
Gotta go! Relaxation time.
I put my phone down with a soft groan. I can’t believe the picture Juliet is talking about: I’m grinning like a goofball and Coop is smiling at me like I’m the only person in the room.
It’s out of context, obviously. It probably caught him mid-smirk, and it was just a good photo. Or a bad one, as the case may be.
I pull my phone out again and look at Coop’s sharp jawline and the almost boyish smile on his face. It’s not his usual crooked smile tinged with mischief, and it’s not the one I saw earlier that I’m sure is fake. His countenance is open, and it’s easy to study his features, to appreciate the fact that he manages to look both intense and masculine yet hopeful and boyish at the same time. With his gaze riveted on me, he looks happy.
He looks smitten.
He’s not. But he looks it.
And that makes me flush from the top of my head down to the tips of my immersed toes.
“You know, people usually come to a spa to escape the world,” a woman with a teasing voice says in the chair next to me. She’s halfway through her pedicure and wearing a plush robe, with her auburn waves pulled up into a loose top knot. I can’t make out her face through her clay mask, but her blue eyes sparkle even more than the massive diamond engagement ring on her finger.
And I mean massive . It feels like the kind of ring a rich athlete would give his wife when she found out he’d cheated. It’s somehow stunning and borderline tacky at the same time.
She wiggles her fingers. “It’s a little much, isn’t it? The center stone was my fiancé’s grandmother’s, but he insisted we add all the … zhuzh. Personally, I think a six carat emerald cut diamond can stand on its own, but he wanted to make sure it ‘really pops.’”
“He succeeded,” I say. She chuckles, her cheeks stretching into a big, gorgeous grin. “Congratulations, by the way. When’s the wedding?”
“Next month. And thank you.” She stretches her right hand across her body to shake mine. “I’m Kayla Carville.”
“Oh, I know you! You’re the new owner of the Mullet Ridge Mudflaps, right? I’m Liesel.”
Kayla’s eyebrows lift a little, cracking the clay mask. “I’ve never been to a resort and had people know me because of a sport I know nothing about. This has been an interesting week.”
I laugh. I don’t know who the Carville family is outside of their recent purchase. “You don’t know anything about baseball? Why did you buy a baseball team?”
My pedicurist has arrived, and she takes one of my feet out and starts massaging my ankle and heel.
“I feel like a broken record, but my dad bought it for me. He thought it would be a better present than … anything else in the world, apparently.”
“A dad who thinks he knows what his daughter needs better than she does, huh? What would that be like?”
“Cheers to that.” She points her Perrier in my direction and takes a swig like the glass holds something a lot stronger than water. “I’m thirty-two years old, I’m marrying my boyfriend of six years next month, and I’m the Chief Sustainability Officer for one of the largest agricultural companies in the world, which he knows, because I work for him. What could I possibly need with a baseball team?”
“What did he say when he … gave it to you?”
“He said I didn’t seem happy and that maybe having a ‘hobby’ would help.”
A laugh explodes from my mouth. “I’m sorry, how rich are you guys that he thought a Minor League Baseball team would be a hobby ?”
“That rich, I guess.” She shakes her head. “I tried to give it to one of my younger brothers, but my dad threatened to fire them and cut them all off. They’ve been sending me all sorts of ‘helpful’ tips, but frankly, they’re twerps, and I don’t want to listen.”
“Brothers are always twerps. I have two—we’re actually triplets—but everyone calls them the Fischer twins, like I don’t even exist.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “The Fischer twins? Fischer brothers? Where do I know them from?”
“Nowhere,” I assure her, because if she doesn’t know baseball, she definitely won’t know a couple of minor league prospects. “But let me tell you, they act like they’re the younger brothers and the older brothers at the same time.” I launch into my rant, and Kayla nods and matches my experiences with experiences of her own, even though her pedicure is over. Her toes are red, but each of them has a Christmas tree on it, even her little pinky toes.
“And then yesterday,” I rant, “someone posted a picture of me with a colleague, and my brothers sent me a million warnings that I’m ‘not allowed to date baseball players.’ I’m not even dating the guy. We just work together.”
“Oh, is that Cooper … something? I wrote his name down. I’m having to write everything down with this blasted team. Cooper Kellogg!” she says. I grow warm. “You were the girl he was looking at all night long! That’s how I recognize you. I sneaked into that cocktail hour the other night to see if I could get advice on how to run a baseball team. Cooper was the only one nice enough to talk to me, even though he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”
I’m not just warm now. I’m burning hot. “There’s nothing going on.”
“Tell that to his face,” she says. “Sorry, bad joke. If you say there’s nothing going on, there’s nothing going on.”
“Well, let’s just say we don’t see eye to eye on almost anything.”
“Does that mean I shouldn’t take his advice? He said something about pitching winning championships.”
“Fine, he’s not always wrong,” I admit begrudgingly. “Definitely take that advice.”
She smiles. “You know, a little conflict now and then is good for a relationship. It means he cares enough about you to invest time into disagreeing with you.”
She looks at the gaudy ring on her finger, and I’m tempted to ask her if she’s okay. But before I can, an elegant woman pops her head around the corner, and her eyes land on Kayla. “Pardon the interruption, but sweetie, your stylist is ready.”
“Okay, Mom. I’ll be there in a sec.” Kayla turns toward me, and she fixes me with her full attention. “Liesel, talking with you has been one of the highlights of my week. Thank you for letting me interrupt you.”
“Thank you!” I gush. “I’m so glad I got to meet you. If you ever need baseball help, let me know.”
It’s a throwaway comment, but she takes out her phone, has me enter my number, and she texts me her contact info immediately. My phone vibrates beneath my leg, and I know it’s dumb, but it makes me feel special. Something tells me making people feel special is Kayla Carville’s superpower.
“Is there any chance you’re looking to become a baseball general manager?” she asks with no trace of sarcasm. “Or maybe a coach? I evidently need both, because ours are terrible enough that my dad bought the team for peanuts. Another present I would have happily taken over a baseball team: peanuts.”
I laugh. “I’m definitely not qualified for either, but please, text or call me anytime.”
“I will.” She gets up, and just before rounding the corner, she says, “Good luck with the overprotective men in your life. And if Cooper becomes one of them, I expect an update.”
It’s official.
I adore Kayla Carville.
I’m on an emotional high when I leave the spa. I feel refreshed, seen, and understood, and not even the constant reminders of Christmas can take that away. Hello, Christmas tree. Hello, oversized poinsettias. Hello, abominable snowman face tattoo?—
“Coop!” I stop myself before almost crashing into him. He fumbles with his phone, and it falls to the ground. I bend down to grab it for him, but he beats me to it. I only catch a glimpse of the video he’s watching—a drunk guy stumbling around like a fool—but Coop turns off the phone and puts it in his pocket.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“Too many ‘drunk fail’ videos on YouTube?”
His laugh is weaker than I’d expect. I wonder if it’s because we both know people are watching us now. And by people, I mean my dad. And my brothers, thanks to every fool with a phone who posts pictures of other people online. I look around the mostly empty hallway. A few people with conference badges are on their laptops or talking on their phones, but the meetings are clearly still going on.
“What meeting did you just come from?” I ask.
“It was a scouting session with Marty, but I had to run out to take a call. How was the massage?”
“Good.”
“You know, I give great massages.” He reaches near my hip, grabbing the hem of his—my?— jersey. It’s not one he’s worn before, but it has his name on it, and if elementary school taught me anything, it’s that if someone’s name is written on something, it belongs to them. That only applies to the jersey. Not me . “Next time you need one …”
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve used this line before?”
“Because you’re inclined to think the worst of me.” His arch expression is challenging.
“Or maybe because I know your type.”
“No type. I’m one of a kind, baby.”
“GROAN,” I say, pushing his chest. “You are such a flirt.”
“I’m not a flirt.”
“Oh, really? Tell that to the thousands of women you take selfies with.”
“What, so I’m not allowed to smile at fans?”
“Like smiling is all they get.“
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Because you’re Cooper Kellogg. You’ve aged on stage. The whole world knows your exploits.”
“Man, you go on two dates with Jenna Ortega …”
“You dated Jenna Ortega??”
“I just said it was two dates!”
A soft bell sounds, signaling that the breakout is at an end. Coop and I both take a step back. “I’m going to go.”
“Don’t look up pictures of us,” he says, backwards walking slowly away.
“Which us? You and me? Or you and Jenna Ortega ?”
His playful look makes me smile in spite of myself. A couple of people walk between us, though, and the break in eye contact helps me turn away to go to my next session.
A moment later, I get a text.
Cooper
I mean it.
Liesel
Like I care enough to check.
I turn around and see him turn to face me at the exact same time. I drop my grin as fast as it appears, though. There are too many watchful eyes, and I don’t want him thinking I care. Even if the second I’m in my seat, I do, in fact, search for the pictures of him with his famous ex.
I only want to vomit a little, though, because then I pull up the picture of us from last night, and I don’t care if it’s just a good angle. He’s not looking at her the way he looks at me.