Chapter 1
Cricket Dover
Four years later. . .
The crack of the bat draws my eyes up from my phone to the ball flying over the far side of the baseball field. I visor my eyes to watch the ball breach the boundaries. Home run.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a home run out here on Dover Creek field.
Leaning forward on the metal bleacher, I watch the batter jog the bases.
“Who’s number twenty-two?” Without my glasses, there’s no way I can see the name written in smaller letters on the back of his jersey from these nosebleed seats.
“Greene,” Savvy replies, flipping the pages on her clipboard when I glance over at her.
“Greene with an E, as in Greene County?” The rivalry between our county and theirs runs back generations.
I still don’t know what caused the initial ruckus between the Dover and Greene families, but it persists in the peripheries of the modern lineages for each, at least from my understanding.
It always sounded like a bunch of old ranching tales from the wilder west days of the Texas Hill Country.
My cousin, and assistant, drags her finger down the roster, then taps it twice on a name. When she looks at me, she says, “Griffin Greene. Definitely a Greene with an E of Greene County.”
“And of Rollingwood Ranch, Greene Farms, which is under the ranch umbrella, and the Greene family reviving their small town of Peachtree Pass.” I sigh with a roll of my eyes.
I’ve heard so many stories growing up about this so-called feud that I feel like I know the family myself.
I don’t, but I know enough to get by. “Ranching royalty in these parts.”
Looking at me under the brim of a Dover Armadillos baseball cap, she adds, “And a former pro baseball player to boot.”
Turning my attention back to him on the field as he rounds home base, I note, “Wonder why he’s no longer in the Major Leagues when he still hits like that?”
“I don’t know his story.”
“Neither do I.” I’d like to, though. “Just curious.”
“He’s cute,” she tacks on casually as she stands, knowing her audience well.
I look up at her, my eyes still shielded from the sun with my hand. “How cute?”
“As a woman in a never-ending engagement, it wouldn’t be proper for me to speak on such things.
” She laughs and plops down next to me again.
Then, as if others in this empty stadium will hear us, she leans in, and whispers, “Very cute. Don’t tell Blake I said anything.
You know how jealous he gets, and they’re teammates for this fundraising event. But he’s just your type.”
“First of all, I rarely talk to Blake. Our paths just don’t cross that often, except at family events or the occasional dinner with you guys. I don’t even think he likes me.”
“He likes you, but we do tend to get in trouble together.”
“Trouble as in have a good time? That’s once in a blue moon at best. We rarely go out anymore. Anyway, second, your secrets are always safe with me. And third, I don’t have a type.”
“You have a type. You just don’t want to admit it.
” She stands again and starts to shift down the row.
“I need to get back to the office. Are you staying for the rest of practice?” She eyes the field and homes in on a certain baseball player.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” Her laughter trails her as she takes a few steps down.
“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” I reply. “I have emails to catch up on before the end of the day.” And check this guy out a little longer . . . maybe I do have a type?
“I’ll see you back at the office.”
Savvy weaves her way to the exit and out of sight.
My attention returns to the field as the players swap out.
“Griffin Greene, huh?” I can tell he’s a big guy, even from where I sit in the stands.
Broad shoulders and muscular arms that tend to be exactly what I’m drawn to when I’m drinking, which isn’t too often these days.
But there was a time when life was less complicated, and from what I see, I’d certainly find him attractive if I were partying out on the town.
Let’s just hope he’s not as cute as Savvy says. Being a thirty-something single woman in Dover Creek is already a crime in some people’s eyes. Falling for the enemy would not only be unforgivable in my family but it would also have me serving two life sentences.
“Oh Jesus.” He covers third base, too? I don’t stand a chance. I pray to the baseball diamond itself that he is hideous to look at up close and married. I’m doomed to make a big mistake with a ballplayer otherwise.
The sky rumbles through the few clouds above, but a storm is brewing not too far off, and dark clouds are moving in quickly. I stand and start down the steps, not wanting to get caught in a downpour.
The players jog to the dugout as I duck into the open-air stairwell. With the sky darkening, I make it to the main gate at the same time as some of the players heading for their cars.
“Did you catch that home run, Cricket?”
I stop to look back at the sound of a familiar voice. Seeing Coach Barth, I smile. “Impressive. It’s all for a good cause, but I can’t say I wouldn’t mind kicking some ass out on the diamond. I’m glad you made the call.”
“There’s no calling Griff. The man’s been out of pocket for so long that I was surprised to even find an active email for him.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “He’s our secret weapon, though we do have a few players coming in from the Round Rock Express. Grew up here. It’s a solid team.”
Lightning cracks almost as loud as that home run. I duck in reaction and turn toward the parking lot. “I should get going before the rain kicks in.” I start walking backward, and add, “Maybe we can sign a few of these guys for the season.”
“We can’t afford ’em.”
“You never know until we try, Coach.” I turn around and slam into a hard chest. My body is sent backward, but hands the size of baseball mitts catch me by the back of the arms. My eyes meet his, and my breath stops hard in my chest. My heart clenches from the sight of him.
“You should be more careful,” he says. The warning in his dulcet tone shoots through my body and straight to my toes.
“Or you might get hurt.” He looks away too quickly, releasing me when I’m steady on my feet again.
“See you tomorrow, Coach,” he calls over my head like I’m not even standing here, then turns to walk toward the lot.
The clip of Coach’s steps echoes in the opposite direction as he returns down the hall toward the locker rooms.
“Hey,” I say, not sure what the hell I’m doing or what should follow “hey” since he stopped.
I just want to get a good look at him since the last one was too quick.
I’m only granted his profile, which holds its own—killer cliff of a jawline dusted in scruff, eyes that have seen too much life to be concerned with what’s behind him, and a nose that’s near perfection.
But it’s a flaw I’m most drawn to, a bump on the bridge of his nose that makes me think it’s been broken a time or two, and has me curious about whether it was earned in a baseball play, a bar fight, or an accident on his ranch.
My mind goes wild with potential causes.
Not losing my initial train of thought, I ask, “Have we met before?”
Barely angled in my direction, he laughs under his breath without giving me more than an ounce of his attention. “You a fan?”
“I . . . um . . .” I’m so taken back by the question that I stumble further into this mess. “Uh . . .”
“It’s okay. I’ll give ya an autograph.” He glances back at me but it’s too quick to form an impression. His grumpy personality is doing a stellar job of making sure I want nothing to do with this guy. “If you have something for me to sign.”
Mortified, I can feel my cheeks heating and hope to God he doesn’t see. With an ego like his, feeding it is the last thing I want to do. “I don’t want an autograph,” I snap.
“Suit yourself, sweetheart.” No time is wasted. He turns away from me and starts walking again.
I’m left standing in the tunnel with my mouth gaping open. What the hell was that? Brushing his chin against his shoulder, he dares to look back at me before turning the corner. Who the hell does he think he is?
He clearly doesn’t realize who I am . . .
My gast is too flabbered to bite back because I have never met a more arrogant man in my life.
I’ve met a lot of jerks and dated plenty of assholes, and Griffin Greene is king of them all.
If the rest of the Greenes act even an iota as jerky as he does, the ongoing feud between our families makes a whole lot more sense.
I stomp toward the lot again, but as soon as I reach the edge, the sky splits in half, rumbling above my head.
The rain falls so hard that I teeter on the edge of the curb to keep from getting soaked.
The roar of a Ford pickup races by, doing the job instead.
I didn’t even have time to react before I was splashed from the neck down.
I throw my arms in front of me as if that will stop the water from soaking me. With my eyes clamped shut, I gasp.
The engine fades under the splattering of rain, leaving me pissed. I open my eyes, looking down at my drenched shirt and jeans. My flats are filled with water, and my leather purse has spots from the puddle.
Fisting my hands at my sides, I want to scream in anger. I don’t because I can’t lose my cool on the job, but I’m so close to doing it anyway. I peek out from under the concrete awning and spy my car—one of two vehicles remaining. I recognize the other as Coach’s truck.
When I look up at the sky, there’s no break in the dark clouds from what I can see.
With no option but to run for it, and no reason not to since I’m already wet, I take off toward my vehicle.
Popping the locks on approach, I duck inside and slide onto the leather of my dark blue SUV and look around for anything I can use to dry myself off with.
Typically, I’d have a discarded shirt or even a towel available in the back seat.
No luck today. That’s what I get for having my car cleaned yesterday.
It’s also probably the reason it rained today.
Mother Nature loves a good karma moment.
Checking my face in the rearview mirror, I find my mascara already running under my eyes. I grab a napkin from the console, which I got from the Sonic up the road, where I stopped on the way in for a soda. I pat my face and swipe the dark makeup away.
I start the car. And with irritation running through my veins as I drive home to change into dry clothes, I realize I made two errors in judgment today.
One—I allowed Coach Barth to send out the invites without checking the list for contemptibly rude and Dover family enemies first. My dad will not be happy when he hears about this. I’m not going to be the one to tell him.
Two—I let my guard down when talking to a man, a baseball player, and a Greene, of all things.
If I were being rational, I could blow this off under the guise that it’s only a charitable game, a one-off event to raise money. How bad could dealing with that man over the next week really be?
I’m not in the mood to give him the benefit of the doubt, though. Not yet. Not when he just treated me like a fan and then wet me to my core. Oh no. I’m not in the forgiving mood at all.
Griffin Greene considers himself big stuff over where he lives, but in this stadium and in Dover County, my family reigns.
So I’m not sure who he thinks he is to rudely assume I was a Dillo fangirl coming onto him, but I can guarantee that he just assured my generation of Dovers will uphold this feud with the Greenes if it’s the last thing I do.