Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Scottie
Lucas Fischer is trying to kill me.
The day after we had our little chat, I left home to find a package at my door.
It was a coffee maker with an assortment of locally roasted whole beans, a sampler of flavored syrups (salted caramel, vanilla, and toasted marshmallow), and a surprisingly neatly handwritten note taped to the box that said “Enjoy.”
Did that stop him from bringing me a cup from Meant to Bean when we met for media training later that day?
Not a bit.
It didn’t stop him from leaving a steaming cup on my desk after a particularly annoying facilities emergency I had to coordinate the next day, either. He sent a quick text—“Heard about the pipes. Everything okay?”—that I sent a poop emoji in response to. An hour later, I found a cup on my desk.
Bless him.
It’s been a week of him checking in on me in the morning, and based solely on my response, he shows up after his morning conditioning with a drink perfectly suited to whatever vibes he picked up on.
I’m starting to think my coffee preference is based less on mood and more on the man.
If Lucas brings it, I love it.
End of story.
My phone vibrates at 7:30 a.m. while I’m in the middle of a HIIT workout some church ladies challenged me to try. My lungs are burning and my spine is slick with sweat, yet somehow, I’m smiling.
Lucas
Morning, Quinn. How are you this fine day?
Scottie
Horrible. Exercising is the worst thing that happens to me every day.
Lucas
What? I love it. You probably need a workout partner.
Scottie
Is that like a tag team thing? If so, I would probably tag in Charles Manson at this point.
Lucas
Do not tag in cult leaders or serial killers. Do I actually need to tell you this?
Scottie
Depends. Am I doing a freaking HIIT workout?
Lucas
If you don’t like it, find something else you enjoy more. The best exercise is the one you’ll do.
Scottie
Cool. Lifting a 60 ounce tumbler full of coffee a hundred times a day, then?
Working out is one of those things people have to do to live a healthy life, and considering one of my core values is never being a burden on anyone, I can’t not do it.
Lucas
Nothing about you could ever be a burden.
But seriously: step away from the HIIT.
Scottie
Nah, I have fifteen minutes to go. See you at 11 for REAL boot camp, Lukie.
Lucas
See you soon, Quinn.
I get back to my workout, embarrassed at how much easier the next fifteen minutes are to get through. My legs feel lighter, and my breathing is steadier. It’s not because Lucas reenergized me. It’s because of the two-minute break.
That’s all.
If I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling when I shower and get ready, no big deal.
And it’s not like anyone can hear me squeal on the drive to work, bopping to whatever pop-country song is playing on the radio as I wonder if today’s the day he’ll finally cross the line we’ve both been tracing in pencil all week—and what he’ll do when he does.
None of this is getting in the way of me doing my work.
In fact, I’ve never been more excited about what I do. The realization hits me out of nowhere, surprising me enough that I slow, just for a moment.
Is baseball ops actually my dream job? Or is it the Lucas effect?
“Someone’s happy,” one of the older groundskeepers drawls over the hum of the mowers as I walk past him into the stadium.
“Someone shouldn’t make comments to women about their smiles, Bernie,” I say as I walk past. I’m smiling, though, and he smiles back.
In the back of my mind, I know I should be chastising myself or giving myself a mental shake—who are you, and what have you done with Scottie Quinn?—but the flu seems to have flipped off my self-preservation switch, and I keep forgetting to turn it back on.
Upstairs, the smell of brown sugar and cinnamon with just a hint of espresso bitterness hits me before I’m even at my office.
I look down to hide my grin. Meant to Bean is a world-class coffee shop, but there aren’t actually unlimited coffee flavors, so this is one I recognize: the Brown Sugar Shakedown.
My mouth waters as I turn into my office.
Where I expect to find coffee, I also find Lucas—feet up on my desk, hands clasped behind his head.
Sitting in my chair.
“A-hem,” I say. “Make yourself at home, I guess?”
He smiles. “Thanks, I have.”
I round my desk, ready to bump his feet off, when he drops them and jumps up in one fluid motion. He’s standing inches from me, looking down at me while I look up. His breathing speeds up, and it makes the blood in my veins rush faster.
“Good morning,” he says, his eyes warm and focused in a way that makes me feel like I’m the only thing in the room worth looking at.
“Good morning,” I answer.
“You look beautiful today,” he says in the hushed voice he’s mastered that makes everything feel both taboo and exciting.
“You are a flirt,” I say. My glasses are perched on my nose like armor, but I peer up at him over the lenses. My hair’s in loose waves, and I’m wearing flared navy pants and an oversized soft blue blouse.
Did I wear the blouse because the last time I did, Lucas stared just a second too long?
Obviously.
“I’m only a flirt with you.”
I purse my lips so I don’t smile. I can’t stand here all day looking up at his ridiculous eyes and unfair cheekbones without crossing a line I’m not ready to cross (*cough* kissing *cough*), so I put my hands on his arms—his very muscular, very attractive arms—and spin around him.
Then I drop to my chair and pull out my laptop.
“Close the door, will you?”
“You got it, Quinn,” he says, and a moment later the door clicks shut, sealing us into the quiet hum of my office.
Something warm and restless stirs in my chest.
“Are you ready to work?” I ask, trying to maintain some decorum. “Or did you plan to just stand there looking distracting all day?”
“So you find me distracting?” he says, finally sitting across from me. He leans over my desk, almost—but not quite—in my space. His jaw is clean-shaven, his mouth relaxed but intent, the kind of face that looks easygoing right up until you realize he’s paying strict attention.
His eyes are magnetic and inescapable. “Mascots would find you distracting. You’re wearing a neon-yellow hoodie with a flaming mullet across the back.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “You noticed.”
That brow! “They noticed it from space. Pal,” I add.
“Oh did they, buddy?”
“Sure did.” I roll my lips together, purposefully not looking at his. “Chum.”
He’s leaning so close now, all I would have to do is sit forward, and I could be kissing him. “I think you’re making that up,” he says quietly. “Friend-o.”
Then he slides the coffee across the desk and our fingers brush, just like they do every morning.
But this time, my index finger goes rogue. It lifts—just barely—and traces the warm, rough ridge of his knuckle before I can stop myself. The contact snaps through me like static, and his breath stutters. His pupils go huge, and for one suspended moment, neither of us moves.
Neither of us pulls back.
The air between us is electric, like the sky over the stadium right before lightning strikes.
“So,” Lucas says, his voice lower now, his eyes mapping my face. This close, his breath smells like that vanilla protein cozy he’s always getting, and it’s never smelled more delicious. “Is this the new line?” he asks.
“I don’t know.” I’m breathless looking at him, falling into the light blue depths of his eyes. “Wait, yes I do. The new line is we stick to answers that redirect without denying, keep it boring enough that no one wants a follow-up, and never—ever—give them something they can clip out of context.”
He sniffs a laugh. “Got it.”
“Good.” I take a sip, letting the warmth anchor me back into my body. “Then let’s get to work.”
“Whatever you say.”
I pull out my phone, switch to the voice memos app, and press record.
I feel almost giddy, but I mask it with the acumen of a seasoned pro. “Mr. Fischer, great outing today. But rumors are swirling that you’ve been spending a lot of time with a certain front-office staffer. Is there a distraction in the clubhouse we should know about?”
Lucas gives a lazy, confident grin that I’ll drill him about later. “I think the only distraction is how hard the sun was hitting the batters’ eyes in the seventh. My focus is on throwing the best I can and helping my team win. Anything else is noise.”
“Does this mean you’re in the market for a girlfriend then?”
“My only focus is on baseball.”
“What if that turns off your legion of female fans on social media?”
“I’d wonder if you’re one of them.”
I laugh. “Well played, Lukie.”
“Thanks, Quinn.”
“Why do you call me that? That’s such a bro thing to say.”
“You definitely haven’t seen me with my brother enough if you think that,” he says, fixing his eyes on me in a way that looks casual but feels intimate. “I don’t know. It feels like you.”
“Forgotten?” I say, aware I sound bitter, but every day with him makes it harder for me to filter myself.
“Distinct,” he says decisively. “I like your name.”
“Oh, wow. Just what every girl dreams of hearing.”
He grins and leans forward again, and it’s at that moment that a knock sounds at the door, followed by it swinging open.
I jerk back. Lucas whips around.
“Logan?” he asks. “What are you doing here?”
Logan looks at us suspiciously and then holds out his phone to show a red meeting on his calendar. “Media training with Scottie before we leave for Arizona.” He looks from Lucas to me. “You said it was mandatory.”
“It is,” I say, taking a slow, steadying breath. “You’re just on time. Have a seat.”
Logan sits next to his brother, and the lingering energy in the room shifts from charged to dangerous.
Logan sees more than he should. I trust Lucas with the truth about Jake and me.
But Logan’s ultraprotective of his brother.
If Jake’s a jerk to him in Spring Training, he could try to embarrass Jake publicly.
I can’t risk that.