That Moment (The Slade Brothers Second Generation #5)

Prologue

Adrienne—Six Months Earlier…

Denver looks good on me. Being surrounded by civilization, real linens on the table instead of plastic, and actual crystal wine glasses. Then again, it’s probably just the beaded Oscar de la Renta gown I broke out for tonight.

Focus Adrienne.

Candlelight bounces across the white tablecloth that stretches between us. I smooth my dress, cross my legs, and pretend I’m not watching Keegan like a prosecutor waiting for the witness to crack. I squint my eyes as if that will help me listen better.

What was he saying?

He shifts again. Tap, tap, tap, his fingers on the wineglass stem.

Why is he so nervous tonight?

I glance over my shoulder casually, trying to assess the crowd at the restaurant to see if maybe it’s an overly enthusiastic fan that doesn’t understand privacy, but nobody is looking our way.

He clears his throat. Checks his jacket pocket again, like he’s hiding something in there that might run away. I narrow my gaze, trying to make out what he’s clutching at, when my throat goes tight.

There it is. A small, square bulge beneath charcoal wool. My stomach drops so fast the room tilts.

Oh God. Is that a—Smile, Adrienne. Breathe. I grab my glass of wine and take a generous swallow. Too generous. Do not puke into the sommelier’s pride and joy cab that cost a small fortune.

“Everything okay?” I ask sweetly, attempting to keep my voice steady once I manage to swallow down the wine.

“Yeah,” he says, a heartbeat too quick. “You look… wow, by the way. I meant to say something earlier, I’m sorry.” He drags his eyes over me, and I offer a flirty smile. “That dress is stunning on you. The pink was a good choice.”

“Thank you.” He’s not wrong. I made sure to put in a little extra effort tonight when he mentioned going out in Denver.

Not that I don’t always look my best, but when you’re dating one of the hottest MLB players in the league and the hometown hero, there’s always that looming fear of the paparazzi catching you looking a mess.

So I made sure to pick out the perfect dress for tonight.

The dress that made the salesgirl gasp and offer a whispered yes when I walked out of the fitting room.

And while I know I look like a million bucks, Cartier on my wrist, YSL on my feet, confidence on my face… underneath it all is raging chaos.

Ring-shaped chaos to be specific.

I nod at the server’s monologue about aged beef like I’m not currently mentally rehearsing a script if Keegan Fuller asks me to marry him.

He orders for us. I let him, because it keeps my mouth from blurting out something in a panic.

Not to mention, I’m about two seconds away from choking on my own tongue.

Option A: Yes, but maybe we should keep it a secret for a while…like a year?

Option B: Maybe, circle back in six months, I have a quarterly review, and a fear of commitment.

God, my brain. Harvard Law prepared me for hostile depositions and miles of paperwork, not surprise diamonds from sexy baseball stars with rock-hard abs and forearms that would make a nun weep. Not wanting to marry him has nothing to do with his looks or his abilities in bed, that’s for sure.

You’re crazy, Adrienne. Women are literally lining up to take your place! He’s loyal, respectful, honest, and hot as fucking hell. Is it really that big of a deal that you barely see him with your schedules or that you accidentally pictured Scotty Bescher instead of Keegan once or twice?

Keegan smiles, a little tight, and I love that he’s trying.

He does that a lot. Tries. Shows up when he can, texts me good luck before a big meeting, and lets me wear his Rockies cap when I pretend to understand RBIs.

But baseball is a jealous mistress. She wants him on the road, training, asleep on planes.

She wants him to play a hundred and sixty-two games a year and then some.

She doesn’t care that he’s trying to build a relationship with me.

He adjusts in his chair, shoulders a bit too broad for this delicate room, and I’m suddenly remembering every time Aunt Celeste or Aunt Brennan made a joke about men liking a woman who can travel light when they were helping me move in college.

I can travel light if I need to. I have the luggage to prove it. But a fiancé who lives on plains and in dugouts, who signs balls for girls in crop tops while I pretend I don’t care… can I travel that lightly?

Focus. He’s talking.

“Adrienne.” He leans in, awkwardly looking down at his elbows before pulling them off the table. His voice drops like he’s about to whisper something only meant for my ears. The small box flashes again as his jacket pulls, and my heart slams so hard I almost miss the first sentence.

Say yes. Say no. Say I need a shot and a month to think about it.

“Sorry, what?” I smile too brightly, my fingers strangling the stem of a very expensive cabernet.

He laughs nervously, his hand grazing his pocket.

I force a breath. I picture my dad’s face if I show up home with a ring.

Hudson Slade, unflappable, is trying so hard not to smirk because his girl is grown, while my mom holds back tears.

My triplet brothers, Axel and Aiden, are pretending to grill Keegan while also being more excited about having an MLB star in the family than anything.

My aunt Celeste, my mentor, asked me ten very smart questions about the prenup.

I take another sip and almost choke.

Prenup. God, Adrienne.

“Everything okay?” Keegan asks, his voice cautious, like he can sense the way my soul just bolted for the emergency exit.

“Perfect,” I chirp, teeth clenched in what I pray looks like a grin and not a grimace.

He smiles back, nervous as hell, and I want to scream. I should be flattered. This is what normal women want. Love, a ring, a man who at least tries to text you when he lands in Cincinnati.

But I don’t feel normal. I feel like a fraud, cataloguing exit strategies while a man who’s actually pretty damn amazing fumbles with his coat pocket and trips over his words.

I take another drink of the cab and try to pull my focus back to the food, reminding myself that my current lack of sleep from work is contributing to my anxiety.

Maybe it won’t be a ring. Maybe it’s earrings. Earrings are harmless. Earrings don’t require you to restructure your life or Google how to be an athlete’s wife.

And because my brain is an asshole, it tosses in another image.

One of broad shoulders bent under a Chevy hood, grease-stained cowboy hat tipped low, that slow smile Scotty only flashes me when he thinks no one’s looking.

It’s flirty and innocent at the same time, usually followed by a wink that makes little butterflies appear in my stomach.

And the way he always walks me to my car without making it a thing. I blink hard, forcing the thought away.

Wrong man, wrong daydream, wrong life.

But my stomach flips anyway.

The server retreats after refilling our glasses. We’re alone in a little bubble of candlelight. He reaches for my hand across the white linen. It’s warm. Familiar. I let him take it.

Here it comes. Adrienne Slade, Chief Legal Counsel, Slade Industries International, soon-to-be Mrs. Colorado Baseball Star. See, you're fine, you can do this…it’s not that bad. Mrs. Fuller. Adrienne Fuller. Adrienne Slade-Fuller. God, no.

“Adrienne,” he says again, and that small box presses against his jacket as he exhales. My lungs forget how to work. The room goes quiet. I taste iron where I’ve bitten my lip. Three seconds, two, one…

I drag my gaze up to his, bracing for sparkle. He swallows, his eyes now sad, and squeezes my hand.

“Can we talk?”

Of course, we can talk. I have bullet points and questions and a color-coded calendar, and I can make the case for waiting like I do for multi-year contracts. I am ready.

I lift my chin, look right at him. “I’m listening.”

Inside, the panic hums. Brighter. Louder. A runaway train I cannot slow down, not in this dress, not in this city, not with the tiny black box I’m praying never sees the light of day.

Do I want to share my husband with thousands of screaming fans? Do I want a life of hotels, road trips, and other women proudly announcing their plans online to shoot their shot with him at the next Rockies game they attend?

I sip my wine to keep from hyperventilating. The stem wobbles in my hand. I picture myself on the Jumbotron, smiling too brightly while holding a toddler in team colors.

I could claim food poisoning. A sudden migraine. A Slade family emergency! God knows my cousins always provide a plausible disaster.

Keegan’s hand shifts toward his jacket again, and my pulse spikes.

Another memory of Scotty pops into my head. This time, it’s that sexy wink he gives me when he’s about to make a comment about how tight my jeans are. I force another smile, softer this time. But under the table, my leg bounces uncontrollably, every nerve buzzing with one refrain I can’t silence.

Don’t say yes. Don’t say no. Just… don’t let him ask.

Because if he does, I might have to admit the truth. It isn’t that Keegan is wrong. It’s that I was hoping I’d be over my little lifelong crush on Scotty by now… but I’m not, and I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

Keegan leans in. I am so busy drafting footnotes to a conversation we have not had that I almost miss the way his thumb drags back and forth over the linen. Slow. Thoughtful. Like he is stalling too.

The room narrows. Silver clinks, a laugh breaks somewhere near the bar, a waiter glides past in a whisper of starch. I count the beats of my pulse.

He clears his throat. “Adrienne.”