4. Campbell #3
“That’s exactly why it matters,” I urge, stepping closer, instinctively reaching out to touch his arm before catching myself and pulling my hand back.
“That’s why you need to trust me, Jake. You think I want to exploit your family drama?
I don’t. I hate it. But right now, the narrative is that you’re a brooding, ungrateful son who is jealous of his dad’s final season. ”
Jake’s eyes are glued to mine, and they flash with sudden, dangerous heat. “I don’t give a fuck what the press thinks of me.”
“Well, you should!” I snap back, my own frustration bubbling to the surface.
“Because the front office reads those articles. The scouts watch those social videos. If they think you’re a clubhouse cancer, they won’t promote you, no matter how hard you work out here.
Let me tell your story, Jake. Not the story about life as Roddy McKinney’s son. Let me tell the story about you.
“Yeah, your namesake might be the way we get them to listen, but once they do, that’s when I get to show them the guy who is holding this team’s pitching staff together from a wooden bench in the bullpen. Let me show them your worth.”
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the stadium’s electrical grid. Jake doesn’t move. He simply stands there, looming over me, his chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths.
Then the tension in his shoulders seems to bleed out. The hard line of his mouth softens, just a fraction, twisting into a look that’s not a scowl, but something entirely different. Something dangerously close to a smirk.
He steps closer. One step. Two. Until the tips of his boots are almost touching my sneakers.
“You’re really bossy,” he murmurs, his voice losing its gravelly edge, turning smooth and entirely too intimate for an empty baseball stadium. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
My heart does a stupid, erratic flip. I ignore it.
“It’s called being assertive. It’s in my job description.”
“Is it?” He leans down slightly, bringing his face closer to mine. Up close, I can see the amber flecks in his dark eyes, and the warmth radiating off him is making me completely forget about the night chill. “Because you look like you’re about to stomp your foot and fire me.”
“I can’t fire you; you don’t work for me,” I stammer, cursing myself for the sudden breathlessness in my voice.
Jake shifts his equipment bag, his knuckles grazing against my arm, sending a jolt of electricity straight down my spine.
His gaze drops to my lips for a split second before returning to my eyes.
“You think you can handle my narrative, huh? You think you’ve got me all figured out because you watched me catch a few warm-up pitches? ”
“I know I can,” I say, trying desperately to sound professional while my heart hammers against my ribs.
He lets out a low hum, a sound that feels entirely too physical, and reaches out his hand, gently tugging the zipper at my throat.
He pulls it up the final half inch, and his fingers brush against my jawline.
I freeze, my breath hitching. His touch is surprisingly gentle for a guy who spends his life catching ninety-five-mile-an-hour rocks between working with horses and farming the land.
“Tell you what,” he says, his voice almost a purr. “I’m starving. My knees hurt, I’m tired, and I don’t feel like driving back to my empty apartment just to eat cold pizza.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, unsure of where this is going.
“Earl’s is open late,” he continues, his eyes locking onto mine with this strange intensity that makes my knees go a little weak.
I wonder if he saw me sitting near his mom and aunt.
“They have terrible lighting, great burgers, and the beer is cold enough to numb my shoulder. You want to pitch me this big, savior-of-my-career PR campaign? You can do it over a basket of fries.”
I blink.
“Are you . . . asking me out?”
I feel ridiculous saying those words out loud, but damn if my mind didn’t go right there. I can’t go out with a player, especially this one. But dinner sounds nice. And if I can just keep the dialogue going, maybe . . .
Jake chuckles.
“I’m asking my very persistent PR director to join me for a late-night meeting. What happens after the fries . . . well, we’ll see how good your pitch is.”
I scowl, but damn if my insides don’t heat up at the same time.
“Nothing happens after fries.” My tone is firm, as is the straight line of my lips.
Jake gives me a decidedly ungrumpy and entirely provocative look before turning and walking toward the stadium exit.
“Don’t make me wait,” he calls over his shoulder without looking. “I’m not very forgiving to people who stand me up.”
I remain on the warning track for several seconds, staring after him, my face burning hot despite the freezing wind. I look down at my tablet, then back at the empty exit tunnel.
“Earl’s it is,” I mutter to myself.
I hope like hell Daisy didn’t head back to work after the game. I don’t think I can handle navigating more than one member of this fucked-up little family at once.