Page 7 of Renegade Rift
Ah, so this isn’t entirely about me. That makes a lot more sense. These three are the most single of single guys on the team. And while I fall in that camp, too, I typically don’t join them when they go out to the clubs or bring women back to the hotel.
Not that I don’t enjoy the fairer sex. I do. Immensely. And there was a time I didn’t mind entertaining women who were clearly after my name and bank account, but after that ruined the life of one of my teammates, and after the crash, it’s been the last thing on my mind.
Carson rounds the sofa and pads over to me, slinging his arm over my shoulder. “I know this isn’t your thing.”
I give him a pointed glare that asksthen why did you think this was a good idea?
“But you need to relax and get your mind off of things. Your game has been shit and your words rather fucking depressing.”
My words. The damn superstition Tyler and I shared. It was something my father taught me before he died, and I passed on to him. My dad taught me baseball was about intention, and that I needed to set that intention at the beginning of each practice or game. So, I did—and still do—writing that word in the dirt on the third base line before each game. I can’t play without it.
I didn’t think anyone had noticed the turn my words had taken. They no longer represented an intention for the game, but had turned into an almost therapy for me to leave whatever I was feeling out on the field.
Regret.
Doubt.
Indignation.
Not that it’s helped. I’m barely holding my own, fumbling simple plays and watching perfect pitches cross the plate because my mind isn’t in the game.
Maybe Carson is right. Maybe I need this.
My jaw ticks and I force a barely passable smile. “Fine.”
The three of them whoop and I shake my head, knowing damn well this isn’t going to help in the way they think it is. But once again, they’re trying and that offering of friendship is worth its weight in gold.
With reluctance in every step, I cross the living room and round the kitchen island to where the topless woman is scrubbing away at the dishes. What the hell am I supposed to say to this woman? Thanks for coming. Sorry my friends thought this was a good idea. Also, don’t touch anything because my life makes sense to me, even if it seems counterproductive to what you’re here to do.
I let out a deep sigh. Screw it. I’ll just let her do her thing and figure out fucking it back up tomorrow.
The woman takes a step back and bends over to grab supplies from the caddy she brought. Immediately my eyes snag on the hem of her short ruffled French maid costume, riding up enough to reveal a pair of lacy underwear that leave little to the imagination. The round of her ass is delicious, but what does me in are the thin black lines on her stockings, tracing down the back of her toned legs to the heels that only serve to elongate perfection.
A needy groan catches in my throat, and I barely manage to force it down without making a sound. It’s too fucking early to be warring with my dick. There’s not a single part of me that wants to be interested in this topless ambush, but when presented with a gorgeous view, my cock can’t help but take notice.
She sways her ass, humming to herself as she rifles through the caddy. It might be adorable if this wasn’t the most awkward situation possible.
“Ahem.” I cough, making sure she knows I’m standing there. “Thank you for getting up early and putting up with all of…” I glance over my shoulder, even though she’s still not looking. “That.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem.” She straightens and sets her supplies on the counter before turning to face me. “Surprises like this actually happen quite oft?—”
Her voice fades as my jaw drops.
Time slows and my vision narrows until there’s no one else in the room but me and the woman I’ve been searching for.
It’s not possible.
After everything I’ve done to find her. Here she is. Standing in my kitchen. Doe eyes wide with—is that fear? She’s afraid? Of me? But why?
I blink to ensure what I’m seeing isn’t a figment of my imagination.
It’s not.
She’s really here. In the flesh. Not just a name on a paper thatI’ve handed off to five different private investigators.
My stepbrother’s wife is standing in front of me.
Fuck, I just checked out her ass.
