Hard Luck (11 page)

“First,” Brady says, and my attention moves to him, “are you happy with everything here?

“Everything but the scratchy pillows,” I say in a tease. “Thanks for making this room feel like me.”

“Well, have at the rest of the place. But no pink,” he adds with a wink. I roll my eyes and give him a smirk. I just might make some changes—or a complete overhaul.

***

Jimmy has three copies of the contract splayed across his glass dining room table. After reading over the changes, I decide they’re good. If my job is threatened by my new status, the contract will be void and I’ll receive a prorated sum for my services.

The rest of the contract is straightforward—hell, my gym agreement was more complicated.

“Ready?” Jimmy asks while glancing between Brady and me.

“Yes,” Brady says with conviction, and I glance up at him to get some reassurance before I speak. He smiles down at me and bends over to kiss my forehead. A flush of warmth arises, like the exact opposite of brain freeze.

“Ready,” I squeak out.

Jimmy hands us each pens and we begin to sign the contracts where indicated.

When the last one is signed, Jimmy hands me a copy. We each get one for our records and the attorney keeps one in his safe. The contract is privately binding, but it’s not like Brady will take me to court over it. No guy wants to be on the side of a girl faking anything related to them.

“I’ll text my driver and get him to take you home,” Brady suggests.

“Don’t tell me, he’s been on standby, too?” It’s nice to be so rich that people are at your constant beck and call.

“As a matter of fact, he’s been parked outside the building waiting for my text.”

“Figures,” I laugh and turn to Eve. “Thanks,” I tell her, needing her to know I’m grateful for her support throughout the evening.

“We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, especially on away game nights. You can come over and watch them on TV with me.”

“Girls’ night.” I smile back at her.

“Cali, thanks for agreeing to this.” Jimmy puts his arms around me and squeezes tight. Once he releases, I begin to breathe again.

“It’s all about taking one for the team.” Jimmy shakes his head at me and laughs.

“You’re good for my guy in more ways than one.”

Leaving the beaming Jimmy and gracious Eve, Brady and I head downstairs where his driver waits.

I take in my surroundings on our way to the lobby and a calm settles over me. Unlike any other time we’ve been together, not a single person seems fazed or dazed by Brady’s presence. It’s like an unspoken rule to leave him alone—a haven from the public eye.

We approach the doorman, Brady’s hand low on my back, seemingly his favorite place to rest it. He seems to need the connection, and who am I to deny myself the tingles he gives me?

“Leaving already, Miss?” the doorman asks.

“She’ll be back, Mario,” Brady says to him. The doorman’s eyes widen in shock.

“He’s going to be the first of many Chicagoans to hear about our news,” I say while Brady and I exit his building.

“The buzz when this hits the wires will be epic.”

“Great,” I mutter.

“There’s my driver. His name’s Stuart Butters.”

“You’re kidding,” I spit out between fits of laughter.

“Hey, don’t judge.” Brady glares at me, but a smile breaks out after a few seconds. “He’s British, so it fits.”

I rein in the giggles as Stuart drives a black sedan up to the curb of the circular driveway. Brady steps down on the pavement and I start to follow.

“Wait there,” Brady commands with a hand raised. Stuart lowers the passenger side window and Brady speaks with him in a hushed tone.

Brady walks back and stands on the pavement in front of me. It makes him not so giant next to me.

“I’d like to do something, if it’s okay with you,” he says while inching closer to me. “Actually, I’ve been desperate to do it since I saw you at The Wit.”

“What’s that?” I breathe and lick my lips. Brady moves closer, his body heat enveloping me.

“Taste you,” he whispers, his words resonating in parts of me that would love a private kiss. “Let’s seal this agreement with a kiss.”

Taking a deep breath, I nod and his strong arms instantly wrap around me, as if he was poised and ready to pounce. One hand cups the back of my neck as the other lands on my ass, pulling me to him, melding us together. Closing my eyes, I grip onto the waist of his jeans, giving in to the exciting sensations racing through me. I need an anchor to keep me from floating away.

When his lips crash into mine, I press right back and moan against them. Brady deepens the kiss, his tongue meeting mine in a dance unique to us. Damn, he knows how to kiss. He leans me back and kisses my neck as his lips graze over my skin. His erection presses against me, confirming why I’m here with him.

“You’re sweeter than I imagined,” he mumbles.

Somewhere to the right of me, I hear some clicking before a flash of light has black dots swirling behind my lids.

“What’s her name, Brady?” a man calls out.

Straightening in Brady’s arms, I turn my head toward the shout and freeze.

“Shit,” Brady exclaims. “Let’s go.”

Taking my hand, Brady pulls us the couple feet to the car and we pile into the backseat. Stuart starts to pull away the second our door is shut.

“Fuck,” Brady swears under his breath. “Sorry about that. I should’ve known better.”

“It’s okay. No one knows me yet, not even your driver.” I glance at the front seat and see a smiling Stuart in the rearview mirror.

“Stuart, this is Cali.”

“Nice to finally meet you in person.”

I knit my brow and turn to Brady. “Finally?”

“He’s been helping me stalk you. How do you think I knew you were at Drum Bar tonight?” Brady gives me his usual cool smirk.

“Nice to meet you, Stuart,” I say before turning back toward Brady, shaking my head. He’s staring at me with laughter in his eyes that does wicked things to me. He’s cocky, sweet, and dangerously handsome. I never stood a chance at saying no.

“So sure of yourself, aren’t you?” I scold.

“It’s one of my better qualities,” Brady boasts with no shame, as usual. Stuart chuckles from the front seat and I roll my eyes. God help me.

Even though I didn’t tell Stuart the address, we arrive at my apartment minutes later. That he already knew my address should unnerve me, but at this point, I just shrug it off. My world is about to collide with Brady’s, so I better get used to it.

After exchanging phone numbers and emails, Brady tells me his personal assistant will show up tomorrow with the movers to assist me—the perks of him having people to help him with everything.

Brady gives me another scorching kiss before I head into my apartment building. Stuart had the decency to get out of the car and wait for us to finish. My lips are tingly and swollen from his passionate onslaught—both sets.

Who am I kidding, though? This make-out session has taken place about two-hundred times, at least. I think of all the other women who’ve been kissing his lips, their nameless faces like a cold bucket of water. The sobering thought helps remind me to slow this train down before it crashes.

“I have to go,” I say.

“Stay, please?” he begs with hooded eyes.

Part of me wants to straddle him and bounce around on all nine of his inches, but the sane, reasonable part says to get out of the car before it’s too late.

I move out of his arms and reach for the door handle. “Good night, Brady.”

“You’re killing me here.” Brady leans his head back against the seat and blows out a long breath.

I glance at his crotch, and even in the dark, the hard lines of his erection stand out.

“At least things are working now,” I say, opening the door.

I climb out of the car, Stuart standing close by. He closes the door, but not before I hear Brady calling out my name.

“Night, Ms. Jones,” Stuart says with a smile.

“Night,” I respond, walking toward my entrance door.

Once inside, I take the elevator up and open the door to my apartment. Blowing out a breath, I prepare myself to conquer the ungodly mess and spend the next hour arranging the piles of clothes in my disaster of a closet, making more organized stacks for the movers.

Deciding a loss is a loss, I change into a tank and sleep shorts and climb under the covers of my bed, realizing this may be my last night here until October if Chicago makes the Series. I pull the sheets around me tight and close my eyes, but my lips still buzz from his kiss and I can’t get rid of the ache between my legs. Lying awake, I wait for sleep to come, but it’s useless.

I pull out my favorite vibrator from the nightstand drawer and turn it on, needing to rid myself of my Brady-induced lust fog. Closing my eyes, I touch myself with the magic vibrations and picture Brady with his perfectly messed up hair, his lips red from our kissing, and glazed blue eyes like he had for me tonight. In ten seconds flat, I fall into a Brady-inspired orgasm. It leaves me breathless, boneless, and unable to keep my eyes open. Finally, I drift off in hopes of having a naughty, nine-inch dream.

Cali

“What the fuck?” I mutter against my pillow as pounding and muffled shouts echo from my front door.

I glance at the clock by the bed and groan. The damn movers weren’t supposed to come until nine. How rude of them to wake me up at seven-fifteen, and just when Brady was getting ready to fuck me senseless. I roll over and pull my comforter over my ears, hoping I’ll be able to fall asleep and get back to the good part, but the banging on the door doesn’t let up.

Fuckers.

“Coming,” I yell from my room, wishing it was what I was actually doing. Finding a fluffy robe on the floor of my closet, I stuff my arms into it and pad out of my room, recognizing the voice behind the screams.

“Open up, Cali,” Taylor spouts while banging on the door. The photo frames shift and rattle on the wall with each of her thuds against the wood.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask while opening the door.

“Oh my God,” she huffs as she walks inside my apartment. “This.”

She throws a Chicago Sun-Times newspaper at me and it falls to the ground. Bending over to pick it up, I straighten out the pages.

“The newspaper?” I ask.

Taylor crosses her arms over her chest and eyes me. “You have some explaining to do.”

Panic hits me and my eyes dart over the black and white papers. A bold headline pops out at me: “Luck’s Leading Lady.” A photo beneath the words shows Brady and me kissing from last night, my body pressed against the length of his. My hand moves to my lips as I remember the feel of his taking mine.

Under the photo is a caption that includes my name. I close my eyes for a split second, bracing myself to face Taylor.

“I see you know what I’m talking about now. What is going on, Cali?” She looks at me, her brows knitted together. “And please don’t tell me you can’t talk about it. I’m your best friend and you’re swapping DNA on a sidewalk with Brady Luck,” she says, a hint of hurt shining through for finding out about Brady this way.

I breathe in deep. Nothing about this day or the next couple months will be easy. I have to lie, lie, lie. It’s not a natural thing for me at all.

“I need some coffee before I start.” Setting the paper on my kitchen table, I make a beeline to the counter and pull some coffee out of the cabinet.

“Let me read the article to you first.” Taylor sits at the table and places the paper in front of her.

“Ladies, it appears Brady Luck is unofficially off the market. Luck was caught passionately kissing Cali Jones, the unidentified mystery woman from this past week. The couple’s intimate goodbye occurred on the sidewalk outside his high-rise last night. Rumor has it Brady may have found the one. According to Luck’s agent, Rod Tidwell, Luck and Jones have been seeing each other privately.

The now public relationship could signal toward Luck planning to make Cali Jones a permanent fixture in his life. Let’s hope love gets his swing going too. Stay tuned for updates on Chicago’s hope for a World Series and his lady luck.”

“I can explain.”
Most of it.

“I hope so, because nothing make sense,” Taylor sighs.

I bring two mugs of coffee to the table and prepare to tell the first batch of lies to my dearest friend.

“It’s true. I have seen Brady
privately
,” I say, accentuating the word since I can’t tell her it was because we were behind the closed doors of an exam room.

“Since you fell at his feet?”

“Yes,” I nod. “Between you and me, that was the beginning.”

“And last night?” she asks. I sigh, though I try to hide it. This question is hard, but I can’t avoid the fact that I wanted to dismiss his offered drinks.

“It was a dispute between us. He followed me outside and I left with him.” I take a sip of my coffee, hoping the caffeine kicks in.

“Interesting,” Taylor says. She leans her elbow on the table and taps a finger to her lips. “I get the feeling he’s the one who’s been chasing you, care to elaborate?”

“Can’t fool you,” I conclude, ignoring the question while looking anywhere but at her. She can never know why he’s been chasing me, plus the thought of telling her I make his cock hard so he wants me is too embarrassing to say out loud.

“You have been, though, and it’s not like you to keep something like this to yourself. I had a feeling something was up last night when he sent us drinks.”

“There’s something wild I still need to tell you,” I say, steering her away from her thoughts.

“All ears.” Taylor leans closer toward me.

“I’m moving in with him today.” Taylor’s eyes bug out and her mouth falls open. “I thought your banging was the movers coming early.”

“Stop it,” she laughs. “No fucking way.”

“Yes way.” I shake my head at her. “I need more coffee.”

“Let’s go across the street for breakfast. This conversation requires some carbs, preferably in the form of pancakes.”

“Let me change,” I say, getting up from the table.

I head back to the closet of doom and find a clean pair of jeans along with a pink summer tee. Slipping on my favorite tan sandals, we leave my apartment for some food.

Taylor and I stand outside the diner an hour later, stuffed after eating a pile of chocolate chip pancakes with a side of bacon. Taylor has started to believe this thing between Brady and I is real, because I answered a thousand questions to her liking. Maybe it’s because she’s always trusted me to be honest with her. I cringe at the thought.

“Tell him one thing for me, as your bestie.”

“Sure, you earned that title.” I smile at her.

“If he breaks your heart, I’ll kill him. A slow, painful death,” she says in a way that makes my hair stand on end. “You think I’m kidding?”

“I think you’re serious and scary,” I tease, but she is leaning more on the freak-me-out side at this moment.

“Okay, you can replace the kill for maim, but that’s as easy as I’ll be on him. I don’t want to see him hurt you like that sack of shit Mitchell did.” Taylor was the friend that wiped every tear away when Mitchell left me. I owe her so much for seeing me through that heartache.

“This time, I’ll even help you with the maiming if he does.” I give her a hug, thankful to have her as my friend.

***

The rest of my day resembles a whirlwind. Brady’s personal assistant, Heather, arrives at my apartment with the moving crew in tow. Heather is about forty years old and looks like the type that chews nails for breakfast. I don’t think her face knows how to smile, but I immediately know I want her on my side during the zombie apocalypse.

When she gives the movers their instructions for the move, she leaves no room for confusion or questions. I bet she keeps Brady in line too. Boy, I hope to see that someday.

They begin packing everything from my closet and dresser drawers. I place a few personal things I will need over the next couple of months on my bed and wonder what I should do about my vibrator. I guess I’ll leave it for now. I can always come back for it later. It’s not like my apartment is going anywhere and I can never step foot in it again. The time with Brady will be more like a long vacation than a permanent move.

According to Heather, all my items will be unpacked and placed in Brady’s guest room for me later today. It will be the first and only time everything will be hanging up too.

“Thanks for everything,” I tell her and the guys, who have box tape flying in the air.

“Just part of our job, Ms. Jones,” Heather states as she scans over her phone.

“Well, I appreciate it.”

“You have an appointment at ten and two today, correct?” Heather asks, but continues before I can respond. “Dinner with Brady will be at seven.”

“Do you make his dates for him?” I ask, a little snide. I’m not a fan of how impersonal scheduling every aspect of my day feels. Or of her telling me when I’ll have dinner with Brady. Call me old-fashioned—though I really didn’t feel this was an outdated gesture—but I want the guy to call me up, not receive an invite from a personal assistant.

“Honestly,” Heather looks up from her phone, “Brady never dates. You’re the first.”

A stupid girl smile spreads over my face, but there’s no reason to grin. I’m not the first, I’m the one being paid for a fallacy—big difference, even if I want to pretend, in some magical world, I truly am Brady’s girl. I need to shut down these feelings before it’s too late.

By the time I leave for Nordstrom, I’m running late as usual. I exit my building and a familiar driver leaning against a shiny black car greets me.

“Good morning, Ms. Jones.” Stuart rises from the car and opens the door for me.

“Morning, Stuart.” I stop at the door before entering. “I didn’t know you were coming here this morning.”

“Brady insisted,” he replies with a nod and a smile. “Seems he wanted you safe.”

“Well, Nordstrom can be dangerous. All those price tags screaming at me. Purchases that rob me blind and cause my charge card to go over its limit.”

“I believe today’s purchases are on Brady’s account.”

“Then he should be the one needing protection. You know I’m kidding, right?” I ask while climbing into the backseat.

“I hope not,” Stuart says with a laugh before closing my door.

The second he does, my phone rings from my purse. When I find the phone and look at the screen, I see my mother’s number.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
She’s likely found out about Brady, too.

“Mom,” I say after accepting her call.

“Don’t ‘mom’ me, young lady.” Yep. She’s beyond pissed, bordering on enraged. “How do you think it feels to have every woman in the church calling me about my wayward daughter and that baseball player you’re snogging.”

“Mom, his name is Brady, and we’re not British,” I respond.

My mother has an obsession with everything across the pond. In addition to a new house, I’m taking her to relive Pride and Prejudice with a special English countryside tour. She’s dreamed of it for years.

Now, back to round two of me lying about Brady and me. I can’t remember the last time I’ve lied to my mother. Likely back in college about Mitchell. Boys and their trouble seem to be the common ground.

“Tell me what’s up, Cali. Or was it just one of those modern hookups? Every one of my friends says you’re his girl for the hour literally.”

Ouch, that stings, but I’m not surprised since Brady’s not so stellar reputation is summed up in one word: manwhore.

“I get it. He’s been around the bases, so to speak.” No need to sugarcoat the truth.

“Lots of homeruns, too.” If she only knew it was over two-hundred. “I don’t want my smart and beautiful daughter being another tally on his scoreboard.”

I have to silently hold back a giggle. Being as much of a baseball nut as I am, my mother nails the double entendres.

“Well, let’s consider me a new game, and I have not let him score yet,” I say.

“Really?” She sounds surprised, and I can’t blame her. I am, too. He’s paying one million dollars without a sample or guarantee there will be more. And I thought I was the crazy one. “I am proud of you. You know what I’ve always said. Why pay for the milk when the cow gives it for free.”

“Well, I’m not a cow, Mom.” And even if he does taste the milk, it will cost him seven figures.

“When were you going to tell me?” she asks, her voice now ringing with hurt.

“I was going to call you this afternoon. Promise. Those photos weren’t supposed to happen. I wanted to make sure he was going to stick around.”

Nothing like an inked contract to guarantee he’s not going anywhere.

“I hope you know what you’re doing. Remember last time…?” her words trail off.

“No forgetting Mitchell.” Some relationships just leave a mark—or a shitty hash mark. “But I’m over him.”

And it’s true. Blocking his number when he texted me during his team’s Chicago road trip means it’s over for me. Now he’s electronically erased from my life, and in this social media crazy time, that’s like saying, “you’re dead to me.”

“Why can’t you date a nice baseball player, like Matt McDonald?” she asks, and I shake my head.

“Mom, he’s married with a baby on the way.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize. All the good ones are taken.”

“Brady’s not bad,” I say, then draw my brows in. Now I’m defending his manwhore ways
—
what’s up with that?

“Promise me you’ll be careful. I can’t choose your friends anymore, but I worry.”

“That’s the last thing you need to do. I’ll be fine, promise.” My mother has aged since my brother was arrested for selling drugs four years ago. It was just pot at the time he was busted, but the harder stuff most likely wasn’t on him.

“You know I’ll always worry about you. I love you too much not to.”

And with those words, I decide the little tidbit about moving in with him can wait. One revelation at a time. Maybe I’ll tell her Monday night—our usual catch up on the phone evening—before the week gets out of hand and I’m too exhausted from juggling balls and penises all day. Men are such odd creatures.