Heartthrob
An American Royalty Romance
Robin Bielman
Heartthrob
Copyright © 2019 Robin Bielman
EPUB Edition
The Tule Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
First Publication by Tule Publishing 2019
Cover design by Lee Hyat at www.LeeHyat.com
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-950510-03-0
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Dear Reader
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
The American Royalty series
Excerpt from Sweet Talker
More books by Robin Bielman
About the Author
Acknowledgments
This book is really special to me and I so appreciate the assist from the following awesome people…
Thank you, Greg, for giving my heart a home since we were teenagers. Thank you for your love and support every day. And thank you for talking baseball with me while I wrote this book. You’re my walk off home run and I love you so much.
Thank you, Samanthe Beck, for helping me with Chloe. Your brilliant suggestions truly helped make this book what it is and made writing this story even more fun for me. I’m beyond grateful for your friendship and writerly wisdom. Love you, sister!
Huge thanks to the amazing Tule team – Meghan, Sinclair, Jenny, Nicole, Jane, Cyndi, Lee, Marlene, and Helena. I appreciate your partnership, guidance, and patience more than I can say. (Sinclair, your kind words are still on repeat in my head. Jenny, I’m happy I was part of your new-found love for first person. And Helena, your style sheet is the bomb!)
Thank you, Kim Matlock, for your continued support of my work. Readers are so special to me, and you’re one of the best. Thanks, too, for sharing the name of your dog with me when I gave a shout out for help. Sammy was the perfect name for Finn’s puppy and it makes this book that much more meaningful. :)
Thank you to Social Butterfly PR and especially Sarah Ferguson for working with me to get Finn and Chloe’s story into the hands of readers. You rock!
And lastly, thank you from the bottom of my heart to my readers. Thanks for reading, blogging, reviewing, teasing, and sharing my stories with your friends and followers. I’m in awe of all that you do and forever grateful.
Dear Reader,
I’ve wanted to write a pro baseball player forever, and I’m so excited to finally bring you Finn Auprince. Baseball has been a part of my life for a long time, starting when my oldest son turned five and I signed my husband up to coach his team. (He continued to coach for fifteen years.) Both my boys are grown now, but our family’s love for the game continues. The MLB Network is on in my family room at least once a day, and that’s not even during the regular baseball season!
In writing this book, I tried to stay true to the game of baseball, but ultimately this is a romance between Finn and Chloe, so any errors are my own. The Landsharks are a fictional team, designed to give me some creative freedom, but I do make references to actual MLB teams. Along with Finn and Chloe, you’ll also meet the extended Auprince family, most notably Finn’s brothers Ethan and Drew. Stay tuned for two more books as they each get their happily ever after. Ethan is up next in Sweet Talker. Then it’s Drew’s turn in Hotshot. All three of them have stolen my heart, and I hope they steal yours, too.
Thanks so much for reading!
xoxo
Robin
Chapter One
#InjuredList
Finn
Until a week ago I’d say I was the luckiest guy on the planet.
Good family. Check.
Good looks. Check.
Good—no make that phenomenal—job. Check.
I’m the hottest player in major league baseball with sick stats, millions of fans, and the respect of my fellow players.
I’m also the center fielder who collided with the back fence while trying to rob the second hottest player in the majors of a home run in game seven of the World Series. The collision knocked the ball out of my glove. And landed me on my back with a fractured clavicle.
I lost my team the championship. My error allowed the other team to score a run, costing us the game and the series.
Yeah, I know baseball is a team sport, but I’m the captain, and our first trip to the world stage in over thirty years was supposed to end differently. Now, instead of reliving all the glory, I can’t get that moment out of my head. When everything went completely silent, fifty thousand plus home fans all holding their breath as I dove for a hell of a hit, determined to rob the other team of victory. I had it, held the ball in the sweet spot of my glove…until it rolled off the leather in slo-mo, a collective groan echoing around the stadium. I’m still not sure if the grumbles were for the dropped ball or my injury, but either way, that sound of disappointment hurt a thousand times worse than the pain slicing through my collarbone.
“Then she unzipped my pants and pulled out my dick, right there in the middle of the restaurant.”
I blink back to the present at the word “dick.” When talk turns to a guy’s favorite body part, shitty memories bite the dust, at least temporarily. “She did what?”
“Nice of you to rejoin the conversation,” my older brother, Ethan, says from the other side of the couch. He stopped by to cheer me up with coffee and tales of his latest sexcapades. Beats the time he and our younger brother tried to put me up for adoption. (That’s what happens when you’re the best-looking and most athletic of the three.)
I rotate my right shoulder, trying to stretch my upper back. The sling on my left arm is a royal pain in the ass. Several more weeks of this is going to kill me.
“Were there any witnesses?” I ask to mess with him. “Or was a magnifying glass used to confirm said extraction?”
“His sense of humor returns. You must be feeling better.”
When I don’t answer right away he gives me the big brother eyebrow raise, silently telling me to fess up. There’s no one I trust more than my brothers, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy for me to spit out my every worry. Truth is I’m scared as hell. The doctor tells me most clavicle fractures heal themselves without
surgery, that three weeks in a sling to immobilize my arm followed by passive range-of-motion exercise, then more aggressive strength training should be all that’s needed. This is his conservative plan. The not so easy route for some compound fractures is a trip to the OR to repair the damage. Look, I know it’s not major surgery, and I’m in the best shape of my life otherwise, but even the possibility of being cut into does things to a guy’s psyche, you know?
“Pain’s still kicking my ass,” I finally say. “Nothing I can’t handle, though.” What I really don’t like is dealing with the constant attention from my family and friends. I wouldn’t call myself a loner exactly, but I have no problem being left alone—especially with my injury. Insert laughter here, because having the last name Auprince has afforded me very little privacy since the day I was born. Add in baseball, and let’s just say I have to work hard at keeping some semblance of solitude.
“It’s only been a week. Give it time.”
I lift my Starbucks cup off the coffee table to finish the warm brew. A shot of pain where my neck meets my shoulder reminds me it has only been a few days. “Feels like a year. I hate sitting around doing nothing.”
“I agree forced time off sucks, but you’ve been going nonstop for a long time. A little rest might be good for you.”
I’ve heard about this thing called “rest” but unless it’s right after mind-blowing sex—in which case rest is necessary before overwhelmingly impressive round two—I want no part of it. I’ve got one speed: on.
Granted, usually when the season ends, I take a two-week-long break before cranking it up in the off-season and hitting the gym every day with my trainer. But those weeks are not me sitting on my ass, babying an arm.
“Or it might slowly turn me into a couch potato with an unhealthy attachment to socks,” I say. To prove I’m already on my way to insanity I prop my feet on the coffee table. I’m wearing a blue athletic sock on one foot and an orange one on the other. I don’t normally wear socks without my shoes, but this injury has messed up my internal temperature and my feet are cold.
Ethan cracks up. “It’s laundry day, huh?”
I shrug. I think it’s Thursday. Maybe Wednesday. Definitely doesn’t feel like a Friday. Not that I’m captain of my calendar at the moment. Nope. All my days blend together like my daily kale, pineapple, and almond-milk smoothie.
Jesus, I’m pathetic. It’s time to suck up my misery and get back to some sort of routine to keep my body and mind sharp.
“Come to the restaurant tonight,” Ethan says. “I’ll have your favorite meal waiting.”
“Charlotte?”
My brother shakes his head. “My manager is no longer on your menu. She’s got a boyfriend.”
“Damn. Guess I’ll have to settle for a filet then. Thanks for the offer. I appreciate it.” I do need to get out of the house. Shower. Shave. But just putting on a shirt is damn difficult when I can only comfortably lift one arm.
The doorbell rings, reminding me our mom said she was stopping by this morning, too. “Hello,” she calls out, letting herself in.
“Back here,” I return, dropping my feet to the floor and sitting taller. A sharp pain slices through my collarbone. I hiss in a breath, not happy about my brother noticing my discomfort. I don’t want the sympathy I see in his eyes. I want to hurl this sling across the room and feel like my old self.
“Hello, darling—darlings,” Mom corrects as she enters the family room wearing her customary bright smile and carrying a—
“Is that a puppy?” I ask. Our mom is passionate about animals, taking in strays and fostering dogs for as long as I can remember. She’s never brought one here, though.
She kisses Ethan’s cheek. “Hey, Mom,” he says. “New tennis partner?” He nods to the bundle of fur in her arms.
“Isn’t she the cutest thing ever?” she answers then turns to me. “I got her for you. To cheer you up.” She extends her arms, the puppy dangling from her hands.
Ethan chuckles. He’s finding this morning quite amusing, and probably remembering the time I was five and peed my pants when the next-door neighbor’s golden retriever rushed me, only to attempt to lick my face off. “I was thinking about getting him a female to cheer him up too, but one with two legs.”
I let my brother’s joke that I can’t find a woman for myself slide. Is my mom insane? I don’t want—or need—a pet. Especially right now. When I don’t reach for the puppy, Mom sits down beside me, cradling the dog in her lap. “I’ve brought him appropriate female company. He doesn’t need another ball girl.”
I choke on my dignity. I live and breathe baseball. Nothing matters more to me than my career. A nice benefit of being one of the best players in the league is having companionship when I want it. I play by my rules and make that clear to any woman I choose to spend a little time with. Which is far less often than the media portrays.
“Never hurts to have someone give your balls attention,” my brother says with a smirk.
“Ethan,” Mom reprimands. “You know I don’t need details about all the fans your brother likes to spend the night with.”
I scrub a hand across the scruff on my jaw. “You do know I’m sitting right here.” And the topic of my sex life is one I’d rather not discuss with my mother sitting beside me.
“Anyway,” Mom says. “This is Sammy. She was abandoned on the side of the road. She’s approximately ten weeks old. A husky, mini Labradoodle mix, we’re guessing. When I saw her, I knew you had to have her. I’m worried about you getting bored while you’re recuperating.”
So am I, but I wasn’t thinking puppy to remedy that.
“Sammy” looks up at me. Her eyes are an unearthly shade of aquamarine. And sad. Puppy dog eyes right here, folks. The cable-knit fur around those eyes, on her ears, and on parts of her body is beige. The fur on her front paws and circling her very pink nose is white. Who would abandon this adorable animal? She crawls into my lap like she understood exactly what my mom said. I’m so screwed.
“How am I supposed to take care of a dog with one arm?” Not to mention a dog is a distraction I don’t need even when I’m 100 percent healthy. I’ll come right out and say it. I’m selfish when it comes to my time, and I make no apologies for it. I’m breaking baseball records, focused on breaking more.
“She just needs love,” Mom says like it’s that easy.
“She needs more than that,” I argue, even while I pet her soft fur. She drops her chin on my thigh. I’m going to snuggle here all day, her relaxed posture says.
I repeat, I’m screwed.
Mom shifts so she’s facing me fully. “I’ve taken care of everything. All her things will be delivered shortly.”
“Her things?” I mentally picture all the equipment and paraphernalia my teammate, Mike, has for his one-year-old daughter. Half the stuff I’ve never even heard of and would be hard-pressed to know what to do with.
“Yes, you know food, toys, potty-training pads, a leash—everything I could think of.”
A wave of panic hits me. “Dogs don’t do their business outside anymore?”
Ethan laughs. I glare at him.
“They do, but you have to train them to go outside, and accidents are inevitable the first few weeks.”
I run my free hand through my hair. The only training I want to do is with my ass-kicking trainer, Dwayne, back in the gym and on the field. “Mom, this is very nice of you, and Sammy seems like a sweet dog—” she’s resting comfortably on my lap “—but I can’t deal with a puppy right now.”
“Of course you can,” she says with love and optimism and there is no way I can refuse when she’s also looking at me and Sammy like we’re a perfect pair.
That is until I feel something warm and wet on my sweatpants. With quick reflexes—I am the best center fielder in the AL—I scoop Sammy into my good arm, jump to my feet, and shake my leg out. “She just peed on me,” I grit out. Mostly because of the sharp pain radiating through my shoulder blade. Sammy’s accident
is a common initiation into dog ownership, I assume.
Ethan cracks up yet again. He’s laughing so hard, he’s holding his stomach.
Mom gets to her feet, too. “Come here, Sammy.” She lifts the puppy from me. “Let’s show you the backyard.”
Fantastic. That could take a while. As Mom walks away, I push down my sweats until they pool at my ankles and then I step out of them.
“It’s definitely laundry day,” Ethan says, taking in my boxer briefs.
I glance down. I’m wearing my Landsharks underwear. Tiny gray sharks are all over the blue cotton. Every player on the team has a pair or two. “I think you’re right.”
“Where is Sylvie, by the way?”
Sylvie is my cook-slash-housekeeper-slash-godsend. She’s been with me for four years and I’m man enough to say I’d be lost without her. She was a gift from my mom, too. That sounded weird—not a gift exactly. Mom made the introduction because she thought I could use some help when I moved into this house. “She and her family are at Disneyland for two days. It’s her grandson’s birthday.”
I sit back down and look my brother right in the eye. “Want a puppy?”
Ethan grins. “That’s funny, but no, little brother, Sammy’s all yours.”
“What the hell am I going to do with a dog?”
“You don’t really need me to answer that, do you?”
“Hey, what about the time I got you field seats for the All-Star Game and an introduction to that Sports Illustrated swimsuit model? You said you owed me one.”
“You never remember where you leave your phone, but you remember something that happened years ago?” He gets to his feet. “Dude, the puppy is yours and the sooner you accept it the better.”
“Fine.” I know this. Mom doesn’t give gifts lightly; her heart is always behind the gesture. She’d be crushed if any of us ever rejected her tokens of affection. Her line of thinking doesn’t always coincide with that of her sons is all.
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