by Lauren Layne
PRAISE FOR LAUREN LAYNE
“Exemplary contemporary romance.”
—Library Journal
“Flawless contemporary romance—witty, sexy, heartfelt, and hugely entertaining.”
—USA TODAY
“The word charm is pretty much synonymous with Lauren Layne.”
—Hypable
“[A] powerhouse romance author.”
—POPSUGAR
OTHER TITLES BY LAUREN LAYNE
Man of the Year
Yours in Scandal
21 Wall Street
Hot Asset
Hard Sell
Huge Deal
Central Park Pact
Passion on Park Avenue
Love on Lexington Avenue
Marriage on Madison Avenue
Stand-Alone Novels
Blurred Lines
Good Girl
Love Story
Walk of Shame
An Ex for Christmas
The Prenup
I Do, I Don’t
Ready to Run
Runaway Groom
Stiletto and Oxford
After the Kiss
Love the One You’re With
Just One Night
The Trouble with Love
Irresistibly Yours
I Wish You Were Mine
Someone Like You
I Knew You Were Trouble
I Think I Love You
The Wedding Belles
From This Day Forward (novella)
To Have and to Hold
For Better or Worse
To Love and to Cherish
New York’s Finest
Frisk Me
Steal Me
Cuff Me
Redemption
Isn’t She Lovely
Broken
Crushed
The Best Mistake
Only with You
Made for You
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2020 by Lauren Layne
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542023054
ISBN-10: 154202305X
Cover design by Letitia Hasser
CONTENTS
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
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter One
Wednesday, August 5
Carter Ramsey stared at the magazine on his kitchen counter and debated which aspect of his current situation he hated more: The fact that he was drinking his beer with his right hand, because his left arm—his throwing arm—was in a splint. Or the fact that, in a few weeks, his face would be plastered on the front of a magazine in every grocery store and newsstand across the country.
Carter tipped the beer back to his lips and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. Toss-up. Definitely a toss-up.
He finished the beer and dropped the bottle in the recycling bin as he pulled another out of the fridge, then put it back, annoyed to realize he hadn’t really enjoyed the first. Not because he didn’t enjoy beer, but because just about every damn thing had tasted bitter in the week since he’d caught Gabe Martinez’s line drive mid-air only to feel the unmistakable snap in his left arm when he’d fallen to the field moments later.
Plus side? He’d gotten the out.
Downside—and it was a hell of a downside—Carter was on the Injured List for a whopping four to six weeks. Not counting however long rehab took. Not counting the news about his shoulder, which he hadn’t even begun to wrap his head around.
One thing he had wrapped his head around? If the New York Hawks—the MLB team Carter had played for during all eight years of his career—made the playoffs, Carter wouldn’t be there.
If the Hawks went to the World Series this year, he wouldn’t play.
And that was best-case scenario.
Worst case, he wouldn’t accompany the team to the playoffs any year, and a lifetime goal of adding a World Series ring to his list of career accomplishments would be dead in the water.
Screw it. Carter pulled the second beer out of the fridge after all, and determinedly opened it using only his right hand. Not because there was anything wrong with his left hand. The fingers worked just fine from where they poked out of the cast. But because using his left side in any capacity only reminded him of how hampered his movements were.
Carter had never been the moody type. He’d never been prone to brooding or male sulking, but damn, he was tempted to indulge in a really good wallow right about now. The sort of night that involved fried foods, too much booze, and a woman whose name he probably wouldn’t remember in the morning. The sort of night that Carter had rarely indulged in over the years.
One didn’t become a six-time All-Star by making bad decisions. But apparently avoiding bad decisions still couldn’t prevent him from becoming supermarket tabloid fodder.
Carter took a sip of the beer, then deliberately set the bottle on top of the magazine in front of him, knowing—hoping—that the condensation would warp the glossiness.
Man of the Year.
He shook his head. The title had seemed little more than a nuisance when his agent had called to tell him the “good” news. But actually seeing the issue, albeit an early version, was a bitter punch of reality.
Instead of people talking about his Hall of Fame chances, they’d be talking about this. A dubious title generally reserved for pretty-boy singers and chiseled-jaw actors headlining the latest action movies. Carter had tried to reassure himself that he was in good company, with last year’s winner being the highly respected New York mayor—that the label was an honor.
But right now, with only one working arm and his biggest career dreams teetering on a cliff, it just felt like a mockery.
To be fair, the Citizen magazine team behind the Man of the Year issue obviously couldn’t have known his injury would coincide with the issue’s release, but it was still shitty timing. Carter had skimmed the story only once, but once was enough to know it talked about every glowing aspect of his baseball career: Rookie of the Year, All-Star, American League MVP, Gold Glove, Silver Slugger . . .
There were also several paragraphs on the one accolade that had so far eluded the mighty Carter Ramsey: a World Series ring. Or even a World Series appearance.
As if he n
eeded the reminder. Especially now.
But even that wasn’t what was really eating at Carter at the moment. It wasn’t what was responsible for his out-of-character brooding, or the slight empty feeling that had been creeping up on him even before his injury.
Obnoxiously, it was the Citizen mag article that had brought him face-to-face with what was really bothering him: nowhere, in the entire three-page article, was there any mention of who Carter Ramsey was off the field. Aside from a few cheeky references to his love life and penchant for dating models, there was nothing to tell the world who Carter was when his hand wasn’t in a baseball glove, or when he wasn’t showcasing the “model swing” that had once been written up in Physics Today.
Carter already knew he was a good ball player—maybe even an exceptional one. After this magazine came out, non–baseball fans would know it, too.
But with his arm in a sling and his name off the Hawks’ active roster . . .
Who the hell was he?
And where did he belong?
Nobody wanted to know as much as Carter himself. He was rich, successful, and revered, yes. And it was fantastic. He was also single, not getting any younger . . . and a little bit lonely.
He picked up his beer, taking one last look down at his own face grinning out from beneath the Hawks cap on the cover, then flipped the magazine over in disgust. Then he cursed once more when he saw his face again, this time on an ad, showing off the luxury watch brand he endorsed.
Empty bullshit.
Irritably, Carter turned his attention from the magazine to his phone, and wandered over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Manhattan apartment. He was oblivious to the Empire State Building view as he scrolled through his contacts, debating how to fill the time. Carter had always been a social guy. He was the likable athlete who hosted fundraisers instead of avoiding them, the guy who was always down for a pickup game of basketball or a spontaneous night on the town with new friends, or old.
Now, he was faced with the hard realization that his core social circle was his team. Most of his go-to grab-a-beer or workout buddies were in Houston, warming up for tonight’s game against the Astros, which Carter fully expected them to win.
Not that he’d bring himself to watch the game. He’d kept up on the Hawks in the days since his injury, in that he checked their standing in the league religiously. Partially out of loyalty to the team as well as for genuine interest in his friends’ careers. But knowing Roy Denizen was at shortstop instead of himself and having to watch Roy take his spot on the field were two different things entirely.
As Carter grew more restless by the minute, his thumb continued to scroll through the names, and he told himself to just pick someone at random. It didn’t really matter who. Anyone would be better than hanging home alone, moping. He needed to be around people, needed to ease the antsy feeling he got whenever he wasn’t on the field.
He paused on Laura’s name, a sort of on-again-off-again fling who didn’t take life too seriously, and didn’t give him grief when they often went months between “meetings.”
She seemed to enjoy his company, she didn’t drive him nuts. Good enough.
He’d started to text Laura when his phone buzzed with an incoming call.
Carter’s communication was ruled almost entirely by text messages, but there were a few exceptions. His sixty-year-old agent. His old-school manager. His fiftysomething parents. And strangely, his sister, who despite being his twin, and thus the exact same age as twenty-eight-year-old Carter, was apparently in a pre-Y2K time warp, because she vastly preferred talking on the phone over texting.
Still. It was his twin.
So he answered the phone with a smile. “Sister.”
“Brother! You picked up!”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, yeah. You never pick up.”
“Hyperbole. It’s just that you usually call when I’m at practice or at a game.” He retrieved his beer from the kitchen as he talked, then dropped onto his couch. “But turns out I’ve got some free time on my hands these days.”
“Hands? Or hand?”
He snorted in spite of his bad mood, and his sister sighed in relief. “Oh thank God. I was worried it was too soon for jokes.”
“Since when has that stopped you?”
“Good point. But I’m my brother’s sister. Humor’s how we cope.”
True enough. Caitlyn was more or less a female version of himself. Competitive, but in a deceptively laid-back, sneak-up-on-you kind of way. Both had inherited their mother’s cheerful extroversion, their father’s sharp sense of humor. Carter didn’t see his twin as often as he liked, but Caitlyn was one of the few people on the planet guaranteed never to kiss his ass or walk on eggshells around him. Exactly what he needed right now.
“So, rumor has it I’ll be seeing your face at Walmart next month,” she said in a casual tone.
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Oh yeah?”
“Mom told me the good news. Man of the Year,” she said in a mocking hushed, deferential tone. “Does that come with a ring that I should kiss when I’m blessed by your presence? Also, please tell me they Photoshopped your ugly face. No way do I have that many more eye wrinkles than you when you’re four minutes older.”
“How did you even see the damn thing?” Carter asked. “It’s not supposed to hit newsstands until September.”
“Dan mailed an early version of the cover to Mom.”
Of course. Carter pressed the cold bottle to his forehead and closed his eyes and made a mental note: never introduce one’s longtime agent to one’s mother, especially when they shared an affinity for The West Wing, peanut butter on waffles, and knowing all things about Carter Ramsey’s life.
“Mom tore out all of the pages from your story, plus that weird watch ad, and taped them to her fridge,” Caitlyn continued. “But not before I snagged the cover page, and held it up to my enormous stomach. The way I see it, that magazine is the only way Unborn is going to be able to recognize her uncle.”
In spite of his ragged mood, Carter smiled at the thought of his sister becoming a mom—he’d been thrilled for Caitlyn and AJ the moment he’d heard they were expecting. He was still thrilled. He couldn’t wait to be an uncle.
And yet, an uncomfortable feeling settled between his shoulder blades at the realization that, given his schedule, he was unlikely to see his niece or nephew aside from Thanksgiving or Christmas. Even more bittersweet was the reminder that he had no family of his own, and quite honestly, he’d really thought he’d have one by now. If not kids, at least a wife. Instead, the closest he had was a series of one-night stands with Laura, whose last name he was blanking on.
Carter laughed to push away the dark thoughts. “Well, this is a thrilling bonus to your pregnancy. A new way to guilt me.”
“Yes, for sure,” she said sarcastically. “AJ and I were on the fence about starting a family, but then we’re like, ‘You know what, this would make such a great Carter guilt trip, let’s do it . . .’”
“You could have saved yourself the morning sickness,” Carter said. “I already got the guilt trip from Mom earlier today. And wait, back up. What did you mean, you held the cover up to your stomach? You just stick my face in front of your pregnant belly? I’m uncomfortable.”
“Would it be better if I told you I made AJ read it aloud and pretend to be you? It was a lot about RBIs and batting averages, but I think Unborn dug it.”
“Disturbing,” he replied. “And it reminds me, I’ve been meaning to call the Vatican and ask how that nomination for your husband into sainthood is coming along.”
“Please,” she said with a scoff. “I’m six months pregnant and still manage to make AJ his favorite blueberry pie every Friday, so when the pope finally does answer your call, you can go ahead and mention that to His Holiness. Also, while you’ve got him on the line, see if you can squeeze in a confession.”
“For?”
“For going eight months
since your last visit home.”
He grimaced. “I think you missed the part where I said Mom already guilt-tripped me today.”
“It’s been since Christmas, Carter. Normally, I get it. The schedule of a pro baseball player is no joke, but now that you’re . . .”
“Now that I’m on the Injured List and out of the game?” he finished for her.
A longer-than-usual moment passed before she replied, her tone slightly gentler. “Yeah. That. You know I’m super bummed for you. It seriously sucks. But since you’ve got the time off, why not come home? It’s only a couple hours’ drive, and we’d love to see you. Like, I’d really, really love it.”
Carter slowly blew out a breath, and rode the wave of guilt. His twin was right. He wasn’t great about getting back to Haven regularly, preferring to host his parents here in the city whenever possible. Not because he had any particular beef or baggage related to his hometown—it was just a little sedate compared to his usual lifestyle.
Carter glanced down at his sling. Chill was on his agenda for the next month or so, anyway. Why not get in some face time with the fam . . .
“And,” Caitlyn went on, “I’m cochairing our ten-year high school reunion. I know you said you had a game and couldn’t go, but that was before.”
All optimistic thoughts about Haven fled. It was one thing to think about catching up with his parents, maybe finally getting around to watching Game of Thrones, or Breaking Bad, or any number of TV shows he’d been missing out on. But a cheesy high school reunion?
A flippant no thanks was already on the tip of his tongue, but Carter bit it back at the last second, suddenly seeing himself from his sister’s perspective and not liking what he saw.
When had he become that guy? The hotshot celeb who was too busy and important to give a single evening of his life to the people who’d had his back all throughout his teen years? Especially since it wasn’t as though he had a big tragic backstory. Carter had had an exceptionally happy childhood, with a loving, supportive family, raised in a quirky small town that, while hardly cosmopolitan, had been a damn fine place to grow up.
Still. A high school reunion? He was again hit by visions of a punch bowl, disco ball, retro music . . .
Carter was a good guy, not a martyr.
“I thought the reunion wasn’t until Labor Day?” he asked, pleased that he remembered their last conversation, when she’d mentioned that Haven High’s ten-year reunions always fell on Labor Day weekend.
