Game Winning Catch: (Secret Baby Sports Romance (Pass To Win #5)

by Roxy Sinclaire

  I push a line of pants onto the floor.

  Is there really a need for a suit or button-down shirt and slacks today? Where am I really going? To the office? No, my family had basically shunned me. To a friend’s house? No. Never made time for those, beyond Kevin. So what does one wear if a suit is not involved? Yoga pants? No. I had bought a pair of loose fitting, thin knit pants to wear to the class with Ayron.

  She would have an answer. It seems like she always does.

  I grab my cell phone attached to a charging cord and try to tone down my excitement as I scroll through my contacts to find Ayron. I can see Ayron again. I can kiss Ayron again. The thought of pulling her taut body against mine shoots a pang of want through me.

  Her intense dark eyes stare back when her profile pops up with a picture that I had stolen of her with my phone while we were in Baraide’s. I also notice the time, eight a.m. Fuck it. I want to see her. I don’t care if I wake her up. I don’t care if it’s weird that she’s the first person that I want to see today. Ayron Winters is on my mind and I want her in my bed.

  “Hello?” Her perky yet sultry voice causes me to both groan and swallow. I imagine her in a two-piece sleep set, those long legs exposed.

  “Good morning, sexy,” I nearly sing into the phone. This girl is taking all of my cool.

  She giggles and I smile.

  “I don’t know about sexy,” she offers, “but I’ll take your good morning.”

  “Why are you underrating yourself?” I ask, diverting from my original plan to get her into my closet.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Every time that I give you a compliment, you have some kind of comeback about how you aren’t as great as I think you are.”

  “Well, I—I can’t,—I don’t,” she sputters.

  “Do you think that I am a smart man?” I interrupt.

  Silence invades the line and I have to check the connection.

  “Yes,” she replies quietly.

  “Well, know that I have excellent taste, and you are a hell of a woman.”

  “Did you just call to take my breath away, or did you have a purpose?” she asks, and I can tell that she is smiling.

  “Come have breakfast with me at my house. I’m cooking.”

  Silence again.

  I wish that she would have stayed the night with me last night and we were having this conversation in my kitchen already.

  “I have a client at eleven, so I guess I can come. Text me your address.”

  “See you in a few.”

  Shortly thereafter, Ayron walks into my home wearing the smile that I remember and a pair of skinny jeans that I will never forget. Her bubbled ass sits higher than normal with the assistance of her wedged shoes. Her shirt gives cause to make me jealous. The solid colored V-neck T-shirt hugs her breasts perfectly and softly falls against her slim waist.

  "You look like a better breakfast than what I have in the kitchen,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Your eyes will get stuck that way,” I laugh.

  She flips her hand in the air dismissively, a gesture I’ve quickly grown accustomed to. No matter her elegance, there is an underlying sense of street beneath, and I like it.

  “My granny used to tell me that all of the time,” she says, meeting my gaze. “Remember that we are here to eat food,” she warns.

  I place a hand on her waist and guide her through the living room.

  She stops at the large, circular three-hundred-gallon saltwater fish tank positioned in the middle of the room. Blue lights illuminate the colorful fish that swim in grouped circles up and down between authentic rocks and created caves.

  “This is beautiful.” She leans forward. I can see a small smile form on her lips as she watches the fish swim and swirl.

  She is the first to notice the tank. Any family invited into my home view the tank only as another example of how well-off I am or as a piece of scenery. The fish have been with me since I got this place and began working at my father’s company.

  “What are their names?” she asks, bending her knees and pushing her face closer to the glass.

  “You really want to know?” I question. “Really?”

  She looks up at me, the left side of her mouth lifting.

  “I want to know more about you.” Her face is open and honest. I realize I actually enjoy talking to this woman as much as I enjoy looking at her.

  I smile at her round face and bright eyes; her interest is a quick turn-on, an addition to the list of the other things that she does so wonderfully. I don’t usually tell people about my fish. Maybe it is the giddiness that I display when I speak about them, or the way that I named them, but there is always that disparaging look once I finish. The look that says, You’re too damn old to be excited about fish.

  “The two swimming together there.” I point to the lower portion of the tank. “Those are Sarabi and Mufasa.”

  I wait for her to giggle at their names, for her to laugh at how childish I sound.

  “What kind of fish are they?” she asks, her grin nearly spreading from ear to ear. “They’re beautiful.”

  “They’re Angelfish,” I tell her. “Sarabi is a Queen Angelfish. I liked her yellow and light blue coloring, and her electric blue trim inspired all the colors in my home.”

  I describe it, sounding way more into it than I should, but I’ve already told her so much, showed her so much about who I am. I might as well let her know how I really feel about them.

  “The others in the tank know she’s the queen, too. They literally move out of her way when she swims in their direction, and you can tell that she expects it, too.”

  “I can tell just by the way she’s moving her tail,” she says. “Who’s her partner?”

  “That’s Mufasa. They were adults when I bought them together and they were already mated,” I explain.

  “Mated? Like married?” she says, while moving around the tank to watch as Sarabi lifts herself through the water.

  “Yep. As beautiful as they are, they still choose a mate and stick with them for life,” I reply. “Don’t fuck with Sarabi. Mufasa doesn’t play about his girl.”

  “Loyal and protective. I like that,” she says, shyly finding my eyes. “Nice names, by the way. ‘The Lion King’ is one of my favorite movies. I’ve been trying to go to the Broadway play for years.”

  “Why haven’t you?” I ask.

  “Never could afford the tickets, find the time, or snag an interested party.”

  “You really should see it,” I encourage. “I’ve seen it twice already and loved it.”

  I take a moment to watch as her eager gaze returns to the tank. With her hands propped on her knees, she turns her attention to another set of fish in the tank.

  “What kind are those two? They move together,” she asks.

  “Those are Simba and Nala,” I tell her.

  “Cool,” she says. “I like Simba. He moves in zig-zags, never a straight line. That’s kind of cool.”

  “Yep. He is Mufasa and Sarabi’s kid, so I felt like Simba would be a good name for him. I bought Sarafina and Nala later, and Simba paired with Nala.”

  “Aww,” she coos with a genuine smile, before her stomach grumbles. “Sorry,” she says looking away.

  “You’re hungry,” I acknowledge. “I can talk about my tank and my fish all day.”

  I take her hand into mine. The soft and gentle hand. The one that had cupped my back yesterday and held onto me so tightly. Her skin is softer than I remember, like silk flitting through my fingers.

  “I am a tiny bit starving,” she says sheepishly.

  “Let me show you to the kitchen.”

  I guide her through the hall into the large, open kitchen.

  “Wow,” she gasps. “They could film a cooking show in here.”

  “Thank you, I think,” I say, moving over to the stove to finish the food.

  She walks through the space with wide eyes and smiling lips, touchi
ng, flipping, and turning anything that moves, as I scramble some eggs.

  “Oh my God,” Ayron shrieks.

  Forgetting about the food, I turn to her quickly. Had she hurt herself?

  “What’s wrong?” I rush, examining her body for gushing blood or missing limbs.

  “This is amazing,” she exclaims, holding up a pale yellow stoneware baking dish.

  I sigh and return to the scorching eggs.

  “My bakeware is amazing?” I question flatly before plating the eggs, thankful that I could save them. She had almost made me ruin them.

  “Do you know how much a set of Tasty LaRue bakeware costs?” she asks.

  “Not really,” I say. “I hardly ever use the stuff. I just told my assistant to buy the best. I don’t really look at prices.”

  “Yeah. Well. Price matters for me, unfortunately,” she sighs.

  The defeat that hangs in her voice causes me to turn and look at her. Her bottom lip moves in between her teeth as her gaze falls onto the dish, and she lazily drags a finger across it. She looks deflated and I feel like an ass.

  “The set is nice, though,” she says, forcing a smile that seems more like a wince.

  I pull the sausage and bacon from the oven and set them on the counter next to the pancakes that I had made earlier.

  “Let’s eat,” I suggest, hoping that I can turn the tide of the downhill conversation. “Grab the pancakes and juice.”

  She doesn’t gawk at my dining room like she had the other areas, just quietly places the food and drink onto the table.

  I had killed the vibe. Earlier, she had been carefree with her excitement and feelings. I liked when she let me into her thoughts.

  After placing the remaining dish on the table, I make her a plate of food and pass it to her.

  For the first few minutes, we eat under the cloud of a strained silence.

  “Do you like to bake?” I ask, hoping to resurrect the vital woman that walked through my door this morning.

  “Yeah, but not in anything as fancy as you have in there,” she says, while focusing solely on the food.

  “My bad for sounding like a jerk earlier,” I throw out between bites. Maybe an apology will help. I just want her to smile again.

  “No,” she says, dropping the fork noisily onto the plate.

  She looks at me. Her eyes sparkle under her golden eyeshadow and long dark lashes.

  “I apologize. Money has been a real sore spot for me lately,” she admits.

  “Anything that I can help with?” I offer.

  A look of terror invades her face.

  “No. I’m fine,” she assures. “I’ve got a plan.”

  I nod.

  “I do like to bake,” she adds with a dash of genuine cheer. “My grandmother used to bake these amazing pies. I mean ‘slap your momma’ good pies. Can’t say that mine come out as great as hers, but anytime that I need to feel her presence, I bake,” she says.

  “I’ll have to try one someday,” I suggest, relieved that the conversation is making a comeback.

  “Sure. The only odd part is that the worse that I feel, the better that they taste.”

  “Well, I’ll take a happy moderately good pie over a delectable, sad pie any day. I like to see you smile,” I add.

  Ayron and I finish breakfast cheerily, remove the dishes, and clean them without me saying anything else to dampen her spirits.

  “I’m impressed,” she says, plopping her hands on her hips as I put away the last of the dishes. “You cook and do dishes? Amazing.”

  “I have some awesome people that come to help take care of the major stuff. I don’t do windows,” I joke. “Speaking of help. I need your assistance in my bedroom.”

  She looks at me through narrowed, almond-shaped eyes.

  “I already told you, thirty days, Devlin.”

  “Not for that,” I chuckle. “Unless—”

  “No,” she reinforces. “I’m not going back there.”

  “Let me show you the house, which includes my bedroom. After that wonderful meal, I just thought that you would like to help a friend out.”

  “No funny stuff,” she demands as she moves forward with me.

  “I cross my heart,” I tell her, mimicking a cross over the left side of my chest. “I just need to get you to my bedroom.”

  Her footsteps stop.

  “I need your help with clothing options,” I explain. “If you see what I have, maybe you can give me your opinion about what I should buy."

  “You don't need me. You can afford a personal shopper,” she says.

  “I trust you,” I add. “If I hire one of those fancy people from a stylist company, they will have me walking around in short pants and a woman's cardigan.”

  “Can’t you pick out your own clothes?” she smirks.

  “Any suit, tailored or off the rack, I got it. It’s this ‘every day I'm not going to work’ wardrobe that I have none of."

  She pushes out those pretty lips to the side as though she doesn't believe my story.

  “Just wait until you see my closet and then you’ll understand,” I insist.

  The trip to my bedroom isn’t an easy one. There are several halls lined with expensive art, twist and turns, and a set of stairs. Stepping into my bedroom with this beautiful woman almost changes my mind. Seeing my empty bed and having her soft hand inside of mine makes me want to slip inside of her.

  I turn to face her and take her into my arms quickly.

  She gasps when I pull her face to mine, taking in her full lips and tongue as though they belong to me. She doesn't resist. She doesn't move back. In fact, she takes control. Her tongue explores my mouth with small juts before tracing my lips. I like assertive Ayron. The warmth of her is titillating, sparking a shock across the tip of my dick. To have her so close to me in a place so familiar makes me want to get familiar with her body. I know every inch of my home, every corner, creek, and crack. I want to know her body in the same way.

  To keep my sanity, I pull away from her. Desire flows through me with intensity. Today I have a mission, and it’s not making her break her thirty-day promise. The surge in the head below my shoulders will not overpower my will to have a new wardrobe. She has somewhere to be, and when I get inside of her, I want us to have all of the time in the world.

  Her brown cheeks redden when I pull away.

  I place my hand in the air for a high-five and she complies, slapping my hand with a giggle.

  “That’s what I’m talking about. Kiss me, girl,” I tease. “Don’t be shy about it. You already know that I want you. It’s nice to see that you got a little fire in there for me, too.”

  “Let’s see your closet,” she smirks, turning to walk into the open door of my wardrobe area.

  Each movement of her hip is a testament to the beauty of the female body.

  I shake my head.

  “Your closet is bigger than my whole living room and kitchen combined!” she hollers.

  I mouth a quick prayer for strength to resist having her right then and there.

  Ayron eyes the rows of clothing, then the shoes and accessories stationed on an island in the middle.

  “You are one neat man, and you truly do not own a single pair of jeans,” she says, still perusing my things.

  I had never given a woman full access to my life, but something about Ayron makes this seem all right. I currently have a suite on standby at the Indigo Hotel, a boutique hotel downtown. That’s as far as any woman has ever made it.

  “I do not own jeans. We wore uniforms in school and I’ve worn a suit everywhere since I left.”

  She shook her head.

  “When do you have fun?” she questions.

  There was that question again. Fun? Why is that so important? What does fun bring but regrets?

  “Like getting sloppy drunk, or watching sports? No time. Time is money and I don’t waste money,” I school her and lean against the accessory island.

  “What’s the point of all t
his money if you don’t do anything with it? Why are you working so hard? Who are you going to leave it to?”

  Now it’s my time to stutter, to think.

  “I mean, I guess that someday I will have a family. I don’t—I just need some everyday clothes right now. Okay?” I finally spit out.

  “I’m driving then,” she says. “I got places to be today, unlike someone.”

  “Hit me where it hurts,” I joke. Then it hit me. “See, I’m joking. Fun.”

  “We need to work on your definition of fun,” she assesses, slapping my shoulder.

  This is going to be a good day.

  13

  Ayron

  The sterile hospital room is full of life despite Ms. Agnes’s failing health. Monique and I had filled her temporary home with balloons, flowers, and pictures, but nothing could replace the zeal that she provided.

  Laughing, I plop down on the firm hospital bed next to the woman who had been much more than just an assistant.

  “You don’t believe me? Just look.” I whip out my phone and scroll through the selfies and pictures that Denise Baraide took of me before I attended the gala with Devlin.

  Agnes’s eyes pop open and she repositions her bed so she can get a better look.

  The gala had been a week ago, but today is the first day that Agnes seems like herself.

  “This reminds me of a Lena Horne number. Classic and sexy, but not slutty,” Agnes reviews my wardrobe. “And look at that smile.”

  “That’s what I said, Ms. Agnes,” Monique pipes in. “She was cheesing so hard over the phone that I could hear her dimples grow.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but I had a good time,” I dismiss, but my grin won’t be denied. It creeps up without warning.

  “Did you know she was dirty dancing with him before he became her client?” Monique adds. “She can lie to herself all she wants, but he’s more than just a client.”

  “It’s strictly all for the betterment of him. Devlin is really a great guy, just a bit too impulsive,” I explain. “Once he has his review hearing, I won’t ever see him again.”