I begin to object, to give him an opening to reassess. The pad of his finger touches my lips, effectively silencing me. “Dani, I mean it. I want you with me.”
“I want to be with you too.”
“I hear it. But what?”
“But I want to be careful we don’t rush this, Landry.”
“We aren’t rushing anything,” he insists. “We’re adults.” He takes my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “We love each other, right?”
“Right,” I whisper.
I’ve never said something as truthful as that. I love him. I love Lincoln Landry. It scares me, both from the power of the feeling and from who he is. I don’t know what the future is going to hold. I just know that it’s him and me. Together. And we can write our own truth far away from the poison that tainted me.
“I don’t want to think about coming home and not having you there. I’m not saying move in,” he says as I try to object again, “but I do want to think you like being with me and want to be there. A lot.”
“So don’t bring my bed, just my lingerie?” I joke.
“Bring the fucking bed if it’ll keep you there,” he laughs. “Bring what you want. That’s the thing: I want you to feel comfortable at my house. I want to blend more of our lives together. I’ve realized the more we do that—getting your favorite things at my place, seeing you wear my shirts, sleeping in my bed, having you meet my family—the happier I am and the happier you seem.”
He’s right. I don’t have to say it because he obviously knows, but he is absolutely correct. There’s not a part of me that feels unchanged from the me before Lincoln Landry waltzed off the elevator onto the wrong floor. I can’t remember what I did after work or what I thought about then as I went to sleep. I surely don’t remember my face hurting from smiling so much.
“I love you,” I say.
Kissing the top of my head and then unfolding himself from the sofa, he stretches his arms overhead. “I need to go. I have a meeting with the Arrows in a few hours and I need to unpack and grab a shower and shit.”
I stand too. “How do you feel about it?”
“My shoulder feels better. But the thing is, I don’t know what they’re going to say about it. Once you’ve had this happen, it tends to reinjure and that means games on the bench.”
My stomach twists as the game that ruined my life comes back into play. I’ve put off thinking about this meeting, not asking too many questions and not pressing for details. Lincoln has seemed fine with that. But now, knowing it’s looming over his head, I can’t help the series of questions firing through my mind.
“Do you want to stay in Memphis?” I ask, biting my bottom lip. “I mean, if you have the choice, is that what you want?”
“Of course.” He takes a step to me and brushes the back of his hand down the side of my face. “Really, I’d be happy anywhere if you were there with me.”
“I live here,” I point out, my voice wobbling.
“And, right now, so do I. Most likely I will when I get back later today too.” He bends forward and takes in what I’m sure is anxiety written all over my face. “Hey. Relax. It’s just a meeting.”
“It’s just a meeting,” I repeat, although that’s not true and I hate that he’s comforting me. “I know that. Now go, get it over with so we know what we’re facing.”
“Exactly.” He kisses my forehead. “It’s what we’re facing because we’ll figure it out together, all right?”
“All right.”
He gives me one final, reassuring look and then leaves. As soon as the door closes, the walls cave in. The hum of the ice maker in the kitchen dances through the air and it only makes the quiet more obvious. No one is laughing, no one arguing. A television isn’t on in another room and cell phones aren’t chirping from some far corner of the house.
It’s just me.
And I hate it.
I drag my luggage to my room and empty the clothes into the laundry bin. Sorting my toiletries in the bathroom, I try to hum, sing, talk to myself out loud just to break the stillness. It seems that is something that can’t be fixed by my antics alone. It’s something deeper than yearns to be filled.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I type a quick text to Lincoln.
Me: Good luck today.
Landry: I don’t need luck. I have you.
Me: Charmer. Call me when you get home.
Landry: Just be there waiting on me. Key is under the front mat.
Me: Gasp! That’s the most obvious place to put it.
Landry: Good point. Use the one I put on your keychain then. ;)
I bounce to my purse in the living room and dig until I find my keychain. There’s an extra key with a purple rubber band around the top dangling in between my car key and my house key.
Me: Sneaky!
Landry: I should be home around eight. I’d love for you to be there.
Me :I might be able to pull that off.
Landry: If you need a moving truck to help you . . .
Me: What happened to one day at a time?
Landry: That idea sucks. I’ve moved on. Note: You have too. ;) Jumping in shower. See you soon.
Me: xo
Danielle
I’ve done three loads of laundry, folded them, and put them away. I’ve reorganized my bathroom cabinets and purged about twenty bottles of crusty fingernail polish that outlived their expiration date by a few years. Then I sorted my lingerie into two piles—pretty and Aunt Flow. Looking at the clock, I still have a few hours before Lincoln is done.
There would be no issue with me going over there early. I have a freaking key. While that seems like a winning idea, and one that will make me less likely to end up in the looney bin this afternoon, I don’t want to do it. It’s too presumptuous.
I’ve jumped into a lot over the past few weeks, much of which I promised myself I never would. But I trust him. I want him. I even love him, which is enough to make me want to absolutely freak out if I think about it too long. So I don’t let myself go there.
Rushing into my bedroom and opening my suitcase that still sits on my bed, I toss in a few days’ worth of clothes and cosmetics and latch it shut. Grabbing a phone charger from the wall in the kitchen, as well as my keys, I head out the front door and lock it behind me. Within a few minutes, I’m in my car and heading across town towards the Smitten Kitten.
When I arrive, the eatery is bursting with aromas unusual for a Saturday afternoon. My brows are pulled together as I make my way to the counter.
“What’s that smell?” I ask. “What are you doing?”
Pepper is covered in flour. It dusts her nose, cheekbones, front of her apron and both arms. She blows out a breath and little white particles go floating. “The mixer had a mishap.”
“You or the electric one?” I laugh. “You look like a ghost!”
“I’m trying to make this soup I found online from China. I spent a fortune, a literal fortune, Danielle, on ingredients and it turned out to be the worst thing I’ve ever made.”
“Maybe it’s not,” I suggest. “Maybe it’s just not what you’re expecting.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m grieving.”
Laughing at her dramatics, I order a chocolate croissant and a cappuccino and then burrow down in my spot in the corner. Pulling out a notepad, I plan on making notes for work next week but instead finding myself sketching the tree line from the Farm.
“What’s that?” Pepper asks, sitting my items in front of me. “And why are you here now?”
“I’m waiting on Lincoln to get done at a meeting,” I tell her. “We had the best time in Savannah.”
“What was it like?”
“Perfect,” I gush. “His family is incredible, the property was breathtaking. Now I can’t stand to be home alone. It’s just too mundane compared to the Landry’s.”
“Don’t go comparing stuff,” Pepper warns. “That’s a dangerous game.”
“I know.” I lift my c
appuccino and watch the foam swirl. “I need you to make me feel better about this.”
“About what?”
“About this thing with Landry.” Taking a hesitant sip, I feel a sting as the drink trickles down my throat. “Tell me this will end okay. Tell me I’m not foolish to try this. Tell me this isn’t Einstein’s definition of insanity.”
“Well, it is,” she laughs, “but . . .” She slides into the booth across from me. “Did you know I owned two eateries before the Smitten Kitten?”
“No.”
“I did. I had a little place in Nashville that was tucked next to a deli. Cute as hell, but terrible location. Then I had a little café here in Memphis that I couldn’t get off the ground.”
“I had no idea,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. “How did you get here?”
She smiles, picking a chunk of my croissant off and popping it in her mouth. “I’d closed shop three years before. I was working as a paralegal and had an appointment on this side of town when I saw this building up for sale. I was so drawn to it. I could see myself in here, baking and decorating and cooking my life away. I was terrified to tell my husband.”
“Why?”
Pepper looks at me like I’m crazy. “Because I’d failed at this game twice! How could I expect him to want to take the chance on me a third time? It was insane, even to me,” she sighs. “It was all I could think about. All I dreamed about. I could see the menus in my head and smell the coffee roasting. Eventually my husband got to the bottom of my little daydreams and told me to go for it.”
My jaw drops. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” she smiles. “Well, not just like that. He told me to learn from my past experiences and to go into this one smarter. And I had to give him an epic blowjob. Look at me now!” Her hands extend from her sides, motioning to the café. After a few long minutes, she drops them. “That’s what you need to do, Danielle. Learn from your past experiences and go into this one smarter. Maybe Lincoln Landry will be your Smitten Kitten. Or maybe you’ll be his,” she giggles. “Either way.”
“How’d you get so smart?” I can’t deny her words do soothe me, make me feel a little less frantic about this new situation.
“It’s genetic. Now I need to go make another batch of cupcakes for a party this evening I’m catering.”
“I need to go too,” I say, gathering my things. “I think I’m going to head to Lincoln’s.”
The words make me giddy, the thought of seeing him makes me happier than I could imagine I could be.
“Have fun,” Pepper winks before scurrying into the kitchen.
Oh, I fully intend to.
Lincoln
I IMAGINE THIS IS WHAT Graham feels like. Tucked in a shirt that buttons up the front and threatens to choke you, uptight as hell as you walk into a meeting. Only difference is that my brother likes this shit. I hate it.
Give me a bat and a ball and I don’t care who watches or who I have to talk to about it. I can dissect numbers and stats all day. Need someone to study a batting stance and give you a dissertation? I’m your man. Hell, I’ll even wear a suit and tie and charm voters or patrons of a charity and I’ll make you a ton of money. But make me talk about money? I’d rather play basketball.
Coming off the best couple of days of my personal life, I’m swinging open the doors of the Arrows building with a whole lot of nerves. I think it’s worse because I’ve been so relaxed lately.
Just like that, I’m grinning.
Now this, this must be what Barrett feels like. Happy. Content. Excited about the future.
Greeting the receptionist and ignoring the eyes she makes at me, I hit the button on the elevator. Even this reminds me of Dani. As if on cue, my phone rings and I see her name lit up on the screen.
Dani: If you didn’t mean for me to use the key, too late. I’m sitting on your sofa with a pink mug of coffee and hazelnut creamer. ;) Can’t wait to see you. Go get ’em, tiger.
Me: Tiger, huh?
Dani: I like when you growl.
Me: I like when you scream my name.
And when you whisper it.
And when you think it.
Dani: I hope to do all three within a few hours this evening. Hurry your ass up, Landry.
Me: Going in. Phone off. Talk soon.
Flipping my device off and shoving it in my pocket, I take a deep breath and push open the door to the General Management office. The secretary sends me through.
The carpet silences my steps as I take forty-six to the back conference room. Billy Marshall and my agent, Frank Zele, face me. They stand as I enter and shake my hand.
“How are you, Lincoln?” Billy asks
“Good. How are you?”
“Doing good, thanks.”
Frank and I greet each other and we all take a seat.
“How was your holiday?” Billy asks.
I grin. “Excellent. Went home to Savannah.”
Billy doesn’t look at me or acknowledge my response and that concerns me. Greatly. He’s always so talkative—the guy could talk for two hours about a bright, sunny day. Now he won’t look at me? My shoulders stiffen as I clasp my hands in front of me and await the verdict. Frank gives me a look, one that further chills my hopes.
“So,” Billy says finally. “I’m just going to get down to business, if that’s okay with you?” He looks at me and his features are hardened. This isn’t the guy that threw a Fourth of July party last year on Tybee Island and let me take out his brand new fishing boat. This is Billy Marshall, General Manager. I’m just not sure what I am today and that scares the ever-loving fuck out of me. Glancing at Frank, he’s poring over a stack of papers in front of him.
Billy clears his throat. “We’ve been going over next year’s forecast and roster. We really believe we have a shot at a title.”
“I agree. We were the best team in the league this year,” I say with enthusiasm. “I really believe we’ll nab it next year if we can just stay healthy.”
“That’s the thing—staying healthy.” He pushes a paper towards me. My name is at the top, followed by a list of items and numbers and dollar signs and percentages. “This,” he says, indicating the first column, “is our win percentage with you in play. It’s great. But this one is the percentage with you out.”
I look at the numbers and feel a ball tightening in my gut. “I’ll be ready,” I promise him.
“Lincoln,” he says, blowing out a breath. He rests back in his seat and takes his glasses off. “While we don’t have a salary cap, as you know, we do pay a luxury tax. The higher our payroll is, the more we pay. This year, the organization paid the highest tax in the league.”
“Let’s talk numbers,” Frank says, as I swallow a searing breath. “Let’s see if we can get to a place where we are all happy.”
Billy watches me for a long moment before sitting up, his hands folded in front of him. “You are the highest paid player, by far, on the team. You’re worth it, I’m not saying that,” he says. “But when we calculate how many games you missed this season along with the report on your shoulder, you just aren’t worth it to this team.”
“What?” The room could explode into a fiery inferno at this exact moment and I wouldn’t be able to move. I’m frozen in my seat, trying to convince myself I misheard him. “Say that again.”
“I’m sorry, Lincoln. You know I love having you on staff and I think you have a lot of baseball left in you. But that specific injury coupled with the pressure I’m getting from the top to get our payroll down and manageable . . .”
“What’s this mean?” I utter, looking between the two men in front of me. My hand shakes as I place it on my lap and look at the Arrows logo on the paper in front of me. It’s my team. My brand. A part of me. But is it? Now? Oh God . . .
“It means we can offer you less, significantly less. Let’s face it—even if we get you back one hundred percent, the odds of re-injury sometime in the next five years is pretty much a guarantee. Tha
t means I’m looking at this win percentage,” he says, tapping that fucking paper again, “and I can’t swing that. It doesn’t work, Lincoln.”
“How much money we talking?” Frank asks.
“Less than you should or would agree to,” Billy sighs heavily. “We also have negotiated a trade with you to the San Diego Sails. Their payroll is one of the smallest in the league—”
“As is their winning percentage,” I scoff.
Billy shoots me a look. “You can stay here. This is the number you’re looking at.” The page flips and I see a salary I can’t believe is real.
“This? Are you serious?”
“Yes. Or you can agree to San Diego and look at it as rebuilding, restructuring, extending your fan base,” he says, trying to make it sound appetizing, “and take this one.”
“You know that’s unacceptable,” Frank insists.
The number Billy shows me on another sheet is much better. But still. “Billy,” I say, laughing in disbelief, “you’re really letting me go?”
“This is business. You know that. It just happens to be a business where we play baseball for a living. Think about that. You’re still playing a damn ballgame for a paycheck. That’s a good thing whether it’s here or in San Diego.”
My head hangs, my heart skimming the floor. Never did I dream they would trade me. Is this even happening right now?
“Take some time,” Billy says. He stands and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Go home and think about it. Discuss this with Frank. Figure out what you want to do. You know I’m happy to pay you to stay here. I just know it’s probably not feasible.”
My entire body feels the weight of the world and my brain is a freeway full of racing thoughts and colliding ideas. It makes me want to vomit . . . which I do once I’m out the door and find the nearest bush.
The drive home took three times longer than it should’ve. I spent a good hour sitting outside of Arrows Stadium, trying to get my head wrapped around the situation before going home. To Dani.
I grip the steering wheel as I wait for the gate in my subdivision to lift. Every muscle in my body is sore. My jaw hurts from clenching it. My knuckle aches from slamming it into my steering wheel.
Swing Page 20
