The Grumpy Player Next Door: Copper Valley Fireballs #3

by Grant, Pippa

“Is to me,” I mutter.

  “Relatable.” Fucker’s grinning.

  “She says it’s over when I leave for spring training.”

  He stops grinning. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Because that’s smart? Because she has a life there? Because I’m gone half the year? Because she’s not the settling down type? Because she knows I’m not either?”

  He scrubs a hand over his face like there’s not enough alcohol, coffee, sugar, or ziti in the world for this, and I don’t even fully get the ziti thing. I just guess that’s what he’s thinking. “Ask her.”

  “What? No.”

  “That’s how it works, Max. Communication. Ask. Talk. Fight. Make up. Don’t just assume. Maybe she’s sitting there thinking she’s saying what you want to hear. Maybe she’s afraid of the same things you are.”

  If I wanted someone to blow smoke up my ass, I would’ve gone to talk to one of the single guys.

  But Luca—

  He grew up with a shitty father and a mother who hated love, and now he’s planning a life with a woman who’s been engaged so many times she’d only agree to be with him if they could do a relationship without all the fuss of formalities.

  If anyone understands fucked-up love, it’s him.

  “Or maybe she knows I’m not worth it,” I mutter.

  I’m not looking for someone to pat my back and tell me oh, honey, of course you are, which is why I’m glad there’s popcorn popping loudly in the kitchen while I pour my heart out to the only guy I know who’d get it.

  Luca stares at me. “That’s not on her, dude. That’s on you.”

  “Max Cole, do not ever say that about yourself.” Henri stalks into the living room, no popcorn in sight, fists planted on her hips, glaring in a way that makes me extremely uncomfortable.

  Henri glaring is like the earth rotating backwards.

  It doesn’t happen.

  “Say what?” I ask.

  “That you’re not worth it. Ah-ah-ah, don’t deny it, and don’t interrupt. Listen. It’s easy for people to love people when they’ve known good love all their lives. But when people who’ve craved love all their lives actively decide to love someone, do you know what happens? Magic love. And I don’t mean paranormal witches and warlocks love. I mean the kind of love that you feel all the way in your toenails because you know what you’ve missed out on all those years. You know how valuable it is. You know what it’s worth. Your love is a bigger gift than anything, and anyone who rejects that is a fool who doesn’t deserve you. Do you understand me?”

  I open my mouth.

  Shoot a glance at Luca, who shrugs. “Don’t look at me, man. She’s the expert here.”

  I swallow hard and look back at Henri. “You know that’s a lot easier for you to say than it is for any of us to hear, right?”

  Her normal big warm smile reappears. “Don’t worry. I can email it to you every day until you believe it.”

  “I will throw this cat at you if you make my girlfriend email you about love every day,” Luca says. “I love you, man, but not that much.”

  “Luca.”

  He grins at her. “What? I still said I love him.”

  “You can’t use my cat as a weapon.”

  “Oh. That. Yeah, I was exaggerating. I’ll just get him with glitter bombs.”

  They should be annoying, but they’re not.

  What they have?

  That’s what I want.

  That’s what I want every day with Tillie Jean.

  But no matter what Henri says, I still don’t know if I can have it.

  30

  Tillie Jean

  I can’t sit still Saturday night, which in theory shouldn’t be a problem, considering it’s Paint Night at The Grog and there are sixteen ladies here tonight that I’m teaching to paint a tropical beach scene, but I keep getting distracted and checking my watch and looking at the door.

  Sometimes mid-sentence.

  “It’s the coffee,” I hear Aunt Bea whisper to Nana. “She ran out of juice.”

  “I think she’s got a secret piece on the side,” Nana whispers back.

  “She doesn’t have a main piece, so how would she have a piece on the side?” Dita hisses.

  I clap my hands while Sloane, Annika, and Georgia trade glances in the back row. I might’ve had one too many caramel macchiatos yesterday and spilled all while we were supposed to be watching some romantic comedy on Netflix. “Ladies, how do your coconuts look? Anyone need help?”

  “I wish Jason’s coconuts looked like these,” LaShonda says with a nod at her canvas.

  “Mom,” Georgia groans.

  “What? Gravity happens.”

  “Your suns!” I shriek. “Let’s talk about your suns instead.”

  I start to circle the room again, glance through the party room door and toward the front door of The Grog, remind myself for the eighty-four-millionth time that the guys aren’t coming back until tomorrow, and I sigh. “Beautiful, Mom. Dita! Oh my gosh, I love what you did with your tree. And LaShonda, the colors on your sun are chef’s kiss.”

  “I like chef’s kisses,” Annika calls.

  “Ew,” I tease.

  “Totally gross,” Cooper agrees.

  I whip my head to the door so fast I almost trip.

  And there he is.

  Max is back.

  Early.

  He’s standing behind Cooper, gazing at me with so much smolder that all of the canvases in this room are at risk of bursting into flame. Robinson’s angling into the room too, holding the custom beer stein Aunt Glory presented him with early last week, but I barely notice.

  Focus, Tillie Jean. “Stinky Booty! Couldn’t resist crashing Paint Night, hm?”

  “Thought you ladies might need models.” He lifts an arm and flexes.

  I think.

  He’s wearing a coat, so I can’t say for sure.

  Mom, Nana, Annika, Georgia, and Sloane all crack up.

  “I’ll paint you, Cooper, you studly thing,” Robinson says in a fake falsetto, and anyone not laughing before busts a gut now.

  Except me.

  And Max, who’s in a Pirate Festival T-shirt and jeans and looks like I need to jump his bones in the broom closet right now.

  I don’t even know if The Grog has a broom closet, but I know I need to jump Max’s bones.

  “Tillie Jean, maybe we should paint Cooper’s coconuts,” Annika says.

  God bless Annika.

  That pulls me out of my Max-induced trance like nothing else would.

  “I have awesome coconuts,” Cooper agrees. “They’re mounted in my bedroom.”

  The weird part?

  He really does. Picked them up the last time he was in Hawaii.

  “Alright, ladies, if you’re done painting, leave your canvases to dry and go fawn all over the guys. I know, I know…it’s that time of year.”

  It takes fourteen centuries, but eventually everyone clears out of the painting room, leaving behind paint water and supplies for me to clean up.

  I’m carrying my first cups of water toward the bathroom when someone shouts.

  “Damn goats!”

  “Who let the mangy animals in?”

  “Dammit, Goatstradamus, that’s my cheeseburger!”

  Max appears at my side, grabs the two cups I’m carrying in one hand, takes my elbow with his other hand, and shoves me down the short hallway to the ladies’ room.

  And as soon as we’re in the single-seater room, he flips the lock, tosses the cups in the sink, and shoves me against the door. “Fuck, I missed you.”

  He barely finishes you before I’m flinging my arms around his neck, going up on tiptoe, and pulling him down so I can attack his mouth with mine.

  His hands are everywhere—under my shirt, teasing my nipples, yanking his own pants down, then tugging on my hair to tilt my head and give him better access to move his kisses to my neck.

  “The goats,” I gasp.

  “Distraction. On purpose.�
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  “Oh my god, my hero.”

  “Five minutes before they notice.” He tugs at my jeans, and I help him shove them down too, but they get caught in my boots.

  “Dammit.”

  He spins me away from the wall and pushes me against the sink, facing the mirror, with him behind me so I can see my own flushed cheeks, heaving chest, and tight nipples straining the ivory lace of my bra. “Jesus, you’re gorgeous.”

  He pulls my hair to one side, bends, and bites my neck while sliding his hands down my arms, and I stifle a moan of sheer pleasure.

  A condom wrapper wrinkles, and he tugs on my hips, grinding his thick steel shaft against my ass.

  My gaze flies to his in the mirror.

  His lids are heavy, his eyes a shot of pure dark roast espresso, his lips parted, his cheeks scruffy. I press my ass back into him, and he reaches between us, stroking the wetness between my thighs.

  And then his cock pushes into me, and it’s such a relief to have him inside me again that my entire body shudders with the pleasure of it. “More,” I whisper.

  He pumps deeper while I arch back against him, taking him inside me, watching ecstasy and desire flit across my own face as I brace my hands on the sink and he thrusts faster and harder while I chant his name, yes, more, there.

  I watch him pinch my nipples while he takes me from behind. Watch him bite my neck again, his teeth and the rough texture of his unshaven cheeks setting my already sensitive nerve endings on fire.

  And all the while, he’s driving into me like he’s trying to find home.

  Like he needs me, needs to be inside me, needs this reassurance that I’m here, that I want him, that he turns me on and flips me inside out, more than he needs to breathe. “Come, Tillie Jean. Come for me,” he pants in my ear.

  He nips at my earlobe, drives deep inside me once more, and I clamp my lips shut and rear my head back while I do as he orders, and I come hard and fast and desperate around his cock.

  “Fuck, yes,” he moans tightly, muffling himself against my shoulder. “Oh, fuck fuck fuck, Tillie Jean, fuuuuck.”

  He strains into me.

  I push back against him, feeling his spasms rocking inside me.

  This.

  God, I missed this.

  Him. I missed him.

  His arms circle my waist, and he buries his head in my neck as his legs shake enough for me to feel it when he pulls out.

  But I can still see myself in the mirror.

  And what I’m seeing should scare me.

  A woman, mostly naked in a public bathroom, who swore this was a limited-time deal, panting for breath, fully satisfied, wrapping her own arms around her lover’s as he clings to her like he, too, would make time stand still if he could.

  Someone rattles the bathroom door.

  “Shit,” I whisper.

  Max bends down, yanks my pants up, then his own while I lunge for my shirt.

  He’s still wearing his.

  The condom gets wrapped in toilet paper and shoved in the trash, and it’s not more than five seconds since the rattle, which happens again.

  He grabs one of my water cups, adds water to it, and dumps it on the floor. “Go,” he hisses. “Tell them you made a mess and I’m helping clean it up.”

  I press a hard kiss to his mouth. “My place. Midnight.”

  “Trouble Jean, I will not last until midnight.” He grabs seventeen paper towels from the dispenser and squats to tackle the water he spilled, and I unlock the door and lean out. “I made a—”

  “You have about thirty seconds to finish your booty call before Cooper’s done with the goats,” Sloane says.

  Annika appears behind her, shoves her out of the way, and throws more dirty paint water onto the bathroom floor.

  “Oh my god,” I yelp.

  “You really need to be more careful with the paint water, Tillie Jean,” Annika says loudly. “Max! Max, come help clean this up.”

  I gape at her.

  Sloane gapes at her.

  And inside the bathroom, a low rumbly laugh sets my clit to tingling all over again. “This town is fucking insane,” Max mutters.

  “You’re welcome,” Annika replies.

  “Go get the rest,” Sloane hisses to me. “Is he dressed?”

  “Yes, he’s dressed.”

  “Go home through the back. We’ve got you. I’ll tell Cooper you spilled water all over yourself. Again. And we’ll keep Max here for at least another thirty minutes.”

  “But—”

  “Tillie Jean, you walk out of this hallway any way but out, and you’ll be the talk of Shipwreck in under ten minutes. And that’s even with Long Beak Silver riding Goatstradamus out there.”

  I touch my hair.

  Remember how I looked in the mirror just a minute or two ago.

  And I nod. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  I don’t stop to say anything else to Max.

  But I do text him when I’m nearly home. You really have a way with pipe. And I happen to have some plumbing in desperate need of attention. Again. It must really like the way you handle your tools.

  I get a Growly Bear selfie in return.

  His Pirate Festival t-shirt is splattered with paint water, and I can make out Cooper in the background, playing darts with someone, like normal.

  And I want to be there.

  I want to sit next to Max, laugh with him, tease him, kiss him on the cheek like Annika does to Grady every time they’re out in public, and for that to all be normal.

  Except Max is leaving in two weeks.

  Heading off to spring training.

  And I don’t want him to.

  I don’t want him to stay here either—not for me, and not when he loves playing baseball and is such a great asset to the team.

  But am I brave enough to take the leap I’d have to take if this has any chance of lasting past the off-season?

  And I don’t mean the part where I tell Cooper I’ve been sleeping with Max.

  I mean the part where I’d be signing up to be a full-time baseball girlfriend. Moving away from Shipwreck myself. Finding a new mission when it’s not participating in a business that’s been in my family since before I was born, in a town where I know everyone, what they all need, and where I fit.

  I’ve been happy with my life here in Shipwreck for almost eight years.

  And I’ve always said I’d take a leap when life handed me an opportunity I couldn’t walk away from.

  But can I?

  Am I ready?

  Is this what I really want?

  More importantly—is it what Max would want?

  I don’t know.

  But I know the only way to find out is to ask him.

  And I will.

  Soon.

  But if there’s any chance he’ll say we’re sticking to the plan—that we’re over when he leaves for spring training—then next week or the week after is soon enough.

  31

  Max

  “Take it you haven’t told Cooper yet,” Luca says four days later after he and Henri have driven out to Shipwreck to work out with us.

  Should’ve been the other way around this off-season. Cooper, Robinson, Trevor, and I should’ve been heading into the city to work out with Luca and Brooks and Emilio and Francisco. Makes more sense.

  But Shipwreck—it draws you in.

  Makes you not want to leave.

  Even when you’re staying in a place without all the same luxuries you’re used to in the city.

  I don’t bother glaring at him, and not only because I’m concentrating on the weight of the bar I’m benching. “Coach Addie has him in a snit.”

  “Talk to Tillie Jean yet?”

  “Do you want me to throw this barbell at you?”

  Cooper’s not working out with us today. Said he had an appointment in the city. Trevor didn’t come back after Emilio’s wedding, given the state of his shoulder and lack of contract. Darren’s been checking in on him.

&nbs
p; Dude’s in rough shape, but he’ll pull through.

  I think.

  I hope.

  “You giving Max shit?” Robinson asks Luca.

  “Yep.”

  “Is that allowed?”

  “I can take him.”

  Robinson grins and plugs his earbuds back into his ears again, returning to his squats.

  I shelve the bar, sit up, and look Luca straight in the eye. “Things are good. I don’t want to talk to Tillie Jean about it. I don’t want to tell Cooper. I want to let things keep being good.”

  “We’re leaving for Florida in just over a week. There is no keep being what it is. Everything’s changing. Hell, even me and Henri have had a couple arguments over spring training, and we both know this is the real deal. But we talk about it.”

  I change the subject and tell him to do his own reps.

  Not because he’s wrong.

  More because the anxiety is creeping in again every time I think about leaving for Florida.

  I want to go to Florida. I love spring training. Getting back in my groove. Being in the sunshine. Playing ball.

  But I’ve never felt so much like I’m leaving part of myself behind before.

  We hit the Korean barbecue joint for lunch, then grill steaks for dinner up at Cooper’s place when he gets back from seeing his accountant in the city.

  Dude needs to get a virtual one like most of the rest of us have.

  He also needs to not talk so much.

  I’m about ready to itch out of my own skin by the time it feels safe to say I’m calling it a night and head down off his little mountain so I can sneak in his sister’s back door for nooky.

  She was pulling a double shift today, which means she’s probably tired.

  But so long as she hasn’t left the no goats allowed sign on her back door, I’ve been told I can come in and jam the door shut.

  Any other town on earth, I’d tell her to upgrade her locks. Not like there aren’t locks that would keep goats out.

  And I can’t believe that’s a sentence I actually just thought.

  There’s no sign telling me to get lost, and the light’s on in her bathroom, so I sneak in the back door under cover of night. “Tillie Jean?” I call softly. The light’s on over her stove, but nothing else is, and her cabinets look extra bright tonight.