Catching Zia (Spring Training Book 1) Page 15

  When the game ended, Zia was relieved to have a few new acquaintances to follow to the clubhouse exit. She might not have remembered exactly how to get there otherwise, and she for sure would have felt awkward standing around waiting alone.

  She was nervous enough as it was, worrying about the woman from the bathroom who had gotten under Zia’s skin. No matter how hard she fought the concern, her presence hung around to torture Zia.

  She was determined to put it aside and not mention a word. Right decision? Maybe. Maybe not. But the thought of hearing a saga about Brett’s previous relationship with a blond goddess made her skin crawl. She’d rather leave that stone unturned and hope the woman gave up and went away.

  * * *

  Brett was in good spirits as he hurried out of the clubhouse. He wanted to get Zia back in his embrace. And he didn’t want to leave her standing outside alone. He’d seen her in the stands with Trish Rutherford. Bless that woman. He would thank Damon later. But Brett had no idea if Trish had left in her own vehicle or waited with Zia.

  He was relieved when he exited to find Zia in a conversation with two other women. He hesitated a few breaths to take in the picture. Please, God, make this vision my future.

  Zia had her head tipped back, laughing at something one of the women said. Even though he knew she was rather introverted, she was making friends, and not the wrong ones, either. Stable wives and girlfriends stood in her vicinity. Not a groupie in sight.

  As he took the first step to continue toward Zia, someone jumped into his space, barely registering in his peripheral vision. He flinched as a tall woman with huge breasts grabbed his arm and rubbed her tits against his biceps. “Can I get a picture?” she cooed.

  For a second, he wanted to shake her off and scream at her for daring to touch him. Then he remembered who he was, or at least who he had been until a few weeks ago. He wasn’t that kind of guy.

  He politely smiled at her while her friend held up a camera. Two seconds later, his face was immortalized forever. In minutes, he was sure every venue of social media in the world would be staring at this freeze frame. With a stranger. Not with Zia.

  He could picture the tabloid stories already. Brett Michelson has been seen about town with a new girlfriend. Who, then, is the woman he’s got dangling from his arm on the side? Is his new woman angry? Has he already strayed?

  He sighed and trudged forward.

  Zia lifted her gaze as he approached, her shy tendency to blink her eyes and lower her face an inch or two standing out. The trait was one that had attracted him to her in the first place. He wouldn’t trade it. But he wanted her to be confident and happy at the same time.

  That would take work. She wasn’t inclined to trust. She was reserved from years of living with a horrible mother and then enduring Brett’s own disappointing omission. It wouldn’t be easy, but he would coax her out of her shell, until one day she would hold her head high and meet his gaze dead-on when he exited the clubhouse.

  If she thought she didn’t belong here, she was wrong. If she thought he wouldn’t stay for the long haul, she was wrong. If she thought he would let her run from the challenge, she was dead wrong.

  He had confidence enough for both of them. They would make this work. He saw no other options.

  To prove his point, he slid his arm around her, hauled her against his side, and kissed her lips, lingering longer than necessary. “Did you see my hit?” he teased.

  She giggled. “What are you, five?”

  “Maybe. Sometimes.”

  “Well, then…” she reached up with a hand and ruffled his hair like a child, “…yes, sweetie, I saw your hit. It was amazing. You’re going to be a star someday.”

  He laughed at her teasing, nodded to the other women, and led her away from the group. “Bored yet?”

  “Never.”

  “Uh-huh. Would you tell me if you were?”

  “Not a chance in hell.” She gave him an exaggerated grin and squeezed his waist with her arm tucked around his middle.

  As he was about to head for the car, Monreal and Cordes stepped in front of them.

  Monreal wiggled his brows. “So this is the woman you’re keeping all to yourself?”

  Brett stopped walking, gave Zia a squeeze at his side, and smiled. “This is her. Zia Sharpley, meet Xavier Monreal,” he nodded toward his Puerto Rican friend, “and Dominic Cordes.” He then turned his gaze toward the taller brown-haired man with a neatly trimmed beard.

  “You two want to join us for dinner?” Cordes asked.

  “Nope. We have other plans,” Brett responded. As if he would spend the evening with the guys while Zia was in town.

  Zia wiggled herself forward a few inches. “Nice to meet you both. Thanks for the invite. Maybe another time?”

  “Absolutely,” Monreal said. He grabbed Cordes by the arm, and the two of them headed in another direction.

  Brett glanced down at Zia. “Hungry? Or did you eat junk food again?”

  “Nope. I’m starving. I got nothing except a diet soda. If I ate a hot dog and nachos at every game of yours, I’d weight three hundred pounds before the season started.”

  “Especially if you intend to spend the rest of your time sitting on park benches coloring pictures.”

  She pinched his side. “Artists don’t really like people to refer to our art as coloring, big guy.”

  “Professional baseball players don’t really like to have their practices referred to as tossing the ball around with their friends,” he teased in return, referring to her silly lines before the game.

  She giggled again. “Touché.” He loved the sound of her voice when she laughed. And his body responded at the same time. He needed to rein in his hormones. If not, he was going to make her think all they had was sex. Which was far from the truth. To prove that to himself as well as her, he needed to take her out. If they went back to his condo, he’d have her back against the door in seconds. It was becoming a habit.

  The second he was alone with her, it was like a dam broke loose. He needed her like a drug and didn’t hesitate to claim her as fast as possible. That usually involved whatever door he’d just shut, closing off the world.

  Not today. “I’m taking you out.”

  She glanced down at her jean shorts and white tank top. “I’m not really dressed for anything.”

  He begged to differ. She was dressed for anything. In fact, it would be difficult to keep his hands to himself and his eyes on her face while they ate. From the moment she’d stepped out of the bedroom that morning wearing that tiny shirt and short shorts, he’d stifled a groan.

  Thank goodness his teammates had all been occupied playing ball, or he would have surely lost her to any number of their pawing selves in minutes.

  “You’re dressed fine for what I have in mind.”

  “Okay. I trust you.”

  He flinched at those words. She trusted him. Had she put emphasis on the word trust? Was something bothering her?

  She hadn’t mentioned Leslie’s uninvited visit that morning, and he was probably a jerk for not bringing it up, but dammit, he was greedy. Wasting his precious few hours with Zia discussing Leslie ranked so far down his list of tasks it didn’t register.

  Greed wasn’t his only problem. He also didn’t want Monica to find out Leslie was pestering him. His sister would flip her wig. And Brett couldn’t risk Zia keeping Leslie’s appearance to herself. He wouldn’t want to ask her to, and he wouldn’t want to leave it to chance, either. It was best if he avoided the possibility of Zia bringing up Leslie to Monica.

  So easiest solution? Don’t talk about it.

  Was it possible Zia hadn’t heard him talking to Leslie that morning? Seemed unlikely, but maybe he’d gotten lucky.

  After tucking Zia into her seat, he rounded the car and folded himself in next to her. “You like Mexican?”

  “Love it.”

  “Excellent.” He put the car in drive and pulled out of the space.

  Ten minutes
later, he pulled up to the most rustic hole-in-the-wall he’d ever been to in his life.

  He turned to face Zia, watching her expression as her brows came together and her lips parted. “Uh, this is it? It’s not even a building.”

  “Yep. Marco’s Tacos. Trust me. Been eating here for years. It’s a permanent food truck. Marco even lives in that RV behind it.” He pointed to the left of the truck. “Simple guy. Simple life. Nicest man you’ll ever meet. And his wife makes the best tamales in Florida.”

  Zia nodded. “Okay then. I’m intrigued.” She climbed out her side of the car at the same time he did, her gaze still peeled to the food truck.

  Picturing it from someone else’s view, Brett could see how the place would look less than inviting, but Marco didn’t give two shits. He had enough business from word-of-mouth that the man didn’t get enough sleep most nights. He didn’t have a website or even a phone number. And he never would.

  Brett took Zia’s hand and led her to the window. “Can I order for you? Is there anything you don’t like?”

  “Please, go ahead. I eat anything.”

  Could this woman get any more perfect?

  As soon as Marco saw him, he whipped open the door on the side of the truck and stepped out. “Michelson, you son of a gun. Where have you been? Haven’t seen you yet this season. Figured you got traded or retired or something.”

  Brett took not one ounce of offense at the man’s total lack of knowledge about baseball and the possible location of players and stats. He was a simple man. Probably didn’t even have a television. And when would he watch it?

  Marco turned his attention to Zia, and his face lit up before he winked at Brett. “Ah, never mind. I see what has occupied your time. Finally found someone who could stand to be around you for more than a few minutes.” The guy belly-laughed, clutching his beer gut.

  Zia smiled warmly at him.

  Brett finally got a word in edgewise. “Yeah. Yeah. Don’t tell her that. She’ll think I’m not a good catch.” He hugged Zia to his side and kissed her forehead.

  Marco leaned in conspiratorially. “Never seen him catch, actually. Can he?”

  Zia shrugged. “So far I’ve seen him snatch several balls right out of thin air, but the jury is still out concerning baseball. I’ve only seen two games. As for me, I’d like to think I might be the lucky one, but if you have any juicy stories to share, please do.”

  Brett was shocked by her easy banter and quick wit. He also tossed his hands over her ears, pretending to keep her from hearing him. “Don’t you dare say a word, Marco. This one’s a keeper. Don’t mess things up for me,” he teased as he released her.

  She didn’t flinch as he proclaimed her a keeper. Instead, she leaned into him and set a hand on his chest. “You going to feed me? Or stand here yapping?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Zia pulled up to Brett’s condo on Friday, she had butterflies in her stomach. First of all, driving his expensive sports car was unnerving. She still couldn’t believe he’d insisted she take his car back to Miami, leaving him with no vehicle. She’d been too worried about wrecking it to use it more than the drive to Monica’s and then back to his condo tonight.

  She hadn’t come in time for his game today, insisting it was rude to leave Monica until at least midafternoon. As it was, she was already totally breaking their agreement by spending half her time sleeping with Monica’s brother instead of taking care of Emily.

  Monica insisted she didn’t need her that much. She was getting the hang of the baby routine. Things were calm at work that week. She also pointed out no one in their right mind would be expected to work seven days a week.

  Zia’s argument was that she didn’t really work full-time since Emily still slept most of the day, and Zia wasn’t the one who had to get up in the night to breastfeed. As far as she could tell, her main duty was to give Monica an hour of extra sleep in the morning and to take Emily to another room when she decided to make herself heard while Monica was on a business call.

  Emily was the sweetest baby with a perfect temperament 90 percent of the time, but she had an impeccable ability to scream at the top of her lungs just as the phone rang.

  Zia had spent some time helping find a replacement for herself for Monica. Besides being tugged in several different directions, the reality was she had never intended to stay with Monica forever. The arrangement had been temporary. With the referrals Monica had given her, Zia had several people interested in murals. She was feeling more confident she might be able to pursue art full-time. Maybe in a few months she could actually build up enough pieces to have a show at Lily’s gallery.

  Was she being over-confident? Maybe. It was possible at least in the short run that she needed to keep her job with Monica or find one with another family. But she could always hope. Perhaps if she crunched some numbers…

  In spite of white-fisting it in Brett’s fancy car for the entire two hours, Zia arrived in one piece. The car was in the same shape it had been in when she left four days ago, and Zia resolved internally to take the bus back to Miami this time. It would be less stressful. Her own car might get her to Jupiter and back a few times before it conked out on her. Or maybe she needed to bite the bullet and look for something more reliable.

  She wouldn’t tell Brett her intention to take the bus until Sunday. Otherwise he would spend the weekend arguing about it. The subject was closed. No way was she leaving him stranded again while she ran off with his dream car.

  The best way she could describe it was silver and obviously top of the line. The make and model wasn’t something she’d paid attention to. Who cared?

  Brett must have seen her pull up, because he stepped outside the condo as she grabbed her bag from the trunk.

  She turned to face him but didn’t step forward. Instead, she watched the way his face lit up as he jogged toward her.

  When he reached her, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her sweetly. “How was the drive?”

  “Fine. No dents in your car. Not even a scratch. How was your game?”

  “Fine.” He repeated her word. “No dents in my head or even a scratch on my body.”

  “Good. Did you win?”

  “Yep. But I only played two innings.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “Yep. The coaches know what I can do. Spring training games are more about checking out what the new guys can do so they can narrow down the roster.”

  “I see.” She didn’t. But she was catching on.

  “Come inside. I’m making you dinner.” He grabbed her bag from her shoulder and led her to the condo. The late afternoon sun was beating down on them, but it felt good after being in the air-conditioned car for two hours.

  As soon as she was situated at the island in the kitchen, he poured her a glass of wine and continued to scurry around cooking.

  “Smells delicious.” She took a sip of the expensive Chardonnay and set it on the counter. If she’d learned one thing from dating Brett, it was that the price of wine did matter. He bought better wine than she’d ever tasted in her life.

  “Chicken Marsala.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know you were such a chef.” She lifted a brow at him. Impressive.

  “Haven’t had a chance to demonstrate my culinary skills yet. We’re always in a hurry or eating out.”

  “Or naked,” she added.

  He leaned across the island and kissed her lips. “Nothing wrong with naked. Naked won’t keep me from eating. Feel free to take off your clothes while I cook.”

  She chuckled. “Not a chance. I wouldn’t want to distract you and risk ruining my dinner.”

  “You’re lucky I made it home in time to start it. Crazy day at the park. Even though I headed back to the clubhouse after the fourth inning, there were dozens of fans waiting for autographs after the game. I didn’t think I would ever get out of there.”

  “Really?” She leaned her chin on her palm, her elbow on the counter. “Am I going to read all about
it tomorrow on the front page of the tabloids?” she teased. Half teased. She wouldn’t let his fans get to her. Just because women fawned over him didn’t mean he was sleeping with them.

  She trusted him.

  She had to. Or they would have nothing. In a few short weeks, he would start traveling all over the country half the time. If she believed everything she read, she’d be a nervous wreck.

  He shrugged, eyeing her. “Does it bother you?”

  “What? The tabloids? No.”

  “The women,” he corrected.

  She took another sip of the delicious wine. “Not going to let it. I’m starting to understand. There will always be women pawing at you. They don’t get to have you wrapped around them naked at the end of the day, though. So, joke’s on them, I guess.”

  He met and held her gaze until she squirmed. “Do you know how many of those women I have ever dated?”

  “No idea.” She uncrossed her legs and braced her hands flat on the counter.

  “None. Not one. Have never been interested. Not saying some players don’t meet and develop lasting relationships with someone they met outside at the ballpark, but it’s rare. Very rare. Never once in all these years have I dated a groupie.

  “I’m the king of faking it well. I can smile and pose for a picture. I’ll sign whatever they hand me. I have even signed breasts.” He visibly shuddered. “Usually they’re fake. It sometimes lands me in the tabloids, but I ignore them.”

  “I’ll do the same.” Inside, she was screaming, Never? He’s never dated a groupie? Then who the hell was the woman who came to the door last weekend? The one who confronted me in the bathroom?

  “If it bothers you that much, I’ll stop.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Signing boobs?” She waved a hand in front of her. “Sign away. I don’t care. As long as you don’t also suck them, I’m good.”

  He cringed. “Gross. Do you have any idea where those things have been?”

  She laughed, but she didn’t feel it on the inside. She needed to ask him about the blond woman. Her therapist had taught her about good communication. Why was she so chicken? Just asking about the blonde didn’t make her a paranoid girlfriend. After dinner. She promised herself she would confront him after they ate.