1. Willow

September

Willow

My bag is buzzing, and it's not coming from my phone.

Shit. Maybe putting my favourite vibrator in my carry-on wasn't the smartest choice. Oh well, nothing to do about it now. All that stands between me and sun, sand, and relaxation is a five-hour flight. Oh, and the damn security line at Vancouver International Airport, where everyone around me now knows I've got a sex toy in my bag.

"Oops." I shrug at the female guard eyeing the small suitcase. "Sensitive power button."

She gives me a nod, but I see the hint of a smile she's fighting to hide. Picking up my suitcase, she beckons me forward.

After I walk through the scanner, I pass a tall man collecting his items, who if I wasn't intent on dealing with my rogue vibrator, I'd probably give a lot more attention to. What can I say, backward ball caps do it for me… His muffled chuckle hits me as my noisy bag passes in front of the plexiglass barrier.

My new friend the security agent opens the bag, and after a quick look inside, reaches in and turns off the toy. She gives me a subtle wink before passing my bag over to me. "Enjoy your trip, ma'am."

I wink back. "I most certainly will."

With my no longer buzzing suitcase in hand, I leave the security area, intent on finding the nearest Starbucks and caffeinating myself. My best friend Tori likes to give me a hard time for my coffee addiction, but I don't care. Ever since university, pulling all-nighters as I balanced working part-time, playing recreational fastball, and trying to maintain my GPA, I've been a three cup a day kind of girly. Maybe four if I have a decaf at night.

The lineup at the iconic coffee shop rivals that of security, making me glance at my phone more than once as the minutes tick by to when my plane will start loading. If I hadn't hit snooze on my alarm clock this morning, I would've been here sooner. Instead, I'm going to be rushing. But the pull of sleep after the chaos of this past season was too strong to ignore. Even with a flight to Hawaii waiting for me.

Coffee purchased, I hurry over to step on the escalator that will take me up to the gate. Lifting the cup of steaming deliciousness to my lips, my gaze drifts over to the escalator carrying passengers back down to the main airport concourse. My gaze locks onto a face that is both startlingly handsome and vaguely familiar. I instantly recognize the ball cap, even though it's facing forward now, and his dark shirt. It's the man from the security line, only this time he's pointing toward me. And oh, what a face.

He's got dirty blonde hair poking out from under his Toronto Wolverines hat with thick scruff covering a strong jaw. The cap hides his eyes, but my imagination fills in the blanks and pictures them being vibrant blue, something with depth and fire in them.

There's no hiding the bulge of his biceps under the Henley he's wearing. And best of all, even on an escalator going the opposite direction from me, it's clear he's a head taller than anyone around him. And there is nothing hotter to me than a guy with some height. After all, I'm five-nine, and I love wearing heels.

His stare meets mine as we pass each other — blue, I was right — his lips quirking up into a sexy-as-fuck grin as we pass each other. Hello, dimples…

"Who are you?" I whisper to myself as I crane my neck around to keep sight of him as long as possible. The only thing keeping my actions from being completely mortifying is the fact that I catch him twisting to watch me as well.

I have a moment when I actually consider abandoning my holiday, getting on the escalator going down, and chasing the captivatingly handsome stranger through the airport. But that's crazy, even by my standards. Although, if there was ever a man worth sacrificing a week in Hawaii, it would be him. There's handsome, and then there's whatever he is. Looking like that, I'm going to say a god among men, guaranteed to be next-level sinful, and a wickedly good time.

But I don't give in in to lust-fueled insanity. Instead, I mentally give my head a shake, step off the escalator, and make my way to the gate. Sure, he was beyond attractive, but there will be an island full of hot half-naked men on the beach where I'm going. I have no doubt I'll soon forget about the escalator god.

Except, I recognize him from somewhere. Or do I? I wouldn't have thought I could forget a man as delicious as him.

Reaching my gate with, thankfully, half an hour to spare, I sink down in a seat and let my eyes flutter closed as I sip from my coffee. Of course, just then, another buzzing starts up, but at least this time it is coming from my phone. Part of my job as assistant director of media relations for the Vancouver Tridents professional baseball team is to stay on top of any media leaks. And that means having all the notifications turned on for baseball news headlines.

"Management Shake-Up at the San Diego Devils."

"Free Agent Frenzy: Who's Up for Grabs This Offseason and Who Wants Them."

"Star Pitcher Colt Waterstone Wows Crowds at the World Baseball Classic."

I skim the headlines quickly, and when none of them have anything to do with my team, I heave a sigh of relief and turn on my out-of-office autoreply for the first time in over a year. I am officially on vacation, and any news surrounding the Vancouver Tridents baseball team, possible offseason trades, or player drama will have to wait a week.

Between the ongoing work one of our players likes to make for us with his bad boy ways, and the surprising discovery that our now-retired star pitcher had a secret kid no one knew about, the media relations team was constantly putting out fires this past season.

My work-life balance was nonexistent at times. But the next seven days will be the reset I need and deserve. Some people might hate traveling alone, but I love it. I'm not responsible for anyone but myself, meaning I can just lie in the sun, drinking icy beverages served poolside, and maybe find a holiday hottie or two to have some fun with.

No better stress relief than orgasms.

And if the hotties don't deliver, the toys I packed will.

At that moment, a young family enters the waiting area for our flight. The little boy runs past me wearing a Toronto Wolverines shirt, and I gasp as realization slams into me.

Holy shit, escalator god is Ronan Sinclair.

The first baseman from Ontario caught my eye a few years ago when I was on the field coordinating interviews after a game. Even from a distance, his good looks were noticeable. Especially in tight baseball pants. Not to mention the way he was kind, humble, and respectful toward the media and support staff.

Knowing that my escalator god is a baseball player makes things both easier and harder for me.

I might not see him again today, but I will undoubtedly see him during the season, and now I have to make myself forget the way he made my mouth water with nothing more than an upturn of his lips.

There's an unspoken rule about dating baseball players. As in, don't do it.And I take that rule very seriously.With my uncle Mike — my dad's best friend — owning the team that employs me, it would be beyond stupid to mix work and pleasure when I already have to prove I'm more than a nepo hire. I want to be known for my work, not for who I'm related to or who I'm dating.

In an effort to distract myself from the fantasies I really shouldn't be having about the man, I stupidly open my email. Rookie mistake when I want to be in vacation mode, not work mode. Because even with the out-of-office turned on, there's one waiting from my boss, Lydia.

Guilt instantly hits me when I mentally groan seeing her name. When I started at the Tridents, Lydia took me under her wing, mentored me, and helped me get to where I am today.

Here"s the thing, though. Lydia's demanding on a good day, insufferable on a bad one. She might have been a powerhouse in the media relations field once upon a time, but these days she seems content to let the rest of us do the work and she just takes the credit. She puts a lot of pressure on me and everyone else. Everyone butherself these days. Tori has tried to tell me before that Lydia's not giving me enough credit for what I do, but as much as I love my bestie, she doesn't get it. If I want to prove myself as more than just a nepotism hire, I have to bust my ass.

And kiss Lydia's.

Right now, it's even more important I work hard. Because Lydia's retiring this season, and I want a shot at her job. That doesn't mean I want to see an email from her as I wait for my plane with the subject line "URGENT" in all capital letters. Dread filling me, I open the email.

Thank fuck. Not urgent at all. Because it was done a week ago. Which she would know if she read the email update I sent her last night as a handover before my trip. It takes me two minutes to type out a reply. And that includes the time to remember I have to be respectful and not come off as annoyed.

I hit send and immediately close my email. Won't be making the mistake of opening that up again for a week. Vacation-mode Willow is officially turned on.

A short while later, I'm settled in my first-class window seat and pulling out my e-reader that's stocked with all the books I haven't had time to read these last few months. While the rest of the plane boards, I lose myself in the science fiction saga I've been dying to start. The vivid storytelling sucks me in immediately, and I don't even notice someone sitting down in the seat beside me until the husky rumble of a voice stirs something deep inside of me.

"Seems you are going my way, after all."

I look up. And into the azure blue eyes of my against-the-rules escalator god.