5. Willow

Willow

It's taken all of my restraint not to open my work email the last couple of days. Even as I laid out on the beach, drinking iced coffee, soaking up the sun, and trying to muster up some interest in the handsome men I saw walking past with surf boards, part of my mind was focused on Vancouver, wondering if everything was okay at work. The offseason might be a lighter workload for us, but it's not nonexistent.

But every time I'd start to rationalize just taking a quick check to make sure there were no emergencies, I remembered the promise I made Uncle Mike the day before I left.

I will relax and enjoy myself, I will not worry about the team. It's early in the offseason, nothing major is happening, and I deserve a break.

The twinkle in his eye as he made me recite that back to him over dinner that night brings a rueful smile to my face. He knows me so well.

Growing up, Uncle Mike was as much a part of my life as my dad. They were inseparable, best friends, just like Tori and me. I suppose, in some way, I am to Tori's son Cooper what Uncle Mike is to me. Family, the kind that goes deeper than blood.

I knew from an early age that I wanted to work for Uncle Mike's team. Baseball was life, and while I could throw and catch decently well, and spent most of my years growing up playing on a recreational team, there was no future for me as a player. Dad pushed me into media relations, pointing out how much I loved planning events, from birthday parties to team wrap-up parties, not to mention my ability to network and make friends everywhere I went. Combined with how passionate I was about the team, a career in sports media just made sense.

It still hurts that he didn't live long enough to see where I am today. On track to being the next director of media relations. And not because I'm pseudo-related to the owner, but because I've spent a decade busting my ass, working overtime to prove myself worthy of the role.

I don't ever want to be seen as Willow Lawson, niece of the owner. I want to be seen as Willow Lawson, head of media relations. I am my own person, and my accomplishments are because of my hard work. Not because of who I'm related to.

All that stands between me and the position is Lydia's retirement. And her final stamp of approval on me as her replacement. Which is why I know I can handle her overbearing demands, and taking credit for work that I do, for a little while longer.

This morning the skies are a perfect bright blue. Not a cloud in sight. There's a light breeze, and the beach is surprisingly devoid of people. I find a recliner near the water's edge and settle in, my e-reader fully charged, a large bottle of ice water by my side, and my wide brim hat firmly on my head. After slathering a coat of sunscreen everywhere I can reach, I'm mentally debating how the hell I'll reach my back when a deep voice has me looking up. Way up.

"If you need some help, I'm happy to oblige."

"You're everywhere, it seems," I reply, the corners of my mouth tipping up. Ronan crouches down, and even though I can't see his eyes behind the reflective sunglasses he's wearing, I'd guess there are little crinkles at the edges, given his grin.

"Or maybe I'm just naturally drawn to where you are."

"Some women would call that stalker tendencies," I sass back. He throws his head back and laughs, and even I giggle at how ridiculous that sounds. If there's any man out there whose intentions seem to be nothing but good, it's this one. Every time we've run into each other, he has been nothing but respectful and kind. To me and everyone else.

"I'll take you up on your offer." I hand him the bottle and turn around so my back is facing him. A beat goes by, then large hands land on my bare skin, making me jump a little.

"Sorry," he murmurs as he starts to smooth his hands over my back.

"It's fine," I whisper back.

"I have to lift your bathing suit straps to get underneath. Is that okay?"

Is that okay? Seriously? Is he waiting for my consent before rubbing sunscreen under the straps of my bathing suit? Belatedly, I realize he really is waiting for my answer, so I nod sharply. Once again, he's nothing but respectful as he moves quickly. On my lower back, he stills again, but this time stays silent.

"It's fine, Ronan. I appreciate your help." Even though I could technically do that part myself, the touch of his hands that close to my ass feels way too fucking good. I assume he's done, but then his hands come back up to my shoulders.

"Let me just double-check it's rubbed in."

Thumbs start to knead the muscles in my shoulders, and I can't help the moan that escapes me.

"Woman, you're hard as a rock," he chastises gently, and I can't resist a tease.

"Isn't that meant to be my line?" His grip tightens, but just briefly before he lifts his hands off me completely. He stands up just as I turn back around and there's an unmistakable bulge under his shorts. "Sorry, that was inappropriate."

"Nah, you're fine," he says, a little too casually if you ask me. Before I can think of a response, he crouches back down and his hand comes up to grip my chin. "I just didn't want to make it obvious how close to the truth you really are."

Unbidden, my thighs squeeze together as I exhale.

"I gotta go. It's wedding day, and they're probably wondering why I'm not back from my run yet." His voice is gruff, and all I can do is nod. "Don't stay out here too long; I won't be around to reapply."

A strangled laugh sneaks out of me, and his lips quirk to the side in return. Then he straightens up and walks away toward the hotel. And because I apparently have no shame, my eyes remain glued to his perfect ass the entire way until he's out of sight.

I follow Ronan's advice and don't stay at the beach overly long. Knowing he's around today, but busy with his friends, I opt to go to my room for a shower and a change of clothes, then head into Waikiki Beach for some shopping.

But as I stand under the spray of my shower, my hands drift over my skin, teasing my nipples before drifting lower. There's no avoiding the image that is forefront in my mind as I gently glide between the folds of my pussy. What other tall, dark, and very handsome man would I be picturing, if not the one who has been slowly weakening my resolve for days.

I don't date baseball players.

But surely, masturbating to a fantasy of one isn't so bad?

My finger dips inside as I gasp, the heat of the water pelting down on me, one hand squeezing and plucking at my nipple as the other teases between my legs. I have to lean back against the cool tile of the shower wall to steady myself.

As the heat inside of me builds, I can feel that my fingers won't be enough this time. Blinking water out of my now open eyes, I slide the glass door of the shower open and grab the silicone toy that's sitting on the counter. Of course, it's the same toy that went off in the security line. The same toy Ronan knows I have with me.

Bringing it between my legs, I turn it on and let out a low moan as soon as it hits my already sensitive clit. "Fuck, yes," I breathe, leaning back against the tile once more. The contrast of the warm water and the cool tile has all my senses buzzing.

With no one here to witness me giving into temptation, I let my mind fully imagine Ronan down on his knees, holding the toy to my pussy while driving his thick fingers into me. I picture his lips closing around my nipple, biting and sucking.

And when my orgasm overwhelms me, turning my legs to Jell-O, I can't help but cry out his name, letting it echo around me as proof that the man is dangerously close to making me throw my number one rule out the window.

When I return to the hotel after a very successful shopping trip, I head straight to my room to deposit my bags, then return to the lobby, intent on finding a seat at the beachside bar for a cocktail.

But the bar is closed, displaying a sign that reads "private event." As I move to walk away, mentally shifting plans to head into the restaurant and see if they have a seat with a view, I hear my name being called.

I spin slowly on my sandal-covered feet and try not to let my mouth fall open. I've seen Ronan in gym clothes, hiking clothes, casual clothes — hell, I've even seen him in nothing but his boxer briefs. But nothing, nothing at all could have prepared me for Ronan in khaki slacks and a white dress shirt. It's open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up, and his hair is perfectly styled.

He's devastatingly handsome at the best of times, and right now, that much more so. But even if he is the most attractive man I've ever met, and he's kind, and respectful, and the absolute opposite of the douchebags I've dated recently, he's still a baseball player.

But he plays on the opposite side of the country.

But he's a player.

But he has nothing to do with your team.

But he's a player.

But you're both here, away from real life, away from baseball.

But he's still a player.

I don't realize how caught up I am in my internal debate until Ronan's hand lands on my arm, and I register the look of concern on his face.

"Everything okay?"

"Yes, sorry." I nod, then shake my head, then nod again with a small laugh. "Wow. Guess I had too much sun today."

"Shit, do you need to sit down? Let me get you some water." Before I can protest, he's guiding me straight past the barrier across the bar entrance, over to a chair near the edge of the group of people who are obviously celebrating the happy couple.

"Ronan, I'm fine." I find my voice and try to remove his hand from my elbow. "Seriously, I was just distracted. Go back to your friends, to the wedding."

He studies me carefully, and it's sweet, really. How worried he is about me. Except I don't want him to be sweet. I want him to do something awful, something terrible to make me not be so attracted to him.

"Honestly? You're kind of giving me the perfect excuse to get away from some dude-bros that don't understand personal boundaries."

His statement is delivered so dryly, a laugh bursts free from me. Clapping my hand over my mouth, I slowly shake my head back and forth.

"Seriously?" I ask when my mirth is under control.

He nods, his face an expression of complete solemnity. "Yeah. The number of times they've almost outright asked for game tickets or insider info on trades. It's disgusting."

Shit, that is gross. "I'm sorry."

His shoulders lift and fall under the slim-fitting white shirt. "Comes with the job, but I'd hoped to escape all that for a bit when I came here. At least my buddy who got married and our other friend know better. They're as pissed as I am at those idiots."

He sits down in the chair beside me, and for a quiet moment, we just watch the other wedding guests enjoy themselves from a distance. Then, shifting in his seat to face me, Ronan holds out his hand. "Dance with me."

"What?" I ask in surprise. He swiftly stands up and moves in front of me.

"Dance. With me, over there." He nods his head toward the small dance floor. "Please?"

I don't even bother trying to hold back my smile this time. Who am I to refuse such a lovely invitation? Standing up, I smooth my hands over my skirt before taking his outstretched hand. "I'd love to."

His answering smile is dazzling as he leads me to the edge of the dance floor before spinning me under his arm, then pulling me into his hold. He keeps a reasonable amount of space between us, ever the gentleman. As we sway back and forth, the sound of the musicians, the ocean waves, the murmur of the people around us, all of it fades away. His captivating blue eyes never leave mine, and the romance of the moment sweeps me up in its grasp.

As much as he's remained respectful and hasn't pushed anything on me, I know without a shadow of a doubt that Ronan's interested in me. He wants me. For what? I don't know.

But finally, right here in this moment, I'm ready to admit to myself.

I want him, too.