Chapter 16

16

Lila

It's probably stupid to sit outside Tripp Wilson's house at midnight when I know he's in there alone, without his kids, and when I'd be better served going into the office or heading back to my hotel and escaping into a sci-fi romance.

And not Knox's granny's romance.

Which she doesn't need my publishing company for, for the record. She's finding quite the rabid horde of fans in her unique niche as it is. She's even started selling multi-dicked plush blue aliens in an online store.

I can neither confirm nor deny that I may have helped her find startup funding to invest in having the aliens made.

My phone rings, and I jump.

Possibly I'm staring too hard at the fa?ade of Tripp's Tudor-style mansion. It's interesting that the houses on this block—if you can call it a block —are all so far apart, yet the houses themselves are relatively close to the street. They're not right up on the street, but I don't have to walk a mile to get there either.

It's also interesting that I'm sitting here pretending I'm contemplating if a Tudor-style house fits Tripp when I should be back at my hotel. I fumble with my phone and swipe to answer after a quick glance to confirm I haven't been made by the man inside the house.

"What are you doing sitting outside Tripp Wilson's house at midnight?" Uncle Guido asks.

"Are you tracking me?" I pause. "Wait. Are you tracking him ?"

"No one tortures my honorary niece with duck pictures and gets away with it."

"Uncle Guido, he's a single dad without any skeletons in his closet. Let it go."

"His friends are dangerous."

"What friends?"

"That one with the long hair, for starters. He's been poking in bad places."

I freeze.

"Go home, Lila. I know a guy. He'll poke back."

The line goes silent, and dammit .

Do not poke back , I text to the number Uncle Guido called from.

A minute later, I get a notification that the message is undeliverable.

Great.

So now I have to warn Tripp to call off his dogs without saying why , and he won't believe me, and while I'm normally quite happy for Uncle Guido to run interference on the uncomfortable stuff, this feels wrong.

And not just because Davis Remington—the one with the man bun—saved me a sample of banana pudding when I mentioned I'd never had it. I know when I'm being kissed up to—it happens after enough years of being high up in a billionaire's organization, along with living a lifetime of seeing conspiracy theories in everything—and I'm positive Davis wasn't kissing up.

But now I need to let Tripp know to watch his back. Regardless of my feelings for the man, complicated as they are, his kids need him. Bad enough they've lost their mother.

I'm ringing his doorbell before I have time to second-guess myself. And then I'm questioning why the hell I can just walk up to his door at midnight without being mauled by attack dogs or surrounded by armed guards or poisoned with auto-firing darts.

Actually—

I'm squinting in the darkness, looking for secret dart-shooters in the trim and siding when the door opens, and there's the man himself.

Tripp Wilson.

He's a tall glass of cabernet sauvignon in dark jeans smudged with white powder and a plain white T-shirt, his hair damp like he showered out Emma's boogers, his defined but not over-muscled arms casually hanging by his sides, his blue eyes tired but still alert.

"Why don't you have security?" I blurt.

His eyes drift down my body like he's taking stock of my Fireballs T-shirt—or maybe my breasts, which tingle under the attention while I actively ignore them—and then they make a lazy return to my face. He holds the door open wider, silently inviting me inside without answering my question, and after a moment's hesitation where I wonder if we'll end up making out in another bathroom if I step over the threshold, I leap.

And once I'm inside, I find it's not enough to stop in the doorway, because what is that? "Oh, wow, it smells good in here."

"Thank you. Why don't you have security?"

I freeze. Again. Except unlike freezing in the car, where it was actually a little chilly and didn't smell like butter, sugar, and melted chocolate, this time, I freeze so hard I think I wrenched something in my neck.

I spin, and oh my god , he was watching my ass clench.

He snaps his gaze up to the simple chandelier in the foyer, and I swear I can hear him silently chiding himself.

For looking at my ass?

Or for getting caught looking at my ass?

It's like we're in the club in New York all over again. Me, swooning uncontrollably for the first time in my life over a man, except tonight, I know exactly who he is.

I know how to push his buttons.

I know his story on why he lied to me about who he was, and the more I watch him, the more I understand and believe it.

And I know I'm starting to really not care at all that he probably knows the same things about me.

"What makes you think I'd need security?" My voice wobbles, but I give him my best drop it, because this is none of your business glare.

Naturally, he ignores it. And I swear there's a gleam in his eye, like he's taking delight in ignoring my request.

"You inherited a baseball team. Even the Fireballs, the worst team in baseball, are worth close to a billion dollars. Which means you're worth close to a billion dollars. Probably more, I'd guess, if Wellington paid you even half as well as most billionaires pay their right-hand man and if you invested your money a fraction as well as he's invested his." He frowns. "Actually, why hasn't he ever put security on you? You're number one in the organization after him, from everything I can see. I'd think that would warrant company-paid security."

"Wellington Holdings is all but gone."

"And you're still the closest link to the world's most reclusive billionaire."

Now my toes are going numb and little bits of prickly fear are needling at my skin.

He's right, of course. And while I regularly take self-defense classes, never take the same route to work twice, and I know Uncle Guido keeps an eye on me, I'm in a much more public position now than I've ever been before.

My paranoia doesn't say I need security.

My paranoia says I fly under the radar. Wellington Holdings' investments and developments were never the kind to attract attention the ways the tech behemoths are, and while I've learned how to network, I've never had to do press conferences or interface with the public the way I'll have to as owner of the Fireballs.

Kidnappings are the clear winner for things I need to worry about, but who'd pay my ransom?

There's no one left who cares enough.

I am officially done discussing this with Tripp Wilson. And I'm relieved to see that there are motion detectors hung subtly in the living room, which means he probably has more security than I'm aware of. "Is that a candle, or are you baking cookies?"

"And speaking of Wellington, is he funding all of this money you're managing to pump into the Fireballs to keep the team going?"

I fully turn to face him, catching sight of a living room strewn with toys. While the dark furniture with carved feet and the rows of bookshelves fit the man I know from the office whose desk is spotless every night and who will move a stapler two inches to the left if you move it two inches to the right, the sight of his kids' toys flung willy-nilly across the house doesn't.

He either has secrets or layers.

Probably both.

"I asked you first," I remind him, feeling more his son's age than my own as the phrase passes my lips.

And speaking of lips, his are quirking, and could the man be more gorgeous?

This is distinctly unfair, and my body knows it.

"Are we going to stand here and ask each other questions until we finally get to why you're at my house at midnight, or do I have to give you cookies first?" he asks.

Cookies . I definitely did not get my cookies in that bathroom in New York—or in the office the other day—and I'm now remembering exactly how denied I feel.

Which means it's time to go.

"I'm returning to New York in the morning to tie up some loose ends. I just wanted to let you know that you'll be in charge next week, but I expect progress reports every evening."

His jaw tightens. "This will work better if you trust me."

"We'll get there, Mr. Wilson."

He crosses his arms. Bull's-eye .

God, I love baiting him. I didn't even realize how much I needed someone in my life to bait, yet here he is, and it's making me happier than I can remember being in a long time.

Except as I feel my own lips start to twitch, that gleam in his eyes picks up.

"Progress reports." His voice is husky. Low. He takes two steps toward me, and I only have it in me to take one step back, because I want to be close to him. "Eight-point font. Twenty pages. Every night. Consider it done and sealed with duck lips."

"Ah, couldn't resist the ducks, could you?"

"Don't worry. I've already forwarded duck posters to your offices in New York for hanging on every wall. Your signature for approval is remarkably easy to forge."

I'm halfway through sucking in a horrified breath when I realize he's playing with me.

More, I like it.

I toss my hands up and laugh. "Okay. You win. Fucking ducks. I surrender. I will never outlive the ducks."

He doesn't join in laughing with me, and as my chuckles peter out, and as I realize I've involuntarily stalked closer to him too, I start to get an inkling as to why.

His eyes have gone dark. There's a muscle ticking in his jaw. His hands are clenched into fists. And all of his focus is on my mouth.

I turn him on.

Possibly laughter and winning turn him on, but if that were the case, he would've been fighting a hard-on all night, because there was a ton of laughter, and a ton of one-up-manship at the cookout tonight.

Which means my laughter turns him on.

"I should go," I whisper, suddenly acutely aware that I'm close enough to count every one of his dark eyelashes.

"Should you? There's a reason you came here tonight. And I don't think it was just to ask me if I had security."

"I h-had to tell you I'm leaving."

"Could've sent an email."

"I thought I'd be more polite."

"You came here because you had a good time tonight, and you don't want the good time to end."

Who's shooting the bull's-eye now? "As I believe I've told you, I don't mix business with pleasure."

"This arrangement is temporary. Either I buy this team, or you find a different team president that Pakorski will give his stamp of approval. Whether or not I kiss you tonight. And we both know it."

"I'm still your boss tonight."

"And you're at my house at midnight. When you know my kids aren't here. The line's already crossed. So what are you going to do about it?"

Oh, hell.

I'm going to kiss him.

I shouldn't . But I want to. And I need to get my head back on straight. Now .

I can tell myself all I want that I came here to warn him that he needs to tell his friends to quit digging around in my past, except that wasn't what was on my mind when my car drove me here tonight.

Or, you know, when I drove the car myself here tonight after plugging Tripp's address into the built-in GPS.

Because I didn't want to leave Copper Valley without saying goodbye, even though I feel a desperate need to put some space between us, which is completely at odds with wanting to stay here with him tonight.

And I didn't want to leave Copper Valley with him thinking that I was nothing more than a pain in the ass heiress whose sole goal is to complicate his life. Because that's not me, and everything I've done for the Fireballs, I've done for the Fireballs .

For my family.

For the challenge.

For finding a new purpose in life.

"I'm only here because I need to tell you that I'm damn good at my job, no matter what job I take on, and I like winning. I like a challenge, and I like doing my job well. So while I know you have concerns about my involvement with the Fireballs, and while I know you're hoping I'll give up and just sell them to you, I'm staying, and I'm going to rescue my family's team."

He lifts a brow, and I want to bite it, and then lick it, and hope that he does the same for my neck.

Yep.

I need to leave.

" Please understand that I'm not doing anything out of spite for the way we met, or just to make your life difficult, when I understand as well as I can that you already have plenty of your own struggles for a variety of reasons. We all do. It's part of the human condition. But I won't sit back and not be involved, and I do appreciate your dedication to the Fireballs. I just wanted you to know that."

"You came here tonight, at midnight, to say thank you? "

"And to let you know I'm going to continue to make your life hell, but it's not personal."

He chuckles. "In other words, you're running away."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't have to be back in New York next week. You're running away, because you don't want to get close enough to let me in."

"You don't want to be in."

He leans into my body, his eyes on level with mine, his nose mere moments from grazing my cheek. "You don't know what I want."

It's not malicious or threatening.

It's temptation on a rough whisper. It's an invitation. It's?—

This .

Our lips brushing. Our breaths mingling. My hand involuntarily lifting to cup the back of his neck while his palm settles on my waist and his fingers press into the top of my ass.

My eyes slide closed, and I surrender.

I surrender to the curiosity. To the intrigue. To the raw attraction to this man who's part baseball fan, part determined businessman, part musician, part single dad.

So many sides to admire.

Starting with the firm lips coaxing mine apart. Then there's his arm sliding around me and drawing me against his body. He doesn't grind his erection against me, but I'm well aware of exactly what that thick bulge against my thigh is, and I won't deny that I want more of it.

"You drive me insane twenty hours a day and I still want you," he murmurs against my mouth.

"Attraction is eighty percent insanity."

He smiles, eyes crinkling, and I'm gone.

Just gone .

I dive into the kiss head-first without checking to see how deep the water is or if there are piranhas lurking in the cloudy parts.

Not smart, Lila , that omnipresent safety buzzer in my brain whispers.

Shut the hell up and let her kiss a man , the part of me that wants to live replies.

That part rarely wins, but she's ahead by three laps on this track tonight, and he's stroking my ass with his hands and touching my tongue with his.

Fireworks are exploding.

The fireworks .

All over my skin. In my breasts. Deep in my core.

I fling one leg around his hips. He grips my other leg, and ohhh, yes , I'm wrapped around his hips with that thick, solid ridge nestled between my thighs, and we're both wearing too many clothes, but we are so going to work out this tension between us, and I can go back to life as normal tomorrow, and ohmygod , he found my nipples again.

He has me backed against the wall with a light switch or something bulky in my back while I thrust against his hips, and he's teasing my breasts and devouring my mouth and I am never, ever going to make out with another man in my life without thinking of how expertly Tripp Wilson can locate and squeeze my nipples.

Fireworks?

Nuh-uh.

Earthquakes.

There are earthquakes shaking my core. Safe, smart Lila has fled the state, and aroused, gimme my cookies Lila is driving this train. I'm gripping him by the ears, slanting my mouth to his, then trailing kisses across his stubbled jaw to nip at his ears while he does some weird magic with his tongue right at that spot where my neck and shoulders meet, his engorged cock hitting my clit through my jeans and making my eyes cross.

We really should've just finished this a month ago.

Without even trading names.

Who needs names?

What do names even mean?

I paw at his shirt. His hands are already under mine.

We're doing this.

We're finishing what we started in New York, and tomorrow's going to be a new day of working together with a man that I'm going to bang at every opportunity, even though the smart, safe thing is to not get involved with a man who works for me every day of the week, but I cannot resist him.

He's strength and stubbornness and rightness and grief and understanding and pure, raw sex.

"I want to touch you," he rasps.

"Don't stop now."

"This is insane."

"Inevita— oh my god , more."

He's managed to unclasp my bra and is stroking the underside of my breasts, and how did I never know I was so sensitive there?

My hips buck against him, and when he brushes his thumbs over the tips of my nipples again, I nearly come on the spot, straining my clit against his thick erection, too much clothing, too many barriers, too much?—

"Good evening, Mr. Wilson. Is everything okay?"

I jerk back and bang my head against the wall at the loud voice coming from above us.

Tripp jerks back too, and I squeak and fling my arms around him as I realize I'm about to fall.

He grunts and staggers.

I remember I have legs, but gah , I don't want to let go, but?—

"Mr. Wilson?"

"Who is— oof —that?" I ask while we both crash into the opposite wall, and suddenly it occurs to me that I should let him go.

But the thought doesn't come before we're crumpling to the ground together, legs twined, my arm somehow smushed to his crotch.

He's looking around wildly too, when his gaze lands on the wall behind me. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he mutters.

He's panting. I'm panting. And while I'm still struggling to figure out where the voice is coming from, he looks at the ceiling. "I'm fine. We're fine. Thank you."

"Alright, Mr. Wilson," the ceiling says. "Have a nice evening."

He starts to nod to the ceiling, and then he cringes. "Apple dumplings!" he barks. "I mean ghost rider . I mean— dammit . Shit. Lila—fuck. I need?—"

I don't know what he needs, but I'm suddenly aware of a smoky scent in the air. "Are you having a bonfire here too?" I ask while my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I push off Tripp, remember where my arm is as he grunts and hunches over—lovely, I've just racked him in the balls—but I know who's calling and I need to take this.

"I told you to back off," I hiss into the phone.

"Did he cop a feel? If he copped a feel, I'll cut his arms off."

"I know where you get bagels every Tuesday morning. Back. Off."

The line goes dead.

Is that—that is smoke. "Is your house on fire?" I ask Tripp.

He's on his back in the foyer, knees bent, eyes closed, on his phone too. "No, I don't need police assistance. I was distracted by—yes, I have the password. Snaggletooth ." He grimaces with his eyes closed. "And I'll need to talk to someone about changing that. Again."

I look at the wall.

At the alarm panel on the wall, which is what I was shoved against.

Do you believe in signs?

I believe in signs.

And that, right there, is a sign.

"You do have security," I say dumbly.

One eye slides open, and I get a Tripp Wilson special. One very direct you're such a dumbass look, aimed straight at my noggin. "Yes, Lila, I have security."

I take a step back and trip over a toy firetruck.

Which is appropriate, since the smoke alarms go off a split second later.

"The cookies," Tripp groans.

Cookies.

I am so not getting any cookies tonight.

Because every time I try to get my cookies, we set off a smoke alarm.

Tripp's gaze meets mine.

His lips quirk up in a smile like he's thinking the same damn thing.

And my heart squeezes so hard it sucks all the air out of my lungs.

It is definitely time to go.