Chapter 19

19

Tripp

The office vibe is different without Lila here.

She's making her presence known through email—so many emails, every hour of the day like she never sleeps, everything from requesting updates on coaching staff interviews, to rejecting my plans for the ballpark renovation before I even sent her all three proposed phases, to confessing personal little tidbits that are making me wish she was actually still here in Copper Valley, because I'm starting to miss her—and then through a phone call late Thursday afternoon almost a week after she left.

"I do not need security," she informs me when I pick up her call.

"Hello to you too, Ms. Valentine. I hope you've had a productive time in New York."

"I fired them all."

"The whole city?"

" No . Your security team."

"Oh, that. They told me you tried. Good thing they answer to me, and not you. Alonzo found a paparazzo in the lobby of your building this morning, waiting to get a picture of you leaving with Brooks Elliott."

There's silence on the other end, save for the soft sounds of her breath, and fuck me if I'm not getting hard.

Mr. Wilson, I want the team manager from San Diego. And the batting coach from Toronto. Also, bring in Trevor Stafford for a meeting next week when I'm back from New York. I don't care if his agent comes or not. We need to discuss his role on the team next year.

Mr. Wilson, how are those calendars coming along? We need them stocked in the online store ASAP so we don't miss the holiday gift-giving season.

Mr. Wilson, I can't stop thinking about the feel of your cock between my legs. I'll be in Copper Valley to finish what we started in three hours. Bring hot chocolate chip cookies. I want to eat them off you.

I snap back to attention, because she didn't send that last email, though I do know she double dips carrots in ranch dressing, that her favorite song will forever be Taylor Swift's "Shake It Off," and that she can't compete when it comes to dad jokes.

But when I heard she took Brooks Elliott up to her apartment last night, I might've seen green. And then red.

Sort of like how my vision gets when I think about her relationship with Dalton Wellington.

I want to break both their necks at the idea that either of them might've touched her, even though the security team tells me that Lila and Brooks were deep in conversation about batting line-up strategy and not touching at all when they went through her lobby after her book club meeting, and he left half an hour later without anything out of place.

"You're a public figure," I tell her. "I picked the security detail personally, and I even stole one of Levi's bodyguards to make sure you got the best. They'll respect your privacy and your boundaries, and you won't even know they're there until you need them. Which you clearly did this morning."

More breathing.

I rub my eyes, then lift them to study my children, who are being deceptively quiet in the corner while they play with crayons and coloring books. I probably have about four seconds before one of them melts down, because they've been like this for seven minutes after both of them being exceptionally whiny all morning.

"I realize it's not ideal," I say to Lila, "but it's a necessary precaution."

"I can hire my own security team."

"Great. As soon as you find them, let me know, and I'll take my team off the job. Provided my team thinks your team is competent."

She's scowling. I can hear her scowling, and I have to stop myself from smiling.

I don't actually like making her unhappy.

But I do get a kick out of knowing how she's reacting. There's a level of comfort in understanding another person that well.

"You had no business emailing Mr. Wellington about my security either," she bites off.

I'd feel bad at the idea that she might've gotten in trouble with her boss—her ex -boss, that is—except the asshole should've put security on her a long time ago.

She's been in and out of the tabloids for at least three years, never getting enough public attention to warrant paparazzi following her like they are now that the Fireballs are front-page news for all the shake-ups, but enough that the crazies would know who she is.

"If it helps, I'd do the same thing for my brother."

"Force him to have security?"

"Yep. You're not obscure anymore, Lila. You never really were. So as long as you're part of the Fireballs organization, we're going to take care of you."

She sucks in another breath, but this one's different.

This breath makes me wonder if anyone's ever taken care of her before.

"I have an idea, Mr. Wilson. Why don't you use this top-notch security team as your nanny team instead?"

She shoots, she scores. It's like she knows I just rejected three more nanny candidates this week merely because I didn't like the vibe from one, the second showed up wearing an orange blazer and I hate orange, and the third might've uttered a dammit when she stepped on a Lego in the living room.

Maybe.

I'm pretty sure it was a dang it , after reviewing my memory, but I tend to trust my first instinct, and my instinct says no.

"Things are moving along here with the in-house daycare," I say.

"You're not allowed to interview the staff for that, by the way."

"Dada, boogah," Emma announces, holding up a finger.

She sneezes twice, coughs low and rough, and my heart stops.

Not the colds.

Not the colds .

But that cough—and there it is again. That deep, rough, all-the-way-from-the-bottom-of-her-lungs cough after a morning of whining.

"Gotta go," I tell Lila. "You're welcome for the security team."

I'm texting my mom before I've hung up the phone.

Irrational?

Yes.

Overreacting?

Probably.

But breathing through it only gets me so far when Emma feels warm to the touch. James gives me a funny look when I tell them we're all going to the doctor.

And this is the crux of why I can't find a nanny.

Because I don't trust any nanny will immediately know the signs that one of my kids is getting sick as soon as I will.

Mom meets me at the doctor's office. She doesn't tell me I'm being a hypochondriac, even though she should.

She merely gives us all hugs and sits with us while we wait for the end of the day when the doc can squeeze us in.

It's not the first time.

It won't be the last.

And that's exactly why this situation with the Fireballs isn't going to work long-term.

I can't be the guy running the team.

I need to be the guy hiring the right people to run the team.

Because when my babies are sick, I'm not going to work. I'm not handing them off to my mom. And I'm not letting a virtual stranger take care of them.

I'm nursing them through myself.

I couldn't save their mother. I almost lost Emma. So this is the least I can do for them.

I pull out my phone and send a message to my family.

The extended family.

The family that can make things happen.

I need a meeting with Wellington. I'm buying him out of his interest in the Fireballs.

It's for my kids. So I can be home more.

And so Lila knows YOU'RE the man she can depend on now , my subconscious whispers.

I flip it off and rise when the nurse calls Emma's name.

My baby girl's getting sick.

Being here for her is the only thing that matters.