Chapter 24

24

Tripp

I want to go with Lila to the office, just like this, in sweatpants and without shaving, but I'm not so far gone that I let myself.

She's a smart, adaptable force of nature who's pushed through losing her parents to make a life for herself with the lips of an angel, eyes that hypnotize me every time, and secret depths in her heart.

She's not the only woman I know who would've charged my deck last night to save me from danger, but the rest of them have been my family for a long, long time.

And I haven't wanted to strip any of the rest of them naked at the first available opportunity.

I smile through getting James and Emma packed up for a day of fun at Uncle Beck's place—you're damn right I'm having the security company in here to figure out how Lila's Uncle Guido got past the video cameras in the first place, and I want my kids somewhere else while I'm having some upgrades added—and hint in a roundabout way to Davis that if he happens to have any connections at any level of the government, that I'd appreciate one of them getting in touch with me.

He stares at me blankly like he has no clue why I'd think he has connections to ask questions of government operatives.

"Denver?" I mutter to him.

I get a rare Davis grin. "You're still making mountains out of molehills there."

"Yeah, singing for your dinner in prison would've been molehills."

Don't ask what happened in Denver. Let's just say it was the beginning of the end of our touring days, and we're lucky we got to finish our final tour with all five of us on stage.

"You investigating Lila?" he asks.

"Nope."

His eyes flicker, and I growl.

He's already asked around about Lila, and I know he knows things he's not telling me, and I frankly don't give two shits.

I trust her.

"Dude, if she makes you happy, she makes you happy." He holds up his hands. "That's what's important. End of story."

He disappears to get back to work at his place south of the city, and I have to acknowledge that Lila really did have a point last night.

Davis might work for a secret government agency for all I know. I'm not unintelligent, and I still don't understand what he supposedly does for the nuclear reactor down in Corieville.

Levi sticks around to help me pick up all the toys I dumped under the windows and in front of the doors before bedtime last night. "You've got issues," he tells me.

He's not wrong.

"But I'm glad you got laid," he adds. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

So does punching him in the arm and telling him to watch his mouth, even if he's still grinning when he leaves too.

I get to Fireballs headquarters thirty minutes later than I wanted to. I drop my suit jacket in my office, which still has the cup of coffee I was drinking when Emma sneezed last week sitting on my desk, and head directly upstairs.

"Morning, Mr. Wilson," Denise says with a bright smile. "Ms. Valentine's waiting for you for a conference call."

And there goes my smile even bigger.

I stroll into the office and freeze.

The orange couch is gone. So is the massive desk. And the carpet. The windows are freshly cleaned. There are two new bookshelves, two new sitting chairs, a red and gold rug over the exposed hardwood, a filing cabinet, and a new desk that looks more like a table, but has a computer monitor mounted on the edge, and there's a pink yoga ball beneath it.

Lila's on her tiptoes, pushing a book onto the top shelf. Her calf muscles are straining over her stilettos, her black pencil skirt is hugging her curves and that sweet ass, and all her curly red hair is tumbling down her back and covering her white blouse.

My cock's instantly at full mast, which won't help with getting any work done today, but I can't control my body's reaction to her.

Not today.

Not the first time we met.

Not even the moment I knew I'd just thrown away my dream by lying to her about who I was.

Not last night.

Probably not ever.

And it's not just what's on the outside.

It's that spark of life, and knowing just how much she's overcome to keep it.

"Need help?" My voice comes out huskier than I mean it to, and when she drops back to the ground and casts a glance back at me, a smile pulling her lips up at the corners, I know I'm done for.

"Got it. Your kids okay?"

"Yeah. I think they'll like the break from me. And Davis was right, as usual, which is annoying, but we deal with it. Especially if it gets me a nanny."

It's like watching a book close when I mention Davis.

Not surprising. He gave her the Man Bun look. "Listen, about Davis?—"

"He's very protective."

"We all are. Comes with fame. Doesn't go away after you leave the limelight. But he won't dig."

"Anymore?"

Caught . "Anymore," I confirm.

Her lashes flutter and she looks down. "Everyone has secrets. I have secrets, Tripp. But I don't have any more that can hurt you."

I squeeze her arm softly. "How do I earn them?"

"You want to earn my secrets?"

"That's usually what people do in relationships."

Her shoulders are quivering, and I realize I really don't know how hard this is for her. But she straightens her spine, and her eyes meet mine again. "My first week in boarding school, I booby-trapped my own room because I didn't know if it was the kind of boarding school where I'd have to defend myself against the pre-established bully groups, or if it was the kind of school where everyone was so oppressed that no one bothered."

I start to smile. "And?"

"And the school's principal ended up with blue ink stains all over her face for a week because my ink bomb pen malfunctioned and shot the wrong way. Apparently someone reported me for sneaking marijuana onto school grounds, so she went through my stuff."

"So it was that kind of school."

"Not after the head ringleader got two straight weeks of packages with dead fish heads on dry ice in them."

I choke on air, because I didn't see that coming.

She sighs, and when she leans her head onto my shoulder, it's instinct to wrap my arms around her and protect her. "They couldn't prove it was me, because it wasn't , and all the packages came from all around the world. One return label was from Antarctica. Another from California. One from somewhere in Russia. You get the point."

"She…pissed off the CIA?"

"No, she pissed off Uncle Guido, who then pretty much ruined all chances of me making friends with half the school. So when I started suspecting what had happened, I got in touch with him and told him I never wanted to see him again, and that he had to let me handle things on my own, because that's what people who were on their own did."

"He didn't leave you alone," I guess.

She loops her hands around my waist. "No, he started sending me massive care packages. Pop-Tarts and candy and Sweet Dreams snack cakes and multiple copies of Teen Vogue and Seventeen and People . So then certain groups hated me for being spoiled, but most of the rest of the school was bought off when I shared."

"That's…" I trail off, because nice isn't quite right. And I don't know if devious is an insult, a compliment, or both.

"It's a secret I've never told anybody," she says. "Not the part about Uncle Guido being responsible for the fish heads, anyway. Also, consider this your warning that he'll probably try to get back in my good graces very soon. And possibly yours too."

I press a kiss to her hair. "I'm both honored and disturbed."

Her hands trail lower until she has two handfuls of my ass. "I could make you forget the disturbed part."

"You could, couldn't you?" I'm on board with this plan.

"Want to know another secret?"

"Absolutely."

"Uncle Al won that championship ring that you found off of Atlanta's head coach in a poker game."

"That's not a very good secret."

She presses her pelvis against my growing hard-on. "I know, but I'm distracted. I sent it back to him. And I used hand sanitizer before I touched it."

I wince. "The hand sanitizer thing. It's?—"

"Understandable," she finishes.

"It's letting paranoia rule my life." Saying the words out loud comes with guilt, but also with a sense of relief.

If Lila can trust me with what makes her vulnerable, shouldn't I do the same? We can face our fears together.

"Do you know how sexy you are when you're doing your dad thing?" she whispers as she nips at my ear.

Holy hell.

If this is the reward for facing my fears, sign me up.

I growl and twist to capture her mouth with mine.

"Ms. Valentine, Carlos Santiago is on line two for his phone interview," Denise's voice says.

We leap apart like we've been caught, and Lila reaches for the intercom button on the phone between the two chairs while running a hand over her hair as though Denise can see us. "Tell him we'll be with him in five minutes," she says.

"You got it. Also, catering reports lunch will be ready at noon, and notifications have been distributed throughout the building."

"Thanks, Denise."

"Happy to be useful, Ms. Valentine."

"Catering?" I ask while I take a seat and tell my dick to remember we're at work.

"Morale lunch. Free for everyone who writes their favorite Fireballs memory on a slip of paper at the buffet entry line."

"That's…brilliant." I don't need to know what she's doing with those written memories to know they'll go to some kind of public relations campaign. She's always two steps ahead, fearless about diving into change, and even when it gives me heartburn to have a mound of work that I'd planned on spreading over a year instead of a month, she's spot-on.

She flashes me a cheeky grin, grabs a notebook, drops into the other round red chair, and kicks off her stilettos. "I know."

She reaches for the phone button on the round glass end table between us, but I grab her wrist. "Lila. How are you paying for all of this?"

And there's that stubbornness that both irritates the shit out of me, and also turns me on.

Determination is sexy. Can't deny it.

"That's filed under not your concern , Mr. Wilson."

"I know Al died broke. Even his house was mortgaged to the hilt."

"That was never a secret."

"Trust fund?" I guess.

All I need is a yes .

Instead, I get the drop it glare. "I liked you better when you were hugging me."

"You're borrowing from your boss."

"It's time for this interview."

"We still have three minutes. Let me buy into the Fireballs. Minority stake. You know I love this team. We have our hiccups, but we work well together, even when I want to throttle you. We'll get all the terms in writing. Sign the legal paperwork instead of doing behind-the-scenes deals. And then you don't owe anyone anything back."

"No."

Did I say stubborn was sexy?

I changed my mind. "Lila?—"

"My mom left the family business because she had a higher calling, but I used to catch her using technology that I'm not supposed to know existed to listen to Fireballs games on the radio. In Germany. So while I didn't grow up with the stereotypical heiress to a baseball team, I also knew they mattered. I've. Got. This. If they fail, it's on me."

"They're not going to fail, and you don't have to do this alone."

"I'm not doing it alone. I have you."

"I haven't been at work in almost a week."

"The world didn't fall apart, did it?"

"For one week, no. But either of my kids could come home tomorrow with pneumonia or a contagious rash or a puke bug, and trust me, when germ season hits, it doesn't let up."

"And you have a very large family who want to help if you'd just let them ."

That one's hitting a little close to home, even if she didn't call me on hiding behind paranoia and hypochondria. "I'm still a better investor, and you know it. At least I care about the team, and I'm here, every day—most days—proving it to you."

"I'm not letting you take the risk of losing all your money if what we're doing doesn't work. You want to invest in something? I can get you a very long list of worthwhile small businesses that need a little capital to take some amazing ideas public. People whose lives could be changed with a fraction of what you're talking about putting into a baseball team. If you want to talk investment strategies, I'm here. If you want to talk about buying into the Fireballs, final answer is no ."

"Then I want to meet Dalton Wellington."

" What? "

"If he's giving you money, if he's giving this team money, I want to look him in the eye and see for myself that he's not manipulating you just like your Uncle Guido is. I want to know you're not going to have to pay for this. I need to know?—"

"Dammit, Tripp, I am Dalton Wellington ."

She slaps her hand over her mouth. My jaw hinges open.

And she repeats it, softly, behind her hand. "I am Dalton Wellington."

And me?

I'm fucking stunned.