Chapter 29

29

Lila

It starts in New York.

I'm back in the city a week or so before Christmas for meetings about Bubble Bath Books and some of my favorite charities, missing Tripp like I left one of my limbs behind, when I feel the tickle in my throat again.

No big deal.

People get colds.

But I don't want Tripp to know I'm sick, because I don't want him to worry.

He's already fussing over my hours, and not just because he wants me to stay over in his bed, but because I can't hide the bags growing under my eyes. I'm beginning to suspect his invitations to sleep over are more so he can watch over me and make sure I'm sleeping than because he actually wants to wake up next to me, and I won't put him in the position of being overworked during the day, making the most of every minute with his kids every evening, and monitoring my health during normal sleeping hours.

It's entirely possible he was right, and firing half the organization, right down to the mascot, wasn't the best approach to fixing my family's baseball team.

Maybe we should've done it one phase at a time.

All Pakorski wanted to see was progress. Not zeroes to heroes in a single season.

And let's be honest here.

He doesn't want the legal challenge I could bring with the bank account I'm sitting on if he tried to move the team, though I'd much rather not spend months and months in court.

But my point is, we're all overworked, and I'm doing what I can to make sure Tripp's not dealing with the majority of the upheavals I've caused.

We've added staff, which helps in theory, but there's training. Getting them up to speed. Negotiating over the differences in what they've done for previous teams, and how I want things to run for the Fireballs. Prepping for Fireballs Con.

It was supposed to be a small thing. Announcing our coaching staff and mascot finalists, and making players available for autographs and pictures between sessions about the Fireballs' Foundation and their living legends.

Turns out that takes way more planning than anything I've done before, because all of my projects have been either hands-off investments or projects I was obsessed with until I found the next shiny object and moved on, letting other people handle the kinds of tasks I'm still having fun with at Fireballs headquarters.

I'm reading less, but I'm living more.

And I wouldn't be in New York at all, except it's time to do what I do best, and hand off a successful business to the people who are doing the real work, so I can get back to Copper Valley and my life.

But when the sniffles hit, I text Tripp that I'm in back-to-back meetings, send him a homemade selfie gif of me blowing him a kiss, and promise I'll see him soon.

My meetings are over in two days, and I can get over the sniffles in two days. The vitamin combo I used right before Thanksgiving should do the trick.

I even go to the doctor, which is a pain in the ass, but I know if I can tell Tripp I've been, he'll feel better.

On the doctor's advice, I'm trying out a nasal irrigator—trust me, not at all sexy—when Tripp calls me over video chat.

I decline, but on the third call, when I've made it out of the bathroom and cleaned up after almost choking on the damn saline solution, I finally pick up.

"Hey!" I say brightly, sounding like someone's holding my nose shut while taking a blowtorch to my tonsils.

Huh.

My throat didn't hurt thirty minutes ago.

Stupid nasal irrigator.

And there goes the frown.

I usually like that frown. It means I'm irritating him in the office, and he's going to take it out on me by going down on me later in the bedroom.

But I do not feel like doing anything other than sleeping right now.

"Are you sick?" he asks.

"Too much talking at the meetings. And someone brought a cat. I'm allergic."

Uh-oh. It's the eyebrow.

He doesn't believe me.

He shouldn't, but I really want him to, because he carries the weight of enough people's worries on his shoulders. He doesn't need to get tied up in knots over me having a simple cold.

"I'm fine . Don't worry about me. I'll be home in two days."

His face softens at the word home .

Did I say two days?

Screw that.

I want to be home now .

"Where are your friends?" he asks.

"They're at book club. With a cat. I shouldn't be there."

"Lila."

"And I'm planning on catching up on some sleep."

He thrusts his hand through his hair, and I want so bad to be there with him to hug him and promise him I'm fine, but I'm actually feeling a little warm, and I shouldn't share germs with him or his kids, so going home actually isn't in the plans right now.

"Send me your address," he orders.

"You are not coming here. Just in case my…allergies…are contagious."

"I'm sending Levi to check on you."

"Tripp."

"Lila."

"I'm fine . I promise."

"You need to see a doctor."

"I did. Cross my heart. He says I just need to slow down a little. Just like you've been saying. And I am. No more conventions or mascot contests or firing any more coaches before spring training. Six more weeks, and all the heavy lifting will be done. We're halfway there anyway with the coaching staff, right?" I need to quit talking. My throat is on fire, and I'm having a hot flash.

At least, I think that's a hot flash. But I'm too young to be going through menopause, so maybe I have a low-grade fever.

Tripp's making that face. The one that says he's trying very hard to let me do something stupid, and which he usually later comes around to admitting wasn't actually stupid at all.

Like Fireballs Con.

And the Fireballs and Furballs calendar, which we sold out of in ten days.

I freaking love Copper Valley. Everything we've done, the community has responded to. When we need help, the mayor steps up, or one of the other pro sports teams in town, or plain old normal people who just want to participate in something , like being honorary duck guards for an hour.

Although, I don't think a cold is going to have quite the same impact on productivity and community involvement as everything else I've been putting energy into.

"I'm going to bed right now ," I promise him.

It's seven o'clock. Still so many productive hours left in the day.

But I am. I'm going to bed.

And tomorrow, I'm going to feel much better, and in two days, I'll be back in Copper Valley, back in Tripp's arms—possibly with a face mask on, just in case I do have contagious germs—and everything will be just fine.

"I love you," he says.

I press a kiss to my fingers and wiggle them at the camera. "Love you too."

Gah , I do.

I love him.

Everything from his stubbornness to his patience, his loyalty to his heart, and his kids, his protectiveness, his intelligence, his passion, his insecurities, even the way he's been trying so hard to give up his addiction to hand sanitizer—everything.

All those little bits of him that are so much more than the responsible one in that boy band .

The way he's teaching me that life goes on.

That it's up to us to live it, and the way he's helped me embrace who I am.

All of me.

"I'm worried about you," he says with that same intense look James gets when he's thinking hard about something that puzzles him.

"I don't want you to worry about me."

"That's what partners do, Lila."

"I know. And I worry about you worrying about me."

That earns me a small smile, but it doesn't erase those lines in his forehead. "Check in first thing tomorrow, and call me if you get worse. Understand?"

"Tripp—"

"Please."

"Okay," I whisper.

But I think he knows I'm lying.

Because if my options are making Tripp more worried or taking care of myself, I'm still going to take care of myself.

He has enough other things on his plate.

He doesn't need me triggering his anxiety about germs too.