Sleeping
with my family’s enemy wasn’t planned. Oops. Too late.
It was a
one-night stand in Costa Rica, and names were the last thing we wanted to
exchange. What can I say? The man was hot as sin.
Blue-sky
eyes.
Broad,
athletic shoulders.
A
smile that just about did me in.
I came
home with more than his cowboy hat as a souvenir.
Four
years later, that sweet memento calls me Mommy.
I’m a
busy single mom helping to run the Dover empire. The last thing I need is a
vacation fling showing up wearing the one name on the back of his baseball
jersey that’s forbidden by my family. Greene.
Annoyingly
arrogant.
Infuriatingly
irritating.
A
smirk on his stupidly handsome face.
Just my
luck when I need to break the news, he’s my son’s father.
He came
to play baseball, not be a dad, so I have no intention of getting me and our
son caught up in his game. But even the strongest walls have faults, and when
we start spending time together, mine begin to crumble.
Is the
universe giving us a second chance or are we caught up in a small-town frenzy?
EXCERPT
The crack of the bat draws my eyes up
from my phone to the ball flying over the far side of the baseball field. I
visor my eyes to watch the ball breach the boundaries. Home run.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a
home run out here on Dover Creek field. Leaning forward on the metal bleacher,
I watch the batter jog the bases. “Who’s number twenty-two?” Without my
glasses, there’s no way I can see the name written in smaller letters on the
back of his jersey from these nosebleed seats.
“Greene,” Savvy replies, flipping the
pages on her clipboard when I glance over at her.
“Greene with an E, as in Greene
County?” The rivalry between our county and theirs runs back generations. I
still don’t know what caused the initial ruckus between the Dover and Greene
families, but it persists in the peripheries of the modern lineages for each,
at least from my understanding. It always sounded like a bunch of old ranching
tales from the wilder west days of the Texas Hill Country.
My cousin, and assistant, drags her
finger down the roster, then taps it twice on a name. When she looks at me, she
says, “Griffin Greene. Definitely a Greene with an E of Greene County.”
“And of Rollingwood Ranch, Greene
Farms, which is under the ranch umbrella, and the Greene family reviving their
small town of Peachtree Pass.” I sigh with a roll of my eyes. I’ve heard so
many stories growing up about this so-called feud that I feel like I know the
family myself. I don’t, but I know enough to get by. “Ranching royalty in these
parts.”
Looking at me under the brim of a Dover
Armadillos baseball cap, she adds, “And a former pro baseball player to boot.”
Turning my attention back to him on the
field as he rounds home base, I note, “Wonder why he’s no longer in the Major
Leagues when he still hits like that?”
“I don’t know his story.”
“Neither do I.” I’d like to, though.
“Just curious.”
“He’s cute,” she tacks on casually as
she stands, knowing her audience well.
I look up at her, my eyes still
shielded from the sun with my hand. “How cute?”
“As a woman in a never-ending
engagement, it wouldn’t be proper for me to speak on such things.” She laughs
and plops down next to me again. Then, as if others in this empty stadium will
hear us, she leans in, and whispers, “Very cute, and just your type.”
“First of all, I rarely talk to Blake.
Our paths just don’t cross that often, except at family events or the
occasional dinner with you guys. I don’t even think he likes me.”
“He likes you, but we do tend to get in
trouble together.”
“I don’t have a type.”
“You have a type. You just don’t want
to admit it.” She stands again and starts to shift down the row. “I need to get
back to the office. Are you staying for the rest of practice?” She eyes the
field and homes in on a certain baseball player. “I wouldn’t blame you if you
did.” Her laughter trails her as she takes a few steps down.
“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” I
reply. “I have emails to catch up on before the end of the day.” And check this
guy out a little longer . . . maybe I do have a type?
“I’ll see you back at the office.”
Savvy weaves her way to the exit and
out of sight. My attention returns to the field as the players swap out.
“Griffin Greene, huh?” I can tell he’s a big guy, even from where I sit in the
stands. Broad shoulders and muscular arms that tend to be exactly what I’m
drawn to when I’m drinking, which isn’t too often these days. But there was a
time when life was less complicated, and from what I see, I’d certainly find
him attractive if I were partying out on the town.
Let’s just hope he’s not as cute as
Savvy says. Being a thirty-something single woman in Dover Creek is already a
crime in some people’s eyes. Falling for the enemy would not only be
unforgivable in my family but it would also have me serving two life sentences.
“Oh Jesus.” He covers third base, too? I don’t stand a
chance. I pray to the baseball diamond itself that he is hideous to look at
up close and married. I’m doomed to make a big mistake with a ballplayer
otherwise.
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