Triple Score

“So who is he?” Holly asked, refusing to be diverted. “Is he hot? I need the dirty deets.”

“You’re married to People’s Sexiest Man Alive.”

“And we have a toddler who doesn’t like to sleep in her own bed. I have to live vicariously through you, at least until we get through the terrible twos.”

Noelle snickered. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but he’s definitely not into me.”

Not after she’d humiliated herself not once but twice by bursting in on him. And then been a total biatch to him on the bike.

“Ah ha!” Holly snapped her fingers. “So there is a he.”

Oops. And people thought Gabe was the master of cross-examination. Poor Joy didn’t stand a chance of getting away with anything as a teenager.

“Don’t get excited. We’re more like squabbling siblings than star-crossed lovers.”

“Who is he?”

“Some hotshot baseball player. Jace something-or-another.”

“Jace Monroe?” Holly squealed. “Oh my God, he’s totally gorgeous, if you go for the whole tatted-up, boy-from-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks thing. Which you do.”

“How do you even know who he is?” Noelle rolled her eyes. “You hate baseball.”

“Nick’s a huge Storm fan from his time in California. He watches all their games on the MLB network.” Holly reached out of the frame to grab a Diet Coke. “But this conversation isn’t about me and Nick. It’s about you and Jace. What makes you think he’s not into you?”

Noelle propped up the pillow behind her and leaned back against the headboard, juggling the computer on her lap so she stayed on camera. “You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

While Holly sipped her soda, Noelle spilled the whole, sordid story, from interrupting what she thought was a sexual encounter to the love doll incident, ending with how she’d given him the cold shoulder in the gym that morning. When she finished, Holly clucked her tongue.

“You need a do-over. Apologize to him again. And get it right this time.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that.”

“So what are you waiting for? Hang up and say you’re sorry to that beautiful hunk of man.”

“I’m afraid of what I might walk in on.” Noelle laughed a little too loud, trying to hide the fact that her words had conjured images of Jace in all kinds of compromising—and mostly naked—positions. “I don’t exactly have the best track record where he’s concerned.”

“Aha,” Holly nodded and her lips curved knowingly. “Now I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“No, I won’t.” Noelle smacked a palm down on the bedside table. “I can’t afford to get sidetracked by some charmer in a muscle tee and athletic shorts. I’m fighting for my career here, Hols.”

“What good’s a career without someone to come home to?”

“I’m not looking for a life partner. I’ve got all I can handle right now.”

“Okay, then. Who says he has to be Mr. Right? What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now? You’re young. Let loose. Live a little.” A baby’s cry made Holly startle, and she sighed. “I’ve gotta go. Nick’s a magician with his hands, but give him a diaper and he falls apart.”

“TMI, big sis. TMI.”

Holly chuckled. “Think about what I said. And call me when you and Mr. MVP kiss and make up.”

“We’re not going to...”

But Holly’s smiling face had already disappeared from the computer screen. And Noelle wasn’t any closer to figuring out how she was going to coexist for the next few weeks with the sexiest shortstop in the southwest without making a total fool out of herself again.

Or jumping his oh-so-fine bones.

3 (#ulink_0a976c74-1d24-5e63-8019-78c0d6da5129)

“IN BASEBALL, THE STORM trounced St. Louis 11–3 behind the red-hot bat of rookie phenom Dean Hafler. Hafler’s been on fire since taking over for injured starting shortstop Jace Monroe, hitting .327 with runners in scoring position. He’s settled down in the field, too, playing error-free defense in his last six games.”

“Effing Sportscenter.” Jace jabbed a finger at the power button on the remote, but the commentator droned on.

“Monroe reinjured his UCL in last month’s series against Philadelphia, and it’s uncertain when—or if—he’ll return. Sources close to the team say even with Monroe healthy, Hafler’s stats may put him in the running for the starting job next season.”

“Sources, my ass.” No doubt Hafler’s barracuda of an agent had floated that rumor, trying to up his client’s ante in the free-agent market in the off season. Jace threw the remote down, stalked over to the television and turned it off. “The only way that little pissant’s gonna steal my job is over my dead body.”

Jace snatched his cell off the nightstand. He needed some air and to have a good, long talk with his own worthless agent. He had a few questions that needed answering—like why the hell was he hearing this shit on ESPN and not from the guy he paid to protect his career.

He pulled open the door, already hitting his agent’s speed dial, and almost plowed into Noelle.

“Bad time?” She stood with her fist raised to knock on the door he’d flung open. He found himself hoping she’d drop her palm on his chest, let its heat scorch through the well-worn cotton of his favorite T-shirt, right over the word guy in I’m the Guy Your Mother Warned You About. Instead, it fell to her side, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “Again? I thought the third time was supposed to be the charm.”

He pressed the end-call button, stuck the phone in his back pocket and leaned against the door frame. “No PT. No sex toys. Just me, about to go for a walk.”

“Can I join you?” The way she moistened her lips told him she was nervous, although it didn’t shed any light on why. But that didn’t stop his dick from twitching as her tongue darted out again. “I’m not exactly up to warp speed, but the doctors say I need to start moving around more now that I’ve lost the crutches.”

He stuffed a hand in the pocket of his jeans, hoping to hide what was sure to be a monster erection if he didn’t get the damn thing under control, and fast. “I can’t guarantee I’ll be good company.”

“Bad company’s better than no company. And everybody else in this place is either still going through puberty or over sixty.”

“Meaning?” His eyes narrowed.

“Meaning I’m going stir-crazy, and I need someone to share these with.” She produced a tin from behind her back.

“What’s in there?”

She jiggled the tin and the contents rattled. “Contraband.”

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Drugs? Laundered money? An AK-47?”

“Better.” She cracked the lid and held the tin under his nose. He smelled almonds and something he thought was coconut. “My mom’s homemade macaroons. Strictly off-limits under the rehab diet. I was hoping they’d convince you to give me another shot at apologizing.”