Over the Fence: Lyssa Layne's Baseball Romances (24 page)

Shaking my head at the burn of the whiskey rolling down my throat, I tap my glass for the bartender to pour me another. The amber liquid free falls into my cup and I slide a fifty across the counter. The burly man behind the counter nods his understanding to keep them coming.

I spin around and take in the scene in front of me as I lean back against the mahogany wood. The dark bar is illuminated by neon beer signs and the smoky air is so thick you can barely see the other side of the room. Thank goodness, because I don’t want to see who the ear-piercing voice belongs to that’s crooning some unknown blues tune. Despite the less than pleasing aesthetics, I smile as I take a pull of my whiskey, trying to wash away my misery.

This definitely isn’t your typical L.A. bar scene and that’s exactly what I want. No one to recognize me, where I can be left alone to wallow in my own self-pity. I’m still pissed that the Minutemen, my home team for five years, didn’t extend my contract. I’m the best damn shortstop in Major League Baseball, but because some rookie kid from Florida accepted their deal for a few million less than I’d take, I’ve been traded to the Los Angeles Stags.

A hot pink mohawk across the room catches my attention and I down the rest of my alcohol. This is exactly why I didn’t want to come to L.A. Pink hair, manscaping, dogs in purses… that kind of shit isn’t the norm back in Milwaukee, but here in L.A., it’s everywhere you turn. Life back home was simple. I could drive my F-350 and no one would think twice about it. Here in L.A., I’ve already seen people yell at drivers in SUVs about their carbon footprint so I’m sure they’ll love my diesel truck on their streets.

I make eye contact with the bartender who nods to acknowledge my empty glass. I turn my attention to the basketball game on the television. I hate basketball, but it’s the only sport worth watching in January. Thank god it’s only a month before spring training starts when a real sport will begin—baseball.

Not only do I have a new team to work with but I have to find a new place to live. Better to get it out of the way now so I don’t have to worry about it when spring training ends. Hopefully I can find some place tomorrow and get out of here fast. I don’t want to spend any more time here than I have to.

The faint scent of vanilla greets me and I turn my attention away from the game. The bartender is refilling my glass and the most beautiful woman stands beside me. She inspects my drink then meets her gaze with the bartender and nods.

“I’ll have the same but make mine a double.”

The bartender’s eyes travel down her body and I watch as they land on her delicious cleavage that is on full display. He gives me a sideways glance and I raise my eyebrows, tapping the counter to let him know to put her drink on my tab. Without looking at me, the almost six foot tall brunette goddess says, “Thanks for the drink.”

Despite her beauty, my mouth drops at her audacity. True, I did tell the bartender to put her drink on my tab but she’s making a bold assumption that any man she walks up to will buy her a cocktail. I move my eyes over her body and take in the little black dress that hugs all of her curves and plunges well below her breast line. Her bright turquoise heels showcase her perfectly defined calves.
Wow
! I shift on my barstool. I don’t think I’ve ever been turned on by a woman’s calves before.

Her grey eyes are surrounded by the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. I’m no make-up expert, but I can tell this isn’t mascara. She’s hardly wearing any make-up at all, she’s a natural beauty. Her long thin nose is framed by a picture perfect smile and the air is filled with her soft, melodic laugh.

“Did I interpret the tap incorrectly?” she asks with raised eyebrows.

Suddenly at a loss for words and feeling a sense of relief that she isn’t as arrogant as I thought she was, I nod. The bartender sets the whiskey in front of her and she takes a long drink, giving the cutest shake of her head as she scrunches up her nose and draws in her eyebrows. I find myself laughing, which is a first in this town. She sets the glass down and nods toward the television.

“Lebron playing tonight?”

I glance at the game and realize I have no clue who’s playing. Sheepishly, I give a shrug as she takes another drink.

“Not a Lebron fan or basketball in general?”

“Both.”

Her fingertips circle the rim of her glass and my mind goes to places it shouldn’t.

“Let me guess… baseball?”

I’m not surprised that’s her guess. I stick out like a sore thumb in this town with my plaid button-up shirt, jeans, and my day old beard.

“Sure, I like baseball,” I say casually, still preferring to be anonymous.

She briefly raises her eyebrows before taking another drink. She extends her perfectly manicured hand to me. I’m still staring past her hand at that damn cleavage of hers before I realize I’m supposed to shake it.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

She laughs and glances down at her chest. “Guess this dress is a little too revealing, isn’t it? I’m Mia by the way.”

Shaking my head to clear the fog this woman has created, I pull her hand to my lips and lightly kiss it. “No, Mia, the dress looks amazing on you.”

Her left eyebrow raises and her right eye closes slightly. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen a lot. A multi-millionaire baseball player gets lots of women’s panties in a bind and they do some crazy stuff. I slowly let go of her hand and she draws it back to her glass, sliding it a little faster around the rim. I smile to myself knowing I’ve affected her, hopefully the same way she’s done to me. She tips her head slightly and looks me in the eye. My pulse races as she does this and all I can think about is getting that sexy dress off her. It would be the perfect welcome to L.A.

“Thank you….” she says, trailing off.

I watch her thin lips move as she speaks and then realize she’s waiting on me.

“James. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mia.”

She grins. “Likewise, James. So tell me, what brings you to L.A.?” Her fingertips move from the glass and lightly brush my forearm. A chill from her cold fingers and a shot of heat travel up my arm where she touches me. “I can tell you’re not local.”

Slowly her fingers move away and I fight the urge to grab her hand, not wanting to lose her touch. I give a low chuckle as I confirm, “You’re right, definitely not local. I’m moving here in a couple months so I’m just checking things out.”

I watch her neck move as she swallows the last of her whiskey. My pants are getting tight and I wonder what it would feel like to run my lips over that bare neck, inhaling her vanilla scent.

Setting the glass down, she says, “I’m not local either. Moved here about five years ago with my husband, but this town grows on you.”

My stomach drops as my eyes quickly search for her ring finger. It’s empty… but she said husband. She flips her long chestnut hair over her shoulder and turns to me with a sly smile and that sexy raised eyebrow. “Looking for something?”

Feeling bold, I slide my thumb over her ring finger and raise my own eyebrow. “I’m hoping you didn’t forget an accessory tonight.”

She turns her hand over and her fingertips graze the palm of my hand. I clamp down on the inside of my cheek to keep from sucking in my breath. Dammit, just her fingers on my hand are about to drive me insane. It’s obviously been way too long since I’ve gotten laid. My heart races as I see her leaning toward me. Her mouth is right beside my ear. Her warm breath caresses my neck and sends goose bumps over my skin. The faint scent of whiskey is on her breath.
What I wouldn’t do to taste it myself
….

Her lips are so close to my skin that I can feel them moving as she speaks. “No, James, I didn’t forget my wedding ring.”

I relax at the good news and my hand moves to her thigh, giving it a light squeeze. “Good.”

As I’m leaning forward to go in for the kill, my hand drops from her leg when she stands up. I look up into those steely grey eyes, trying to read her, but the flirtation in her eyes is now gone.

“Thanks for the drink, James, but I’m not that kind of girl.” Mia places a twenty on the bar, turns, and walks away.

My jaw drops again, partially because of the case of blue balls I’m going to have to deal with, but mainly because the feeling that I really fucked up comes over me.

CHAPTER 2

Mia

Standing on my tippy toes, I grunt as I push the roller as high as I can. I swear this is the last house I’m going to flip with my business partner. He always promises that he’ll help but at the last minute, he backs out due to an “emergency meeting,” which means his latest booty call.

“Ugh!” I groan as white paint splatters over my dark locks. My phone beeps and I glance at the time.
Crap, I’m late!
My “partner” is always my downfall. Always. Placing the roller in the tray and pulling on a sweatshirt, I grab my keys and run out to my car. This is no way to meet a client but meeting him looking like a hot mess is better than missing the meeting altogether.

At the stoplight, I close my eyes letting my mind drift back to the events from the previous day. Even now, I wonder what I was thinking wearing that low cut dress to dinner last night with my partner, who also happens to be my ex-husband. I’m not trying to win Asher back, we signed the divorce papers, but still, a part of me needed to know I could still make him want me.

I’ve been with the man for eight years, married five of them. I know when he wants something, he doesn’t stop until he gets it. I was an idiot to wear that around him. After our “business” dinner that he insists we have each month, his hand found its way under my dress. Every month, it’s the same thing, sometimes a tease at the table, other times a quickie in his backseat. I always start off strong, telling him we’re over, but eventually I give in for fear of
really
telling him no. I sigh, why can I never tell him no? He doesn’t control me anymore… at least that’s what I tell myself. He, however, doesn’t necessarily see it that way. Luckily, last night, he got a text from his lady of the night and I got a parting kiss instead.

Suddenly, the memory from after dinner floods my thoughts. I got away from my ex as fast as I could and when I wandered into my favorite dive bar, I wasn’t expecting to see Tate James. My ex taught me to love baseball and we watched every MLB game available during the season. I knew Tate, or James as he introduced himself, had been traded to the Stags and judging from the interview in
Sports Illustrated
, it was obvious that he was less than excited to come to L.A.

For some reason, seeing him on T.V. and that crooked smile of his made me think he was a good ‘ole boy. Maybe it was also from the interview and how he insisted that he was down-to-Earth, not a cocky ball player like some of the guys in the league. I scoff as I remember his hand on my thigh last night, he was just like every other man—only interested in getting laid. Still, with his hand so close to my lady parts, even when our hands touched, my nerves were jolted awake after a long slumber for many years. Sure, my husband and I had sex regularly, but it’d been a long time since my body reacted to a man’s touch like it had to Tate James.

The pictures in the magazines didn’t do him justice. Although he was sitting down, I could tell he was probably six feet and a couple inches. I just hoped he wasn’t shorter than me; my height is a curse at times. His button nose, those clear blue eyes, and that day old scruff had me lying wide awake last night. But I’d made the right choice to leave when I did…
hadn’t I?

I know I did, but then why do I feel like I should have stayed…and not just for the sex.

Tate

Twenty minutes. Twenty god-damn minutes late. This realtor is probably going to make more off my purchase than her other clients combined and she can’t even be on time. Unbelievable. I flew two thousand miles in a little over a day to find a house. I wanted this to be a quick process so I could fly back to Milwaukee and enjoy what time I have left there. Dammit, I don’t have time to waste and that’s exactly what this woman is doing.

Pivoting on heel, I stop in my tracks. A grin spreads over my face. I knew it. I knew I’d see her again, however, she is looking completely different than last night. The temptress Mia walks toward me looking just as sexy as she was at our last encounter. Yet today, she shows no cleavage, or hardly any other skin than her sexy shoulder that’s exposed from the oversized Cal-U sweatshirt she’s wearing over a pair of holey, paint-splattered jeans that hug her tight ass.

A smile comes to her face as she recognizes me, but stops a few feet away. She shakes her head and glances at the Starbucks behind me. “Didn’t have you pegged for a latte kind of guy.”

Holding up the cup in my hand, I shake my head. “Nah, coffee…black.”

She glances over my shoulder and I look behind me.