From Enemies to Expecting
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Kat Cantrell
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11
One
Logan McLaughlin hated losing. So of course the fates had gifted him with the worst team in the history of major league baseball. Losing had become an art form, one the Dallas Mustangs seemed determined to master. Short of cleaning house and starting over with a new roster, Logan had run out of ideas to help his ball club out of their slump.
Being the team’s owner and general manager should be right up his alley. Logan’s dad had run a billion-dollar company with ease and finesse for thirty years. Surely Logan had inherited a little of Duncan McLaughlin’s business prowess along with a love of baseball and his dad’s dot-com fortune?
Ticket sales for the Mustangs’ home games said otherwise. A losing streak a mile long was the only reason Logan had agreed to the ridiculous idea his publicist had put forth, otherwise, he’d never have darkened the door of a reality game show. As last-ditch efforts went, this one took the cake.
But, as his publicist informed him, Logan had run out of charity golf tournaments, and they hadn’t helped drive ticket sales anyway. Short of winning games—which he was working on, via some intricate and slow trade agreements—he needed to get public support for his team another way. Now.
Exec-ution’s set teemed with people. Logan stood in the corner nursing a cup of very bad coffee because it was that or rip off someone’s head due to caffeine withdrawal. He should have stopped at Starbucks on the way to the studio, but who would have thought that an outfit that asked its contestants to be on the set at 5:00 a.m. wouldn’t have decent coffee? He was stuck in hell with crap in a cup.
“Logan McLaughlin.” A pretty staffer with an iPad in the crook of her elbow let her gaze flit over the other contestants until she zeroed in on him standing well out of the fray. “Care to take a seat? We’re about to begin filming.”
“No, thanks. I’ll stand,” he declined smoothly with a ready smile to counter his refusal.
Chairs were for small people; at six-four, 220, Logan hadn’t fit in most chairs since eleventh grade. Plus, he liked being able to see the big picture at a glance.
A soft-looking middle-aged man in a suit nodded at Logan. “Thought I recognized you. I’m a Yankees fan from way back. Used to watch you pitch, what, ten years ago?”
“Something like that,” Logan agreed easily.
The Yankees had let him go eight years ago, but who was counting when the career he’d poured his heart and soul into ended in a failed Tommy John surgery? His elbow still ached occasionally, just in case he didn’t have enough reminders that his days on the mound were over.
“Man, you were great. Sorry about the arm.” The man shook his head. “Shame you can’t get any of your starters shaped up. The Mustangs could use a guy with your skill.”
Yeah. Shame. Logan nodded his thanks. He tossed his crap in a cup into a trash can and crossed his arms over the void in his chest that owning a baseball team hadn’t filled. It was getting harder and harder to convince himself that his glory days were not behind him.
Winning games. Ticket sales. Merchandise sales. These were things that would fix that void. And when he won Exec-ution, sports news outlets would have something to do with his name besides dragging it through the mud.
The staffer called a few more people to take seats around the boardroom table. A photograph of the downtown Dallas skyline peeked through the faux window behind the table. Crew members buzzed around the cameras, and a few tech guys sat behind glass in a control room, wearing headsets. The host of the show sat at the head of the table, hands carefully laced in front him, with perfectly coiffed hair and a bogus TV smile.
“Let’s have a good show!” The staffer melted away, and Well-Coiffed Guy launched into his spiel.
“Hi, everyone! I’m Rob Moore, your host for Exec-ution, where executives compete in two-person teams in an entrepreneurial challenge designed to showcase the ability to run a business. The winners get one hundred thousand dollars for charity. Losers? Executed!”
Logan rolled his eyes as the host smacked the table with his trademark chopping motion. So cheesy.
A commotion caught everyone’s attention. A dark-haired woman strode onto the set with the pretty staffer dogging her heels.
Logan promptly forgot about the smarmy host and fake boardroom in favor of watching the real show—the dark-haired woman walking.
She moved liked an outfielder with a batter’s home run in the works: fast, purposeful and determined not to let that ball go over the wall. Maybe she could teach his guys a few things about how to hustle.
The closer she got, the more interesting she became. A wide stripe of pink ran down the left side of her hair. The right side had been shorn close to her head in an asymmetrical cut that made Logan feel off-kilter all at once. Or maybe that was due to her thick, black Cleopatra-style eye makeup, which was far sexier than it should be.
She had everyone’s attention exactly where she wanted it—on her. A woman dressed in a slim-fit, shocking pink suit cut low enough to allow her very nice breasts to peek out clearly expected people to notice her.
“Sorry I’m late,” she offered the host. Her throaty voice thrummed through Logan in a way he hadn’t been thrummed in a very long time. Not since his pitching days, when baseball groupies had been thick on the ground, which he’d taken advantage of far less than he could have.
This lady in pink had the full package, and then some. For some other guy.
Logan avoided packaged women like the plague, as they often came with nasty surprises once you unwrapped them. He liked his women simple, unaffected and open, a younger version of the best woman he knew—his mom.
Didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate a gorgeous woman with a sexy voice.
Pink Lady drew even with Logan, electing to stand despite open seats at the table and ice-pick heels on her feet that couldn’t be comfortable.
“I tried to explain that we’d already started filming,” the staffer told Rob Moore in a hushed voice that carried across the whole set. “She barged in anyway.”
“It’s okay,” the host said with a crafty smile. He waltzed over to them, his gaze cutting back and forth between Logan and the lady in pink at his side. “Oh, I like this. Very nice. Bad girl meets all-American boy. The viewers will love it.”
“Love what?” Logan glanced down at his blue Mustangs T-shirt and jeans and then at the dark-haired woman. Moore’s comment sank in. “You want us to be teammates? I don’t think so.”
That was not happening. But Moore had already moved on to the next couple, both of whom looked relieved with their matches.
The sinking feeling in Logan’s stomach bottomed out. Pink Lady had crossed her arms under her spectacular breasts, shoving them upward so that they strained against the fabric of her suit. He averted his eyes as she started tapping out a staccato rhythm with one stiletto.
“What’s wrong with being my teammate?” Her agitation pushed her voice up a notch. “You don’t think I have any business savvy because of the tongue piercing. That’s crap and you know it.”
A...tongue piercing? Instantly, he envisioned exactly what skills a woman with a steel bar through her tongue might have. And they all centered on being naked. With her mouth on his flesh as she pleasured him.
Dragging his thoughts out of the gutter took entirely too much will. That’s why he liked unassuming, unsexy, uneverything women.
“I didn’t even notice that,” he informed her truthfully and tried to stop himself from catching a glimpse of the piercing. “My objections have nothing to do with you.”
That part was patently false. It had everything to do with the fact that she had distraction written all over her. He’d have to get a new teammate, no question.
For God knew what reason, she laughed, and that did a hell of lot more than thrum in Logan’s gut.
“I have a BS meter with new batteries,” she said. “Look around, honey. Everyone else has been paired. Can we get with the program?”
Logan peered down at his new teammate’s fingernail, which had landed in the dead center of his chest. Then he glanced back up at her incredibly disturbing eyes. They were a shade of ice blue that seemed so much more stark and unique than they should, probably because of her eye makeup.
“I’m with the program.” He reeled back the curl of awareness that her finger had aroused. “The question is, are you? I wasn’t late.”
“Five a.m. is an ungodly hour, and I was only fifteen minutes late. You can’t hold that against me.”
Yeah, actually he could. He’d been on time and so had everyone else. But since it did appear as if all the other teams had been set, he sighed. “Fine. You’re forgiven. What did you say your industry is again?”
“I didn’t. What did you say your name is again?”
The point wasn’t lost on him. He’d completely abandoned civility with this pink curveball, and his mama had taught him better than that. He stuck out a hand. “Logan McLaughlin. Owner and general manager of the Dallas Mustangs.”
“Sports is your thing, I see. The lack of dress-up clothes threw me.” She glanced at his Mustangs shirt, and then slipped her hand in his for what should have been a perfunctory shake.
The moment her palm slid against his, a shock zinged up his arm, arrowing straight for his groin. He let it ride because it was that powerful and, God, he hadn’t felt anything like it in ages. Her eyelids drifted downward a touch, and she peeked up at him from under her lashes, clearly affected by it as well.
“I own suits,” he muttered, loath to release her and completely aware that he should have ended the handshake at least thirty seconds ago. “I’d rather go naked than wear one.”
What was he doing?
Get a grip, McLaughlin. This woman was the polar opposite of his type, and flirting with her could only lead to disaster, especially since they were supposed to be focused on winning. Unfortunately, he had a feeling the disaster train had already pulled out of the station.
“Naked is my favorite, too.” Her voice had dropped back into the throatiness he much preferred. That was not going to work, either. “Trinity Forrester. Yes, as in the holy trinity, the chick in The Matrix and the river. I’ve heard all the jokes, so save them.”
“I guess I’m not allowed to ask if you’re overly religious, then.”
She smiled, leaning in close enough to share a whiff of her exotic scent that of course only added to her allure.
“If you do, you get my standard answer. ‘Any man in a ten-foot radius is expected to treat me like a goddess. You can get started worshipping me any time.’”
Oh, she’d like that, wouldn’t she? His eyes narrowed.
If they were going to be teammates, they had to get a few things straight. No flirting. No throaty voices coupled with come-hither glances. Logan called the shots, and Ms. I’ve Heard All the Jokes had better be able to keep up. Sexy heels were optional.
* * *
The cameras had captured every word of the exchange. So far, so good.
The more the cameras tuned in to Trinity, the more times the producers would overlay her name and Fyra Cosmetics on the screen. You couldn’t buy better advertising than that, and Fyra needed all the positive press it could get.
Trinity Forrester would get that press come hell or high water. Nothing could be allowed to happen to her company, the one she and her three best friends from college had built from a concept and a dream. Thanks to an internal saboteur, Fyra was struggling. As the chief marketing officer, Trinity took the negative publicity personally. It was her job to stop the hemorrhaging. Exec-ution was step one in that plan.
Otherwise, she’d be in her office hard at work on the campaign for Formula-47, the new product they’d hoped to launch in the next couple of weeks.
Mr. McLaughlin still had her hand in his as if he might not let go. Perfect. The more enthralled he was, the easier it would be to take charge. Men never paid attention to her unless they wanted to get her into the sack, mostly because that was the way she preferred it. Sex was the only thing she’d ever found worth doing with a man.
She smiled at Logan for good measure. He had good ole Texas boy baked into his DNA. Toss in his longish brown hair that constantly fell in his face and his casual clothes, and yeah, Logan McLaughlin was the epitome of the all-American type. Also known as a nice guy.
Nice guys were always hiding something not so nice, and she’d learned her lesson a long time ago when it came to trusting men—don’t. A surprise pregnancy in her early twenties had cured her of happily-ever-after dreams when the father of her baby took off, and then a miscarriage convinced her she wasn’t mother material anyway.
“Mr. McLaughlin,” she murmured. “Perhaps you’d give me my hand back so we can get to work?”
He dropped it like he’d discovered a live copperhead in his grip and cleared his throat. “Yeah. Good idea.”
They retrieved a sealed envelope from the show’s host, and Logan followed Trinity to an area with an easel and large pad of paper for brainstorming. Her fingers itched to mark up those pristine white pages with diagrams. If that didn’t jump-start her missing muse, nothing would. Though she’d tried a lot of things.
The cameraman wedged into the small area with them, still rolling. Perfect. She’d have to come up with more outrageous things to do, just to ensure the editors had plenty to work with. Coming in late had been a stroke of brilliance. And McLaughlin’s face when she’d informed him he couldn’t hold fifteen minutes against her...priceless. He was obviously a rule follower. Shame.
He tore open the envelope and pulled out the contents, scanning it quickly. “We have to run a lemonade stand in Klyde Warren Park. Whichever team makes the most money wins the task and avoids execution.”
“Excellent.” Rubbing her hands together, she then quickly sketched out her vision for the stand, filling in small details like cross-hatching to indicate shadowing. “Orange will be the best color to paint the booth. Good contrast against green, assuming we’ll be in the grassy part of the park.”
Her partner loomed at her shoulder, breathing down her neck as he stretched one muscular arm out to stab the pad. “What is this?”
“A sign. That says Trinity’s Lemonade.”
What did the man bathe in that smelled so...manly? The clean, citrusy notes spread through her senses and caught the attention of her erogenous zones, none of which had gotten the memo that she did not go for Texas boys who looked like they lived outdoors.
The man owned a sports team, for God’s sake. He’d probably need a dictionary to hold a conversation over drinks, which would no doubt include beer and a hundred TVs with a different game on each one. She and Logan were ill matched for a reality game show, let alone outside one, his rock-hard pecs aside. Her fingertip still tingled from when she’d poked him, not at all prepared for the body she’d discovered under that blue T-shirt.
“Why would we call it Trinity’s Lemonade, exactly?” he asked, his deep voice rumbling in her ear. “Logan’s Lemonade sounds better. Starts with the same letter.”
“It’s alliterative, you mean,” she supplied sweetly. “I understand the dynamics of appealing to the public better than you do, honey. So let’s stick with our strengths, shall we?”
She stroked a few more lines across her work of art and then yelped as her partner spun her around to face him. His mouth firmed into a flat line and he towered over her even in her five-inch Stuart Weitzman sandals. Trinity was used to looking men in the eye, and the fact that she couldn’t do that with Logan McLaughlin put her on edge.
“You’ve done a really good job of not mentioning your strengths, darling,” he threw in sarcastically. “I run a multimillion-dollar sports franchise. What do you do, Ms. Forrester?”
“Haven’t I mentioned it?” she tossed off casually when she knew good and well she hadn’t—on purpose. The moment a man like him heard the word cosmetics, he’d make more snap judgments and she’d had enough of that.
At this point, though, she needed to impress upon him that she was in her sweet spot. “I’m the CMO at Fyra.”
Blandly, he surveyed her. “The makeup company?”
“The very same. So now we’re all caught up,” she informed him brightly. “Marketing is my gig. Yours is figuring out which guy can hit the ball hardest. When we have a task that requires balls, I’ll let you be in charge.”
This lemonade stand graphic was the first inspired thing she’d done in weeks, which was frankly depressing. Her muse had deserted her, which was alarming enough in and of itself, but the timing was horrific. Fyra planned to launch its premier product in the next ninety days. Fortunately, no one knew she’d run dry in the creativity department. It wasn’t like she could tell her business partners that she had a mental block when it came to Formula-47. They were counting on her.
His mouth tipped up in a slow smile that didn’t fool her for a second. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re partners. That means all tasks require balls, specifically mine. Shove over and let’s do this together.”
Nice. Not only had he called her on her double entendre, he’d done it with a style she grudgingly appreciated. Which was the only reason she stepped a half inch to the right, graciously offering him room at the pad.
His arm jostled hers as he took way more space than she’d intended. The man was a solid wall of muscle, with wide shoulders and lean hips, and yeah, of course she’d noticed how well his jeans hugged the curve of his rear. That part of Logan McLaughlin was a gift to women everywhere, and she’d gotten in her share of ogling.
Without a word, he picked up his own marker and crossed out “Trinity’s Lemonade,” then scrawled, “McLemonade” across the sign. Oh, God. That was perfect. How dare he be the one to come up with it?
Scowling, she crossed her arms and in the process made sure to throw an elbow into his ribs. Which promptly glanced off as if she’d hit a brick wall. And now her elbow hurt.
“Fine,” she ground out. “We’ll go with yours. But the booth will be orange.”
He shrugged, shouldering her deliberately. “I didn’t have an issue with that.”
The man was intolerable. Nowhere near the nice guy she’d pegged him as, and once he opened his mouth, totally unattractive. Or at least that was what she was telling herself.
“Oh, yeah? So the stuff you do have issues with—that’s all getting the McLaughlin veto?” Standing her ground shouldn’t be this hard, but heels coupled with the immovable mountain snugged next to her body threw her off, and not solely because it was impossible to think through the shooting pangs of awareness that she couldn’t seem to get under control.
Instead of glaring, his expression smoothed out and he took a deep breath.
“Let’s start over.” He extended his hand.
Because he’d piqued her curiosity, she took it and he swallowed her palm with his. Little frissons of awareness seeped into her skin at the contact.
“I’m Logan McLaughlin. I run a baseball team and our ticket sales suck. My publicist insisted that this game show would be a good way to get some eyes on the team, so here I am. Any help I can get toward that goal is appreciated.”
His clear hazel eyes held hers, and his sincerity bled through her, tripping her pulse unexpectedly. Well, jeez. Honesty. What would the man think of next?
“Hi,” she said because that seemed to be all her throat could summon as they stared at each other, intensity burning through her. “I’m, um, Trinity Forrester. I sell cosmetics alongside three women I love dearly. Our company stepped in a negative publicity hole, so my publicist came up with the brilliant idea to stick me on a TV show. I’m...not so sure that was a good move.”
That made Logan laugh, and the rich sound of it wound through her with warmth that was so nice, her knees weakened. Weakness under any circumstances was not acceptable. But hardening herself against him took way more effort than it should have.
Was it so wrong to let a man like him affect her? Sure he was insufferable, pigheaded and way too virtuous for her tastes, but he had a gorgeous body, a nice smile and longish hair made for a woman’s fingers. He couldn’t be all bad.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing,” he admitted, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But I’ve changed my mind. I think we can help each other if we work together. Willing to give it a shot?”
Guess that was her answer about what else he had up his sleeve—he was going to be pleasant instead of an obstinate jackass. Strictly to mess with her head, most likely.
But she needed to work with him to benefit both of their goals. She bit her tongue and slipped her hand from his. “I can give that a shot.”
They put their heads together, and true to his word, Logan listened to her ideas. She considered it a plus when he laughed at her jokes. No one had to know she secretly reveled in it.
* * *
By the end of the afternoon, they’d amassed a solid four hundred dollars and change with their McLemonade booth. God knew how. They’d fought over everything: how much to charge, where to set up, how much lemonade to put in the cups. Apparently, Mr. Nice Guy only made an appearance when he wanted something, then vanished once he got into the thick of things.
Finally, the show’s producer asked them to pack up and head to the studio so they could wrap up the day’s shooting. They drove separate cars to the set and met up again in the fake boardroom.
This time, Trinity grabbed a seat. An entire day on her feet, most of it on grass while wearing stilettos, was not doing her body any favors.
“Welcome back, everyone!” Rob Moore called, and the teams gathered around the table.
Logan stood at the back and Trinity pretended like she didn’t notice the vacant seat by her side. All the other teammates sat next to each other. Fine by her. She and her partner got on like oil and water and had only figured out how to work together because they’d had to.
“We’ve tallied all the sales, and I must say, this was an impressive group of teams.” The host beamed at them. “But the winners are Mitch Shaughnessy and John Roberts!”
Disappointed, Trinity clapped politely as the winning team high-fived each other and jogged to the head of the table to claim the giant check made out to St. Jude Children’s Hospital. That was the important thing—the money was going to a good cause.
“The winning team’s proceeds were...” Rob Moore paused for dramatic effect. “Four hundred and twenty-eight dollars. Impressive!”
Oh, dear God. They’d lost by a measly twenty-five dollars? She thought about banging her head on the table, but that wouldn’t put the cameras on her face with a nice graphic overlay stating her company’s name. But what if there was a way to get some additional airtime? The cameras were still rolling, panning the losers as the host launched into his trademark parting comments.
“Fire up the electric chair, boys,” he cried. “We’ve got some executions to perform!”
This was the cheesiest part of the show, which she’d hoped to avoid. She had a good idea how to do that and get some cameras on her at the same time.
Pushing her chair backward with a sharp crack, she bolted to her feet and charged over to her partner, poking her finger in his chest with a bit more force than she’d intended. But she’d gotten the cameraman’s attention, and that was all that mattered.
“This is all your fault, McLaughlin. We would have won if it wasn’t for you.”
His gaze narrowed, and he reached up to forcibly remove her finger from his person. “What are you talking about? This ship started sinking the second we were paired. Bad girl meets all-American boy. Please. What they should have called us was train meets wreck.”
That struck her as such a perfect way to describe the day that she almost laughed, but she bit it back. She could admire his wit later, over a glass of wine as she celebrated the fact that she never had to see him again. “You know what your problem is?”
“I’ve got no doubt you’re about to tell me,” he offered and crossed his arms in the pose that she’d tried—and failed—to ignore all day. When he did that, his biceps bunched up under his shirt sleeves, screaming to be touched. She just wanted to feel one once. Was that so much to ask?
“Someone needs to. Otherwise, you’d walk around with that rule book shoved up your...butt,” she amended, lest the producers cut the whole exchange due to her potty mouth. “Some rules are made to be broken. That’s why we lost. Apply for sainthood on your own time.”
His expression heated and not in a good way. “Are you saying I’m a Goody Two-shoes?”
“If the shoe fits, wear it,” she suggested sweetly. “And that’s not even the worst of your problems.”
He rolled his eyes, fire shooting from his gaze, and she almost caved, because he was really pissed and while she wanted the cameras on them, she also felt like crap for poking at him. But when he got hot and bothered, he lost all his filters and focused on nothing but her.
That, she liked.
“Oh, I’ve gotta hear this. Please, enlighten me.”
“You’re attracted to me and you can’t stand it.” That was like the pot calling the kettle black, though she scarcely wanted to admit that to herself, let alone out loud.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me.”
Her finger ended up back on his chest. Oops. It was hard and delicious and there was something super hot about how immovable he was. Logan was solid, the kind of guy who might actually stick around when unexpected challenges cropped up. Sometimes a girl needed a strong shoulder. He had two.
“I heard you,” he growled and went to smack away her finger—she’d assumed—but he crushed her palm to his chest, holding it captive with his hand. “What I meant was, that’s the craziest thing you’ve said so far today.”
The cameraman had zoomed in on their discussion. She noted the lens from the corner of her eye and nearly smiled.
You couldn’t buy this kind of exposure. This time tomorrow—with her help—this clip would go viral: Two executives melt down on the set of a reality TV show. Viewers would see a strong woman not taking any crap from her male partner. As long as they spelled Fyra correctly, it should amp up the positive publicity and counter the negative.
“Get ready for more crazy, because not only are you attracted to me, you can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss me. Admit it. You’re curious about the tongue piercing.”
“Of course I am,” he bit out, fuzzing her brain at the same time.
He was? Fascinated, she zeroed in on him, and yeah, there was a whole lot more than agitation in his expression. Logan McLaughlin, official Boy Scout of major league baseball, had never kissed a woman with a tongue piercing. And he wanted to.
Heat and a thick awareness flooded all the places between them. His heart thumped under her palm, strong but erratic, which perfectly mirrored the stuff going on under her own skin.
“What red-blooded male wouldn’t be curious,” he murmured. “When there’s only one reason to have a steel bar through your tongue—to pleasure a man.”
His eyelids shuttered for a beat, and when he opened them, his eyes held so much wicked intent, her pulse bobbled. Caught in his hot gaze, she swayed toward him, her hand fisting his shirt. “One way to find—”
His mouth captured hers before she’d fully registered him moving. And then all rational thought drained from her mind as Logan kissed her. The TV set melted away, the fascinated onlookers disappeared—none of it registered as he yanked her into his embrace.
Exactly where she wanted to be.
Logan McLaughlin was perfection under her hands, because yes, he was that hard all over. His back alone qualified as a work of art, defined with peaks and valleys that she hadn’t ever felt on a man before. Imagine that. Something new to be discovered on a male body.
She wanted more. And took it.
Tilting her head, she deepened the kiss, and he countered instantly, swirling his tongue forward to find hers, taking command of the kiss, heightening the roar of hunger pounding through her veins. His mouth. God, the things it was doing to her. The things it could do.
And then all at once, his lips disappeared and she swayed forward, desperate to get them back on hers. Instead, he leaned in and nuzzled her ear.
“How’d I do?” he murmured. “Close enough to what you were going for?”
Trinity laughed, because what else could she do? “Yeah. That was perfect.”
He’d been on to her scheme the entire time. Of course. What had she thought, that a man with commitment and white picket fences written all over him might actually go for a woman like her, who’d turned her independence into a shield? That he’d been as into the kiss as she had?
Never in a million years would they make sense together—unless it was fake.
This was a great place for goodbye. But for some reason, Trinity was having a very difficult time taking her hands off her partner.
