by Sara Ney
I thought I was happy—back when life was fucking simple and everyone didn’t want something from me. I was happy when I played baseball because I loved it, not because it paid the bills for the big, dumb, empty mansion I felt pressured to buy. I was happy when I could see my parents more often. I was happy when my friends from home could afford to come sit in the stands and watch me play in our hometown, when they didn’t have to hop on a damn jet to see me.
I was happy after our date when I thought Miranda liked me.
Liked.
Why the past tense, Harding? I can almost hear Buzz asking me the question, though he’s now a few feet behind me, severely lagging.
I’m about to pivot around to chew his ass out when a flash of pink catches my eye.
Miranda?
In the parking lot?
I squint, focusing on that pink dot ahead of me, the face and the hair and she’s leaning against a white car, wringing her hands nervously.
Suddenly, Wallace is beside me. “What…? Is that…” He shields his eyes with his free palm, though he’s wearing a ball cap and can probably see her just fine. “Oh my goodness, look. Is that…could it be? Is it she?” Lines from that goddamn kid’s movie. “Why, is it Miranda? What on earth is she doing here?”
Son of a bitch.
I give Wallace a sidelong glance. “Please don’t tell me you had anything to do with this.”
“I do not know what you are talking about.” He tosses his invisible long hair, words stilted; he is by far the worst fucking liar I’ve ever seen. It’s a good thing he vies for an ESPY every year and not an Oscar.
Good god. “You are the worst actor I’ve ever fucking met. Don’t quit your day job.”
He grins stupidly, making a beeline for the black, souped-up pickup truck he often drives to practice. “Oh look, there’s Tripp to pick me up—it’s…” He racks his brain for another lie. “Our mom’s birthday, so I’m out. Can’t talk right now, gotta run!” Practically races away, duffle bag flapping behind him, knocking into his calves it hangs so low, and Tripp Wallace is not in the fucking parking lot waiting for him, that liar.
He doesn’t look back, but throws Miranda a hasty wave.
Asshole! With friends like this, who needs enemies?
Slowly, I approach Miranda. Wary. Uncertain. The usual behavior for a guy who’s inexperienced enough with women to be a bit ashamed of his behavior while standing in front of a girl he has a crush on. A girl who could crush his heart if he gave in to her. Got to know her. Let her in.
Which is why I’ve been avoiding her. Because I don’t know what I’m doing.
Well, there’s no avoiding her now, is there? She’s standing in the parking lot of the stadium, my teammates and support coaching staff curiously looking over at this newcomer who clearly isn’t one of the WAGS, definitely not a groupie—not in the casual outfit she’s got on. Thankfully they’re all smart enough to keep their mouths shut, knowing she must be the girl they’ve read about in the tabloids.
And they have read about it—when something goes down with a guy on the team, we all hear about it. We’re worse than women, the biggest gossips you’ve ever met.
“Hi.” She looks bashful too and I can tell by her body language that she’s uncomfortable—probably as much as I am. “Um…Trace said I could find you here.”
“Trace?”
“Your friend, uh, Buzz? He said that was his name.”
Oh shit, that’s right—his name is Trace and his brother’s name is Tripp, how stupid could two names possibly be?
“I’m sorry to show up like this without giving you a warning, but I have been trying to get ahold of you…although if you wanted to talk to me, you would have called me back, right?” Her head drops as if she’s only just considered that. “Shit. This was a horrible idea.”
I take another step forward. “No, it’s fine. He was right—we can’t avoid it forever.”
“It or each other?”
“It. The press.”
Her nod is slow. “Right. But…can I be honest?”
“I thought we already were being honest.” I scratch at my head under the brim of my cap.
Miranda rolls her eyes at my literal translation of her statement, powering on. “I couldn’t care less about what’s in the papers, or online, or on social media or wherever that horrible story is posted—I just wanted to talk to you and see how you were feeling about it.”
She’s worried about me?
I was worried about her.
“I wanted to make sure you were alright, even if you never want to see me again, which appears to be the case.”
That last part is mumbled under her breath, her lips twisted into a sardonic, somewhat sad downturn. That makes me frown. It was mumbled, but I caught it—and now I’m confused.
“Why would I never want to see you again?”
She looks up at me. “Noah—I’ve texted you at least a dozen times and called a few and you’re avoiding me. The only reason I’m here is because of Buzz. He said…”
I brace myself for whatever she says next. I can’t imagine what Wallace told her and glance across the parking lot as his car drives away. It’s too far to tell, but I swear I catch his eyes staring back through the rearview mirror and I have no idea what to think.
Is he a shady bastard for setting this up or a really good friend?
“What did Buzz say?”
Pretty mouth. Beautiful eyes. It isn’t just those things I like; it’s her. She is beautiful. Kind and caring. And brave—if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be here, standing in front of me to see how I’m doing.
“Miranda, what did Buzz say?” I shift on my heels, moving my bag from one shoulder to the other.
“All he said was…all he said was you’re sensitive.”
Not what I was expecting her to say.
Pussy, yes. A chicken, yes.
Sensitive? What the fuck does that even mean?
“I’m what?”
“It’s okay, Noah—I like the fact that you’re not an insensitive asshole. I like that you get sad. I like that—”
“What!” I’m not shouting—you’re shouting. “He did not say I was sad.” If he did, I will kill him. Strangle him with my bare hands.
“No, he didn’t say that, but he did say you were hurting.”
Hurting? Nice choice of words. Makes me sound like an even bigger pussy.
“…and he said you miss me, but that you probably wouldn’t contact me.” Miranda inhales a deep breath. “So here I am. I came to you.”
I came to you.
Just like that, she came to me. Instead of waiting or giving up, she sucked it up and came to me.
Admittedly, she would have been waiting a really long time.
I must have a look on my face that she can’t interpret because the silence between us stretches; no words are coming out of my fucking windpipe, the uncertainty lining her worried brow intensifying.
But I can’t talk, because I’m getting choked up, and we’re still in the damn parking lot, my idiot teammates looking on as if they haven’t seen enough drama for one day.
Typically, I am not at the center of it.
My face flushes from the attention and I clear my throat. “Not to sound cliché, but do you want to get out of here and go somewhere we can talk?”
Her expression of self-doubt turns to one of relief, and she nods. “Yes. Could we?”
“Are you cool coming to my place? It’s not far from here, maybe 20 minutes tops.”
Miranda nods. “We can do your place.”
I glance at her car. “Follow me? I’d hate for your car to be here on its own and look abandoned. I don’t know if they’ll ticket you without a parking pass.”
“Sure—I can follow you. Lead the way.”
I stand awkwardly, glancing down at her. Tempted to kiss the top of her head or her lips. Or something.
Just do it. Stop holding back. Get out of your own head. She came to you.
Leaning down,
I press my lips to the crown of her head and when she tips her chin up to look at me, I press another kiss to her surprised mouth.
“Follow me.” I point to my car—not the truck she was in on our date. “Black Tesla.” Not just any Tesla, the luxury sports car that goes for a cool six figures.
Miranda blinks toward the stupidly expensive vehicle, then nods slowly. “Okay.”
We’re young, so the fact that she’s having a difficult time reconciling the sports car makes sense to me. By now she also knows what I’m worth, but I don’t let that bother me. She liked me before she knew I had money; she liked me before she knew I was famous.
She likes me. That’s all I know and that’s all I care about.
I walk to my car, flipping the bird to the parking lot stragglers who are still loitering. Hear a few laughs from my buddies and one or two wolf whistles. Immature assholes.
Still.
I’m grinning when I slide inside my car, the warm leather heated from the sun, push the START button. The engine purrs, low and melodic, and I adjust my mirrors, so I can see Miranda. Make sure she’s settled, buckled, and ready before shifting the car into drive.
I take the time to glance at her every so often; she’s singing as she drives, that much is evident. Checking her blind spots when we switch lanes, sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose.
She’s in a good mood, all things considered, and in no time at all we’re pulling past the security gate—and guard—of my community, winding down the roads at a leisurely 15 miles an hour. A few more turns and I’m home, the automatic gate gliding to the side so we can pass through.
Miranda sneaks through before it closes behind her, and I pull into the garage as she parks in the turnaround.
If I’m expecting her to comment on the McMansion before her, I’m about to be disappointed, because she doesn’t. Doesn’t say anything as she patiently waits for me to punch in the code for the house and step into the mudroom.
Silently, I lead us to the back deck. Walk to the fridge beneath the outdoor BBQ and grab us a few bottles of water before gesturing toward the lounge chairs. Pull one into the shade, under the giant umbrella, then do the same with one more.
“Thank you.” She sits.
I sit.
“You didn’t have to hide from me,” she starts. “I’m your…friend.”
Oh god—her friend? The fuck… Is she already friend zoning me? “Are you friend zoning me?” I ask, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at full attention.
“No! I mean, unless that’s what you want. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—you can tell me anything. Just don’t run.” She pauses, twisting off the cap of the water. “Why did you do it? The past 24 hours have been horrible, Noah. Just horrible—you might be used to it, but I’m certainly not.” Now that she’s opened the floodgates, the words keep flowing. “I’m getting messages from people I haven’t spoken to in years. Guys I dated in eighth grade suddenly want to talk to me. My Instagram for work is blowing up—it went from a few thousand followers to ten thousand, to fourteen thousand to twenty. It’s insane. And you ditched me in the middle of it.”
I think she’s done, but she’s just pausing for a breath.
“I don’t have a team of people to handle this shit for me, Noah—no publicists or PR person. I’m 22 and I’m selling baseball cards to pay the rent on my office space which I’ll probably be sleeping in next week. So honestly? It was really shitty for you to ignore me.”
“Neither do I,” I argue, knowing it’s a half-truth. The team has someone, but I do not, because why the fuck would I?
Miranda skewers me with a dagger like gaze. “Don’t you go there.”
“Sorry.” My bad.
“The point I’m trying to make is that you ignored me and I want to know why. Trace said you missed me, but if you missed me, why would you avoid me?”
I busy myself with a sip of water, swallowing hard. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand to buy a few more seconds to think. Then, “I don’t know. You’re right, it was a shitty thing to do.” I uncurl myself from the deck chair and rise, cross the foot or two between us, and kneel next to her lounger. “I don’t know, but I’m sorry. It was stupid—I panicked. The whole thing freaked me out, especially since you were involved.” I take her face in my hands—her beautiful, shocked face. “It’s one thing for them to trash me in the news, but it was another thing to see you trashed. I didn’t know how to handle it and I let you down.”
Her eyes are huge, brows raised into her hairline.
Mouth an O of wonder.
“I’m sorry.”
I brush her cheeks with the pads of my thumbs before releasing her face, head dipping to her lap, forehead pressed against her smooth legs.
Miranda’s fingers rake through my hair, brushing gently. She doesn’t tell me it’s okay. She doesn’t say, That’s alright. She doesn’t say it because we both know it wasn’t okay, and it wasn’t alright, and whoever raised her raised her right.
Miranda knows her worth and she’s not going to placate or make me feel better when we both know I screwed up.
“Don’t do it again” are the words that come drifting toward me, even as her hands stroke my neck. It’s not a threat, but it’s enough to let me know she means business.
My fingers drift along the smooth skin of her legs, the calloused pads on the bottoms making her shiver. I kiss her thigh, shifting so I can kiss the skin of her knee. Her calf. Higher again, inching back up the way I came, drinking in the smell of her skin.
I leave one of my giant hands spread on the inside of her thigh, below the hem of her denim shorts, her intake of breath a good indication that if she was mad before, she isn’t any longer.
“You smell good.”
“You’ve mentioned that before.” Her tone is teasing and I look up, into her face. “But do go on—what else do you like?”
Cheeky little shit. “You have the softest skin.” I could touch it for days. “And I like this spot right here.” My thumb strokes along the sensitive area inside her thigh, the skin a little lighter there where the sun doesn’t reach.
Trail the thumb farther, inside her shorts.
Suddenly wish she was naked. “Do you want to go swimming?”
Miranda laughs. “I don’t have a suit.”
“So?”
We stare at each other then, she to gauge my sincerity, me to gauge if she wants to get naked.
Her eyes scan the hedgerow of tall cypress trees planted at the back of the property, running along the perimeter, as if determining how private the place actually is. I am separated from the house behind mine by their hedgerow, their fence, and their pool house.
“I’ve had my mouth on your pussy,” I blurt out. “It’s not like you have to be modest.”
Miranda stares at me, wide-eyed, as if she can’t believe the words that just came out of said mouth. If we’re being honest, I can’t believe it either. I’ve never said shit like that to a woman before and immediately regret it.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
She moves to get off the chair and I go back on my haunches, still kneeling next to her as she says, “No. You’re absolutely right and it is really hot out.”
Without another word, she reaches for the hem of her tucked-in shirt, pulling it free from the shorts, and yanks it up over her head, tossing it to the deck chair.
Looks down at me. “Well? Let’s go. Get naked.”
I scramble to stand, like an amateur, the dick inside my pants twitching. Down, boy, down. Relax.
Except—it’s been a long time since anyone stripped naked in front of me (strip clubs do not count) and watching Miranda peel one layer after another from her body has me gawking like a teenage boy.
She’s facing the water, so I can’t see her boobs, but her hands are obviously working the front snap of her jean shorts, those same hands pushing them down around her waist. Hips, legs, until they’re pooled on the ground.
&nb
sp; Stepping out of them, she’s in only a thong and a bra. Hands reach around, deftly working the clasp quicker than I ever could. Tosses it to the side. Tugs at her lavender panties, bending slightly at the waist, and I…
Frantically begin stripping like a bad scene in a movie where the kid cannot get naked fast enough, desperate to catch up.
Miranda takes one, two, ten steps and leaps into the pool, the giant splash behind her flying through the air and wetting my feet.
I’m a few seconds behind, managing to make it in the water before she surfaces—I don’t need to be caught with my pants down around my ankles and my dick in my hand, relieved when I’m sinking into the lukewarm water beside her.
When my head pops up, I get splashed in the face, wiping a hand up and over my forehead, flipping my hair back.
Miranda splashes me again, flirtatiously, the sun catching the beads of glistening water on her shoulders and hair.
“You’re so dead,” I threaten, walking toward her, making my way through the chest deep shallow end.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she taunts just before disappearing below the surface. I watch as she strokes to the other side, hits the wall, and swims back toward me with a single breath. Pops up in front of me, dark nipples skimming the top. “The water feels so good.”
She’s close and moves closer, arms wrapping around my neck, legs wrapping around my waist—I’m surprised by her unabashed affection, but not put off by it and I weave my arms around her bottom, cupping her ass. Hoist her up.
Kiss her mouth.
“Aren’t you worried about shrinkage?”
I pull back and look at her. “Shrinkage?” I drop her, letting her sink under, and she rises, sputtering.
“You brat!” Splash. “You dropped me!”
“My dick does not shrink in cold water!” The temperature of the pool is a blissful eighty-five degrees: not too warm, not too cool, definitely not cold enough to shrink my cock.
“Are you sure?” One of her eyebrows is raised arrogantly.
“See for yourself,” I tease, not thinking she’s actually going to dunk beneath the water and tread in front of my dick, eyes wide open, bubbles hitting the surface and popping.
I watch, spellbound as her hand reaches forward, wraps around my somewhat flaccid cock and tugs gently.