“Can I quote you on that?” Grabow said, the shit-eating grin still on his face. “I never said I had evidence, I’m just wondering what your response is to the rumors. Obviously if you’re clean, then you should just deny it.”
“There’s nothing to deny,” Carter said. “They aren’t rumors, they’re lies. And you’re obviously nothing more than a shitty, insignificant, blogger”—he spat the word—“who probably wouldn’t even have a site if it wasn’t for me and the Sluggers.”
The reporters around Grabow snickered and the smile on his face faltered. Carter walked away, ignoring the rest of the reporters. He was in no mood for a media blitz. He had just scored his 30th home-run, his team had just won and this asshole had just flipped his switch from elated to pissed off.
By the time Carter left the clubhouse, fully showered and changed, most of the edge from Lucas Grabow’s statement was gone. A nice hot shower and the camaraderie of his teammates had helped. Carter just had to keep up his streak.
The crowd of fans mixed in with some of the remaining press was waiting as he left. Usually, he enjoyed this part after a game. A warrior basking in the glory of his team’s conquest on the field. Today he couldn’t help but wonder how many of them thought he was actually juicing. Fucking Lucas Grabow.
Then he saw her.
There was the usual throng of groupies screaming his name, panties probably already wet. Any other day his eye would have immediately gravitated toward them. Today, he had eyes only for one woman.
Carter had a better opportunity to check her out now that she was standing there in person. She had long, cinnamon legs that she shifted as she leaned on one foot then the other. The face on the screen was nothing compared to the live version.
He saw the small bruise on her chin, and the fury at the man responsible for it overcame him again. Hopefully, the motherfucker was in jail right now. Better there than in the presence of Carter Fox.
The anger was quelled by the rest of her stunning face. The perfect lips and the lashes fluttering around those bright, brown eyes. A man could sink into those eyes and forget to come up for air.
She was standing there with the ball in her hand—his ball—smiling and talking to some man who was obviously admiring the ball…or was it the body that the ball was in front of. Those dimples appeared as she smiled up at him. Carter’s primal jealousy took over and all of a sudden he went straight to his playboy, bad-ass persona, wanting to completely outshine this guy. He had to impress this girl…and there were two things that had always served him well in the past: money and sex.
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Camilla Stevens is a New York transplant from Los Angeles. At night you can find her typing away, usually with a glass of wine, getting all the steamy, humorous, Happily Ever After stories out of her head and down on the page. You can usually find tulips, her favorite flower, making an appearance in most of her novels.
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So Wrong Page 26