The Lineup

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Yes, I can understand that. Working with like-minded people is of utmost importance,” I say, sounding as heartfelt as I can.

  This moment right here, where a deal is in the balance, this is what I was made for. I think on the spot, I’m quick to please, and I have no problem throwing down more on the deal to win it. I’m great at living in this moment. Anxiety and nerves don’t affect me; instead, adrenaline pumps through my veins as I use my ability to please and be unrelenting to my advantage.

  “That’s why we’re leaning more toward Heller and Parks right now.”

  Uhh . . . say what?

  Keeping a smile on my face even though it feels entirely forced now, I say, “Thank you for being so upfront, Mr. Carlton. May I ask what is swaying you in their direction?”

  He leans back in his chair and looks at his wife. “I must admit, this might sound a bit caddy, but when we started this business, we started it on the foundation of our morals and beliefs.”

  “Which is incredibly admirable of you.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Carlton shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable and I realize in that moment, this isn’t about what Mr. Carlton wants, this isn’t about pleasing him . . . this is about pleasing his wife.

  He looks to her and she steps in, hands folded in her lap, her pearls shining like a bright beacon of hope. “You see, dear, I find the dynamic between you and your father inspiring. You have raised a fine daughter, intelligent, kind, a go-getter.” My dad nods his head in appreciation. “And passing the family business down to the next generation is what we’ve always dreamed of. Unfortunately, we were never able to have children.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Carlton, I’m so sorry to hear that. I can’t imagine how that must feel.”

  She nods solemnly and Mr. Carlton picks it up from there. “It’s been hard, building this business with no one to pass it on to, but it’s something we’ve come to terms with.” He clears his throat and takes a sip of his water. “Which brings us to this uncomfortable topic, but one we figured we should be open and honest with you about.”

  “Which we truly appreciate,” I say, my ass cheeks clenched. What the hell could we possibly not have that Heller and Parks has? Hello, father-daughter duo, that is exactly what the Carltons want.

  “As you know, Heller and Parks is a family operated business like yours. We’ve been working closely with Kate Heller, and we’ve gotten to know her quite well.” Fucking Kate Heller, talk about mean girl at her finest. She’s two-faced and has a mole the size of Texas on her ass. I saw it once when she was drunk and stumbling in the bathroom at a charity event. She puts on a good appearance for clients, but she’s as awful as they come.

  “Kate is an . . . interesting woman,” I say with a smile even though it’s painful.

  “Yes, and we recently found out that she’s engaged to Emmet Parks. They’re growing a family within the family with potential to pass down the business one day. It’s a beautiful story.”

  You’ve got to be freaking kidding me. How gullible is this woman?

  Mrs. Carlton cuts in. “We adore you, Dottie. We get along with you better and prefer your proposal, but this is important to us, and since you don’t have a significant other—”

  “I have a boyfriend.”

  I don’t know what comes over me. Desperation maybe?

  But I lie out of my ass so fast that as the words fall past my lips, I even shock myself.

  I laugh like a crazy woman trying to show off her teeth. Deep breaths. “Sorry for interrupting, but I have a boyfriend.” From the corner of my eye, I watch my dad slowly turn in his chair to look at me. Yup, I know what he’s doing. He’s chastising me with his eyes because he knows fully well there’s no special man in my life.

  “You do?”

  I nod. “Yup. He uh, he’s a professional baseball player, which is why I rarely talk about him. You know how people are . . . free tickets.” I catch myself and say, “Oh, but if you want free tickets, they’re all yours. I can get you the best seats. Just name it, they’re yours.” My dad coughs, and I gain my composure. “Anyway, yes, I don’t talk about him much to afford him privacy, but we’re very much in love. I can hear wedding bells in the future.” Oh God, I hate myself so much right now. Wedding bells? If Jason could hear me now.

  “Really?” Mrs. Carlton leans forward. “I’m sorry to pry, but can I ask who?”

  I gulp. “Yup, of course. He uh, just got traded back to Chicago. Jason Orson.”

  Very softly I can hear my dad mutter, “Christ.”

  “Jason Orson?” Mr. Carlton whistles. “He’s incredible. Where did you meet him?”

  “College.” I nod. “Yeah, college. I used to frequent the baseball loft with my best friend, Emory, who is dating Knox Gentry.” Mrs. Carlton’s eyes light up. “Jason and I hit it off back then, stayed in touch, and during the off-season four years ago, we reconnected. When he was traded at the end of the season, it felt like everything was meant to be. Albeit, he’s playing for the Rebels, but I’ve been able to get over that quickly, especially since my man is finally in the same city as me.”

  Mrs. Carlton clasps her hand to her heart, a sigh exiting her. “Oh, that’s so sweet. I’m so happy for you, honey.”

  “Thank you. We’re happy and keeping things traditional. He has his own place, and we’re courting each other, building that foundation you and Mr. Carlton have talked about.”

  I can see the brownie points racking up. I might need a wheelbarrow to help me carry them out of here at the end of this conversation.

  “Well.” Mr. Carlton leans back and strokes his goatee. “You sure have given us a lot to think about. Four years with a long-distance relationship in the midst of a hectic profession. Looks like you’ve grown a very strong bond.”

  “We have. I’m truly blessed.”

  Did you just hear that? It was the devil punching my ticket straight to hell.

  After we talk more business, we shake hands again and send the Carltons on their way, promising to be in touch. Once they’re out of earshot, my dad turns to me, arms crossed over his brawny chest and stares me down with those intimidating eyebrows of his.

  “For the love of God, Dorothy, please tell me you know Jason Orson.”

  “Come on, Dad, do you really think—?”

  “Yes, I do. I think you’re like me and would say anything to make a deal. But please don’t tell me you just pulled a rookie mistake and said something you can’t follow through on.”

  “Pshh, what little you trust me.” I walk back to my office, my dad at my side. “I’m seeing him tonight. Don’t worry, Dad.” I swallow hard, my nerves finally appearing. “I got this in the bag.” Shit. Shit. Shit. I got nothing in no bag . . .

  Looks like I’ll be going to dinner tonight.

  What kind of wine should I bring that says, hey, I just lied about us dating for four years and said we’re madly in love, you on board?

  Merlot . . . definitely a merlot.

  Chapter Twelve

  JASON

  Dinner in the oven, check.

  Apartment cleaned, check.

  Apartment decorated, check.

  Hair styled, smelling good, looking dapper, wearing a thong, check, check, check . . . check.

  I’m ready for tonight.

  I debated on whether I should wear a thong because I have jeans on, and we all know how I feel about that combo, but I couldn’t get past the idea of snapping my thong strap at her for pure reaction.

  While making my homemade enchiladas with green chili sauce, I went back and forth between wearing it and not wearing it. I finally decided on my lime-green thong. It looks great against my tan and is just bright enough for an impact.

  Dottie. This girl invented the word challenge. I’d like to get through that tough shell and have her open up more, but she constantly surprises me, so only time will tell. But I’m up for the challenge, because it’s not like me to back away from one.

  I rub my hands together, giving my apar
tment one last once-over as my phone buzzes in my pocket.

  There are two text messages: one from the doorman advising Dottie just arrived at the building—those guys are awesome. And a text from Carson, checking in.

  Carson: Have you fallen into an ice cream-induced coma from depression?

  I text back as I wait for Dottie to arrive.

  Jason: I’ve only had two pints since you left.

  Carson: I expected more, so that’s good. Still going on your runs?

  Jason: Six miles this morning.

  Carson: Only six? I guess that’s all your body can handle, carrying around that giant ass.

  Jason: First of all, six is really good, you run shamer. Second of all, baseball players aren’t marathon runners. Third of all, it is a challenge carrying around such a fine butt, as people stop me all over just so they can stare at it.

  Carson: ^^^ reasons why I’m glad you’re still in Chicago.

  Jason: You don’t mean that. You wish I was in the Bahamas with you and the wifey so I could bother you with annoying questions and gush over the fine cuisine.

  Carson: I have to admit, I do miss your orgasm face when you eat something so good, you get happy in your pants.

  Jason: Pervert.

  Carson: LOL. But you’re good?

  Jason: Yup, I have company tonight . . . lady company.

  Carson: Oh yeah? Who is it? Dottie? LOL

  Jason: Why did you LOL at that?

  Carson: Because she’s the last person I’d expect you to have dinner with.

  I’m about to tell him like it is but there’s a knock at the door. Stuffing my phone back in my pocket, I try to contain my excitement that she decided to show up. I was ready to tear her door down and extract her from Knox and Emory’s apartment. I had no issues with it.

  But she’s here . . . willingly. Looks like my “chat” this morning got through to her.

  On a deep breath, I open the door to find Dottie with a smile on her face, a wine bottle in her hand, and a pretty red dress draped over her body. Did I mention a smile?

  Like . . . a real smile.

  Something’s not right.

  I take a step back.

  Confusion crosses her brow.

  I point at her, taking another step back.

  Her confusion increases.

  “You look . . . weird.”

  Her eyes widen. Blink. “Uh, wow. That’s one way to greet someone.”

  “It’s the smile. Why are you smiling? You don’t smile at me.”

  “Well, I never will again,” she says, charging into the apartment, bumping my shoulder in the process. “Did you decorate?”

  I shut the door and ignore her question. “Why were you smiling? Did you just fart or something? Was that really a smile or a side effect from releasing wind?”

  “Do I look like someone who would ‘release wind’ right before the door is answered?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know, maybe. Could be a party trick.”

  She presses her hand to her forehead. “I don’t know why I came here. I knew I should have stayed home. You tell me I look weird and blame me for farting the first ten seconds of being here. You act like a twenty-two-year-old boy at times. How is that a wise way to spend my night?”

  “Uh, what about me? You smiled at me. Talk about throwing the entire night into a tailspin.”

  Expressionless, she asks, “And how did you want me to greet you?”

  “A scowl, like the one you have right now.” I sigh in relief. “There, that’s better. Just keep scowling like that, then we’ll be okay.”

  “Keep acting like a moron and I will.”

  “Oh, an insult, now we’re getting warmed up.” I rub my hands together. “By the way, you do look nice, sexy as shit actually. I like that dress on you.”

  The smallest of smiles peeks past her lips before she turns around to survey my apartment. I took down the pictures of baseball bats and gloves and replaced them with some tasteful art. I put up some curtains, even ironed the wrinkles out. Got a few throw pillows and bought a coffee table book of all the ballparks in the United States. It’s not much, but the place does look better.

  “I like what you’ve done with your place.”

  “Thanks. Feels more like a sex den, right?”

  She shakes her head and walks to the kitchen where she sets the wine down. “I’m going to need you to open this so I can get through the night.”

  “Fair enough.” I join her in the kitchen and retrieve my corkscrew. “How was your day, sweet cheeks?”

  She leans her hip against the counter, her demeanor different. I can’t quite put my finger on what’s changed, but there’s an air about her that doesn’t give me the get away from me vibe. Like right now, we’re a good distance away, but she’s leaning in toward me. And when I pour us both a glass and hand her one, her fingers brush mine.

  That’s different.

  Plus . . . when she doesn’t tell me not to call her sweet cheeks, I know something’s really different. What is she up to?

  “It was fine. Meetings and all that crap. Had lunch with my dad, who’s currently staying at my place with my mom while I watch Emory and Knox’s apartment.”

  “Do you have plants that need to be watered and moved as well?”

  “No, I’m not insane.”

  “Did you know she names them too?”

  “Oh yes, you should see the binder that has a picture of each plant, its name, and caring instructions. I think Knox needs to be careful with who he’s having a baby with.”

  “Well, there’s no turning back now,” I say. “He already planted his seed.” She rolls her eyes. “Get it, it’s a play on the whole plant thing.”

  “Yeah.” She takes a big gulp of wine. “I get it.” She looks at the oven. “Dinner ready?”

  “Ten minutes. We can sit on the couch until it’s ready.” I guide her with my hand on the small of her back to the living room, and I’m surprised when she doesn’t move away. What the hell has gotten into her tonight? Smiling, not super critical within thirty seconds, allowing me to touch her without a nipple twist in sight. Who is this Dottie?

  We both take a seat and face each other, both of us propping a leg up on the couch.

  I observe her, the sleek line of her neck, the smooth sheen of her raven-black hair, her impossibly long eyelashes. She’s an absolute bombshell and must have men propositioning her all the time. It does beg the question why she’s here. I might be a catch—who clearly loves puns—but Dottie Domico could have anyone. Anyone. Yet, she’s alone. I’ve always had a vague picture in my head about who I’d want as my forever, but she’s never resembled the stunning woman in front of me. So polished. Refined. Fiercely independent. Self-sufficient, without the need for anyone by her side. I want someone who wants and needs me in her life. And yet, she’s someone I can’t seem to stop thinking about.

  “Tell me about college.”

  “What about it?” she asks.

  “Why didn’t you ever come say hi to me? Emory was dating Knox, and you two are best friends. We could be married by now.”

  “Well”—she draws her finger over the back of the couch—“it was hard getting close to you in college because you were always surrounded by groupies.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “At baseball parties you were.”

  “Because that’s where they all congregated. But I’m sure you saw me on campus, right? You could have set up a double date with Knox and Emory.”

  “Who’s to say I would have wanted a double date in the first place? Yeah, I knew you in college, but you were also a year younger, and I had better things to do than try to please a younger man.”

  I laugh, the sound heavy in my chest. “You were scared.”

  “I wasn’t interested.”

  “What did I say about lying to me?” I stare at her, challenging her statement. “Tell me the truth, did you like me in college?”

  “I didn’t know you in college.” She
sips her wine carefully, keeping her gaze on me.

  “Then let me rephrase. Did you think I was hot?”

  She looks away, and there’s my answer.

  “I think you know the answer to that.” She twists a finger in her hair.

  “I want to hear it from your lips.”

  For a second, I see a change in demeanor, as if she really has to consider what she’s about to say to me. It isn’t an easy answer or confession, something that almost looks like it pains her to admit.

  But despite the pain and reluctance I see in her eyes, she swallows hard, as if telling herself “here we go” and says, “I saw you for the first time in the quad. You were talking to some of the other guys on the team. Your ass was the first thing I saw, and I had a hard time forgetting about it.”

  Well, well, well, would you look at that?

  I wasn’t expecting such an easy admission. Given our night in the elevator followed by the race around my apartment and her pure discomfort this morning, I was looking forward to some repartee this evening, but it seems I won’t be getting that.

  What is it that’s so different tonight? It’s like something’s flipped a switch.

  I don’t want to look too much into it right now, because I have her opening up, but I am a man who notes these things.

  “When you say hard time forgetting about it, what does that mean exactly? How long have you been thinking about my ass?”

  She looks away and downs the rest of her drink. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s trying to get drunk to make it through this night.

  After smacking her lips, she says, “I’ve thought about your ass ever since college. Ever since I laid eyes on it.” No teasing tone, her eyes are dead set on mine, and not even the slightest twitch in her lips. “I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember.” She leans forward, the neckline of her dress falling forward, giving me a perfect view down the top. I remember those tits, still as voluptuous as last night. Her hand falls to my thigh and she says, “I’m tired of playing this cat and mouse game, Jason.”

  Eh, what’s happening right now?