From Enemies to Expecting

“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.”