Page 25 of Maid of Dishonor

I shrug. “I mean, yeah. Basically.”

Sam’s nose does that cute little wrinkling thing that happens when she’s trying to work something out. “You think that would actually work?”

“Yes,” I say immediately. “Absolutely. You know Maya—she’s all about signs and fate and the universe and all that. Astrology and stuff. Plus I can tell she’s already hesitant. She really doesn’t want an open marriage.”

“I noticed that too,” Sam says, sounding grudging.

I nod. “Right. So I think this could push her over the edge. I made her promise that if things started going wrong, she’d call it off, or at very least reconsider. And look, if something as subjective as a ‘sign’ can get her to call off a wedding, she probably didn’t feel that strongly about it in the first place,” I point out.

Sam taps one foot slowly, but on her it doesn’t mean she’s impatient; she just likes to be moving when she’s thinking. She was always the pencil tapper or the pen clicker in school, or sometimes she’d have her legs crossed with one foot jiggling incessantly. She somehow always feels the need to expel all that mental energy in a physical manner. I just wait, because I know that pushing her now, while she’s thinking deeply about it, might rush her into making the decision I don’t want her to make.

If she refuses to go a long with it, of course, I’ll just do it on my own. But it would bereallygreat if I had her help. So I just stand there, trying to look at least sort of relaxed, while she weighs things in her mind.

When Sam exhales loudly, I breathe a sigh of relief.

“All right,” she says finally. “I’ll help. I’m in. But,” she adds, “but, only if we don’t take this too far. That means no interacting with him. No telling lies about him or anything. We leave him out of this. We just focus on changing Maya’s mind—getting her to accept the truth that Chet is all wrong for her.”

I nod quickly. “I can agree to that.” And I can; I’m fine with it.

Sam nods, looking satisfied. “Okay. In that case, I’m in.”

“Good. So we’ll look at the venues tomorrow”—I repress the shudder that tries to run through me, because I think I’d probably rather have a tooth pulled than go tour wedding venues for a wedding that hopefully won’t even be happening—“and after that we’ll go talk to Maya. If that still doesn’t work, we’ll come up with some bad omens to fake.”

Sam nods. “All right,” she says. Then she points her bat at the pitching machine, silently asking me to start it again.

Because Sam’s strengths lie in her aim and her catching ability. She’s not a pitcher, but her aim is fantastic, and she’s great in the outfield—one of the best on the team. It’s batting she struggles with the most. So usually when we come to the batting cages she ends up batting closer to 60 or even 75 percent of the time rather than the two of us splitting it 50/50. She has off days and better days, like everyone does, but today she’s having a hard time.

After watching her miss the ball three times in a row, I shake my head. “Your stance is off,” I call to her, stopping the pitching machine.

She rolls her eyes, dropping her position and looking at me. “Well, what do you—” But she breaks off as something in her expression changes. I’m automatically wary when her idea face shows up—eyes narrowing in a calculating stare, lips quirking in a half smirk.

“All right,” she says slowly. “Come show me, then.”

I shrug, confused, but walk back to her anyway, holding my hand out for the bat.

“Nuh-uh,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ll hold it. You just position my arms and legs correctly.”

I grab a tight rein of my thoughts before I answer. “Uh,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck, stalling until I can talk my heartrate down from the sudden skitter it’s doing. “Yeah. Sure.”

I approach her slowly, as though she’s a rabid dog instead of a woman who tangles my insides. Because let’s be honest: both are dangerous.

Sam clearly notices my hesitation, because her eyebrows climb up her forehead. “Is that okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say quickly, waving one hand and feeling stupid. “Yeah, of course. Okay, so go ahead and hold the bat like you’re going to swing.”

She does so, angling the bat back over her right shoulder and resting it there gently. Her body turns a little so that her left foot is in front, her knees bent slightly, and she stands lightly on the balls of her feet.

I nod. Her form isn’t terrible—she just has a tendency to let the bat rest on her shoulder, and her feet aren’t usually wide enough apart.

She looks at me, one eyebrow cocked. “Well?” she says, her eyes dancing, her lips pulling into a little smirk. “Teach me, Coach Ellis.”

I swallow thickly. Her tone, her expression—they’re almost…flirtatious. My mind spins for a second, caught briefly on her words.

“What did you call me?” I say, raising an eyebrow and trying to sound casual.

She relaxes her stance, instead leaning slightly toward me. When she speaks, her tone is barely above a whisper. “Coach”—she pauses as her lips twitch—“Ellis.” My name rolls sensually off her tongue as she tastes it, savors it.

And a shiver runs down my spine, unexpected but not at all unpleasant.

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