Page 27 of Playboy Pitcher
“Why are you staying at a hotel in West Palm Beach?” I ask, the random question hitting me out of nowhere. “The stadium is here in Jupiter.”
There’s a brief pause in her stride, but she doesn’t turn around. “You just answered your own question.”
“Willow…” I call out, but it’s useless. She’s already behind the wheel before I finish speaking her name. She starts the engine, and I stand rooted in my spot watching as she pulls into traffic.
I don’t move until those red taillights disappear.
Not toward I-95 North to New York, but toward A1A South to West Palm Beach.
She didn’t sell.
Chapter Nine
Kyle staresat the bloody piece of meat speared on his fork with such lust in his eyes I’m not sure if he’s about to eat it or fuck it. Finally shoving it in his mouth, he leans back in his chair and rubs his stomach. “Man, Roger would’ve loved this steak.”
Beside me, a fork clangs against a plate as Cruz, dressed to the nines in a suit and tie, slams his forearms on the table. “Can you not eat like you’re in prison?”
Kyle just grins and opens his mouth, offering him a view of what now looks like the inside of my elbow before surgery.
Cruz glares at him under the umbrella of those thick, dark Cuban eyebrows.“Eres un cabrón malagradecido.”
I may not know a lot of Spanish, but I’ve lived in Miami long enough to understand an insult when I hear it. Plus, I agree. Kyle is an ungrateful bastard.
Gritting my teeth, I shove my untouched plate away. I’m sure Roger would’ve loved the steak. Just like he would’ve loved this restaurant and the blonde waitress with the nice ass. As much as he would’ve loved the thirty different kinds of craft beer on tap as well as the classic rock vibe and decor.
Roger would’ve loved all of it.
If he were here.
But he’s not. He’s dead, and we’re here celebrating like a bunch of idiots while his daughter sits in some goddamn West Palm Beach hotel room playing eenie, meenie, miney, mo with our lives.
“Have a safe drive back to New York.”
“I’m not going back.”
Willow’s words play like a movie reel in my head. What the hell did she mean she wasn’t going back? Did she change her mind? If so, why? In the locker room she was adamant about wanting nothing to do with the Storm.
Why did Drake Prescott have her pinned against her car? I tense, my fists tightening at the memory. And why do I even care?
My internal merry-go-round of questions comes to a screeching halt as Tuck stands and taps his fork against his beer mug, quieting the noise in our private room.
“Raise your glasses, Storm,” he says, lifting his mug high in the air. A tidal wave of alcohol rises toward the center of the table, minus one.
I sit like the wallflower dork at the popular kids’ party. Nobody says shit, but that doesn’t stop a few eyebrows from raising.
Fuck ’em.
Tuck clears his throat. “LaCroix unless you have something to tell us, that includes you too.”Asshole.Not that I expected much more from a man-child whose idea of business casual belongs in a tiki bar.
I don’t try to hide my irritation as I shove my beer mug up so fast, half of the contents end up on the table. Tuck just smiles, which pisses me off even more.
“To our owner, our friend, and one hell of a guy,” he continues. “I hope you’re hitting homers and stealing bases up there, big guy.” Pausing, he raises his glass higher. “To Roger.”
Everyone mimics him. “To Roger.”
I offer a nod, but that’s the best he’s getting. Luckily, he doesn’t push the issue, only giving me a curious stare before sitting back down.
It’s not that I don’t miss the guy or think he doesn’t deserve to be honored. I just can’t get my mind off his daughter.
