Page 40 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, stretching dramatically. “I was born with an A-game. But I hope you brought some Band-Aids. You’re gonna need them.”
My team—made up of the Bad News Babes—is already cracking up. Sunni shouts, “Ten bucks says he pulls a hamstring before the second inning!”
“You’re on,” I call back, tossing the ball into the air and catching it with a snap. “And while we’re making bets, I say we win by at least five runs.”
Sawyer jogs over like he’s got all the time in the world. “Five? That’s cute.”
“I thought so.” I wink.
That’s when the others arrive. Mia and Ian walk up hand-in-hand, matching sunglasses and smug energy.
“Are we talking bets?” Ian asks, grinning. “Because I’m putting my money on Team Good News Guys.”
Sawyer groans. “Et tu, brother?”
Kate and Hudson show up next, Hudson already loosening his shoulders. “I’ve got a twenty that says the girls' team loses it—we've got a ruthless glint in our eyes.”
“Ialwayshave that glint,” I call.
Brooke and Trevor roll in, dressed like she’s coaching the Super Bowl. “We’re taking side bets on injuries and the number of times Sawyer swears in front of children.”
“Don’t forget fashion violations,” Trevor adds.
Kane and Grace are the last to arrive, and Kane surveys the field like he’s planning a heist. “I’ll bet dinner for two that our team wins, but only if we don’t pull something.”
“Ineverpull anything,” Sawyer says.
“Except attention,” I mutter.
The Walking Ladies sit on a blanket with a cooler full of hard seltzers and a portable speaker. “We’re here for chaos,” Betty calls. “And maybe to profit off it.”
“Ten bucks on a full collision at home plate,” Gladys says.
“This is going to be the most dramatic kickball practice in Hibiscus Harbor history,” I declare, already brimming with adrenaline.
Sawyer steps closer, drops his voice just for me. “Winner gets whatever they want.”
I narrow my eyes. “Dangerous words, Gallo.”
He grins. “Youdobring out my competitive side.”
“Oh, honey,” I say, pressing the ball to his chest. “You haven’t even seen competitive yet.”
We’re halfway through a surprisingly intense practice game—trash talk flying, seltzers cracking open from the sidelines, and one minor wipeout when Ian tried to slide into third—when the clouds roll in.
Not just any clouds. These are Florida-special, thick and dark and swirling like they’ve got a personal vendetta.
A low rumble of thunder rolls across the field. I glance at Sawyer, who’s jogging toward me from the pitcher’s mound.
“Storm’s coming,” he says.
“No kidding. Want to call it?”
He smirks. “You scared?”
I shove his shoulder just as the sky flashes white with lightning and the unmistakable crack snaps across the field like a warning shot.
“I think that’s our cue!” Mia yells from the sidelines.
