Page 50 of Third Strike Smitten

Just her.

Isla Fallon.

The way she showed up when I desperately needed someone to calm my nerves. The way she didn’t ask questions. She just came running. The way she cupped my face in her hand in front of those front office suits like she actually gives a shit about me and told me to kiss her again. She wanted to make a scene…for me.

I press my thumb against my lower lip, still feeling the phantom pressure of her there.

“Earth to Killian.” Shepherd waves a hand in front of my face. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not staring,” I mutter, finally taking a sip of my beer.

“Bullshit. You’ve been doing it for twenty minutes. You’re thinking about her.” Bishop says, sliding onto the stool next to me.

Fuck.

Maybe they’re right.

“Well, can you blame me? Look at her.” I gesture to the living room where Sutton and Isla are chatting and laughing together. “I’m kind of obsessed.”

Sebastian chimes in. “I haven’t seen you this relaxed in years, bro. I mean, off-season excluded. You actually look...happy.”

I shoot him a warning look. “Don’t make it weird.”

“What’s weird about being happy?” Shepherd asks, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “You’ve been wound tighter than a drum since spring training. Now you’re all...” He gestures vaguely at me. “This.”

“This what?”

“Touchy. Affectionate. Actually, talking to people instead of just grunting at them.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t grunt.”

“You absolutely grunt,” Bishop confirms. “It’s your primary form of communication.”

Before I can defend my grunting skills, Sutton calls from the living room. “Killian, we need you out here.”

I push off the stool and head toward the living room, my heart doing that stupid flutter thing it’s been doing all evening every time I catch Isla’s eye. She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, beautiful in the warm light of Shepherd’s living room. She looks comfortable here, like she belongs.

“What’s up?” I ask, dropping onto the couch beside her. My hand automatically finds its way to her knee, my thumb tracing small circles against her jeans. The casual intimacy of the gesture surprises even me, but I don’t pull away.

“Sutton wants to know how we got together,” Isla says, her green eyes dancing with something I can’t quite read. “And I told her I think our story is one for the romance books!”

I feel a slight tension in my shoulders because we haven’t actually discussed what our “story” is supposed to be. We’ve been so focused on the logistics of this arrangement that we skipped right over creating a believable origin.

“One for the books, huh?” I repeat, buying time.

“Yeah,” Sutton says, leaning forward with interest. “So, I have to hear a story better than mine.”

“You mean the guarded bartender who hated pro sports falling for the gloriously handsome and benevolent quarterback for the Portland Rush football team?” Shepherd leads my brothers into the living room with a proud smile. “How can it get better than that?”

“Right?” Bishop crosses his arms over his chest. “Just how did Killian Haynes, notorious commitment-phobe, finally get snagged?”

My stomach drops and I shoot Isla a look that I hope communicates please don’t tell them about the fake dating arrangement, but she’s already grinning at me with that mischievous spark in her eyes that probably means I’m about to be humiliated.

“Listen, no matter what I say, it won’t sound as good as when Isla tells it so…” I give her knee a squeeze and pass her a knowing wink. “Go for it, Coach.”

She claps her hands and squeals and then pats my hand on her leg. “Don’t worry, I’ll skip the really embarrassing parts.”

“Wait, there are embarrassing parts?” Shepherd asks, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “Can’t wait. Tell us everything.”