The Copper Valley Bro Code Series: Volume 1, page 105
“How many more secrets do you have?”
“That one makes the rest together look like a dot next to the sun.”
“Why the fuck haven’t you had security since college?”
“Because I’m a nobody.”
“You, Lila Valentine—wait. Is that your real name?”
I nod through another embarrassed laugh while I wipe my eyes.
“Good. Because, as I was saying, you, Lila Valentine, are definitely somebody.”
When he puts it like that, I do feel like somebody.
Somebody special.
Somebody special, who’s no longer alone.
“Are we still going to fight about the Fireballs?” I ask.
“Fireballs Con? Yes. You’re damn right we are.”
I’m laughing again as I lean in to kiss him. Kiss him? I’m definitely not stopping at kissing this man.
They say the truth sets you free.
I don’t know if that’s entirely accurate, but I know that I wouldn’t trade this moment with Tripp—or any in the past, or any to come—for any more of my lies.
This is the life I want.
And I’m going to hold on with both hands, and I’m going to deserve it.
26
Tripp
My mind is reeling all day Wednesday. I’m still processing Lila’s confession, and how much sense it makes in so many odd ways, but I can’t think about it without also thinking about the way she gripped my shirt like I was her lifeline while she let it all out.
I’d ask who lives like that, except I could’ve seen myself or Davis doing the same thing by the time we called it quits on Bro Code.
Disappear into a new life.
Pretend to be someone you’re not.
If it hadn’t been for Jessie, I’d be living in Tahiti writing poetry or something right now. Being in the spotlight is exhausting, and it’s not something you can control.
I get it.
Lila dealt with it preemptively, by herself, as a barely legal adult, while I dealt with it through a support system that was second to none.
And tonight, that support system includes two happy, exhausted, snotty-nosed kids who are fed, bathed, and ready for bed when I get home shortly after six. Waylon’s reading them The Cat in the Hat, with both kids in his lap in the rocking chair in the playroom, but as soon as I poke my head in, they launch themselves off him and tackle me.
Fuck, I love this moment. It makes leaving them worthwhile.
So did being busy all day and knowing I was doing something good for my community. Realizing that for all her secrets, for all her own special paranoia, Lila’s diving into being a part of this community and doing good.
Wanting lists of the players’ favorite charities to highlight on social media through the holiday season. Giving raises to all of the support staff who haven’t had raises in years, but stayed for love of the team. Reaching out to local restaurants about concessions booths inside the ballpark. Making sure there’s enough duck food.
Shooing me out of the office to come home to see my kids.
I flip them both upside down and take turns kissing their bellies while they shriek with laughter, remember that it’s easier to get them up here than it is to get them down, and turn James over to Waylon while I right my little princess. “Were you two good today?”
“Unka Beck!” Emma yells.
“Did Uncle Beck give you candy?”
“And cake!” James says. “And Unka Way-on taked us to the park!”
“And de-germified them when we got home,” Waylon assures me. He has the same light brown hair and mischief in his expression that Cash always wears, though he doesn’t have the distinctive nose that makes Emma cry.
And he’s not being a judgy ass about me worrying about germs when I know I need to relax. I nod to him. “Grandma says the park is good for them.”
“All that fresh air,” he agrees.
“Unka Way-on made a fwend!” James tells me.
Waylon grins. “Several. Hear I’m not the only one though.”
I ignore the pointed question about my love life. “You’re up for this again tomorrow?” I ask Waylon instead.
“Yeah, I can help you out until you find a better plan. However long it takes. Later, squirts. Uncle Waylon has a date.”
He takes off, and I get the lowdown on my kids’ day while they bounce on my bed and I change into sweats.
And when Emma starts crying because her reflection in the mirror is copying her, I take them to her room, pull them both into my lap in the rocking chair in there, and read them firetruck books and princess books until they’re nodding off.
I get them tucked in, double-check the security system upgrades, and I’m about to set a fire in the fireplace when my phone dings with a text.
Can I bring you dinner?
I smile at the picture accompanying Lila’s message, because it appears she’s already outside my house, holding a paper bag, and then text her back. My day might’ve started with her assurances that she had the Fireballs covered financially—and with getting interrupted by Denise with my hand up Lila’s skirt—but it turned into one meeting after another while I got caught up on all I missed and she dashed off for plans for Fireballs Con.
“Kids in bed?” she whispers when I let her in the door.
I inhale subtle scents of something spicy as I nod. “Uncle Waylon wore them out.”
“Is that okay for their colds?”
“Over-worried me says no. Science and doctors and my mother say it’s good for them.”
“Excellent. We’re trusting science and doctors and your mother tonight.”
I nod, take the bag from her, set it on the nearest flat surface, and pull her into my arms. Can’t help it.
I need to touch her.
Me. The responsible one. Needs to hold the woman who’s been keeping so many secrets. Without needing proof that she’s telling me the truth now.
Just because her kind of lonely speaks to my kind of lonely.
Maybe I’m insane.
Or maybe we’re exactly what we both need.
“I didn’t know if you’d want to see me,” she says into my chest.
“Because you announced tickets for an event we haven’t even planned yet, or because you’re insisting on putting an echidna on the final voting list for the new mascot?”
“I brought proof.”
“That echidnas are valid mascots?”
“About the Wellington stuff.”
“I don’t need it.”
“But I need you to see it. Because…”
She trails off while I sink my fingers into her hair and twirl her curls, and just when I think she’s going to melt into me and let her hands drift down to my ass, she adds, “Because that’s what you do in a relationship. And that’s what this is. Right?”
Hello, heart. It’s been a few hours since you last cracked open. “It can be whatever you want it to be.”
“I like challenges. I bounce. I get bored. I move on. I’ve never stayed before. I don’t know if I can, but this town, the team, you—it’s like I’ve found a part of myself here that I didn’t know existed. And I don’t know if it’s real, or if I’ll get bored again and have to move on to something new, and I don’t want to do that to you.”
“Is that a back off, or is that a let’s take it slow?”
Her arms tighten around me, and it doesn’t matter what she says or doesn’t say.
Not with her words, anyway.
Not when her body’s asking me to don’t let go.
“Slow’s good,” I murmur into her hair.
And we do.
We take it slow all night long.
27
Lila
I usually intentionally avoid New York for Thanksgiving, and this year is no different.
Except for the part where instead of picking a retreat location for a few days of quietly pampering myself with books, fireplaces or beaches, and spa treatments to recover from my normal breakneck pace at work the rest of the year, I’m in Copper Valley.
Tripp invited me to spend the holiday with his family.
Every day, I’m falling a little more head-over-heels for the man who’s occupying my every waking thought, and most of my dreams as well.
We’ve argued a lot over the team.
And agreed a lot more.
It’s still sinking in that his reaction to the confession that I’ve been holding to my chest for so long was basically okay. But the more stories he tells me about the weird stuff he saw on the road with Bro Code, and then in Hollywood with Jessie, the more it sinks in that he gets why I wanted to fly under the radar.
The weird part is how proud he seems. You know how many people in the world could have made themselves that kind of successful all by themselves? Like, three.
It started on a foundation of lies, I reminded him.
And how many art programs in how many school districts have you funded since then? he’d shot back, even though I hadn’t breathed a word about some of my favorite charities yet.
He just knew. And he’d been smug as hell about calling it. You’re a good person, Lila, he keeps saying. Let go of how you got here and embrace being YOU.
I’ve told him more stories about my time in boarding school and college than I’ve ever told a soul, including Parker, who’s heard a lot of them.
But I’ve also told him about how I built the Dalton Wellington fortune, from the first time I realized that representing a reclusive male billionaire got me further in business than representing myself, to deciding well over two years ago that he needed to retire, because what was I really going to do with that much money?
I’ve also told him about the scholarship funds for boarding schools around the country, so no other orphans have to do what I did.
Even Uncle Guido doesn’t know about that one.
We’ve had private dates in his guest bedroom.
So many private dates in his guest bedroom. And a couple at the office. That fantasy about locking his door and seducing him at his desk?
Yeah. We’ve done that three times, and it’s not getting old.
We’ve had solo lunch dates, and lunch dates with his friends.
He accidentally answered my phone at work and had a thirty-minute conversation with Parker, who texted me later something so obscene—thanks, autocorrect—that she had to call me back and swear she was only doing voice messages from now on.
And we’ve laughed.
I don’t think I’ve ever laughed as much as I have in the last two weeks.
I know I’ve never had this many man-made orgasms.
We’ve also nearly gotten caught at work by everyone from Denise to the janitor to Cooper Rock. And a few times at Tripp’s house too, with the interruptions coming courtesy of his kids, who are hilarious and smart and terrifying in addition to being adorable, once you get to know them.
And now I’m going to his house for Thanksgiving.
“When he said family, did he mean everyone from Bro Code, or just Levi and their mom?” Parker demands over the phone that morning.
“Just his mom and brother, I think,” I tell her as I sort a stack of mail on my desk at work. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, because it’s what I do when I’m at the start of a project. Plus, the more I do, the less Tripp has to do, which leaves him open to more time with his kids. And that tickle in my throat can suck it. I don’t have time for a cold this year. Thank god those vitamins Tripp takes religiously are helping keep it at bay, because the last thing we need is both of us missing work if he insists on taking care of me. There’s too much to do.
“That’s a really small Thanksgiving,” Parker muses. “None of his friends from the cookout are coming?”
“Nope. The whole Rivers clan is in LA because Cash is shooting a movie, and the Remingtons are apparently invading Davis’s house down near the North Carolina border because he’s notoriously anti-holiday, and the Ryders left Copper Valley for this adorable little town called Shipwreck up in the mountains.”
“Shipwreck? I didn’t realize the Blue Ridge Mountains were on the coast.”
“They’re not. There’s this whole legend about a pirate who came inland to bury a treasure there a century or three ago. Tripp says he’s going to kidnap me and bury my body somewhere up that way if I plan any more big events or shakeups between now and the end of the season.”
“And how soon after he threatened to kill you did he have his tongue down your throat?”
“About four seconds. He has a pretty big guilt complex and doesn’t actually like to threaten to kill people.”
“That’s pretty normal and reassuring. So. How much have you slept with him?”
“I fell asleep on his couch last Saturday while I was waiting for him to talk about all the pitching coaches we’ve interviewed this week, and I woke up with James taking a mold of my nose with his Play-Doh. Does that count?”
“Lila.”
I grin and stifle a yawn. “Okay, okay. I’ve slept with him a lot, but not nearly as many times as I want to. It’s normal to want to just have sex all day when you’re in a new relationship, right?”
“Yes. And during your honeymoon period, and after the honeymoon period, and... You get the point. Have you stayed over yet?”
“Not all night. I mean, not all night in the same bed. Occasionally I just crash in his guest bed while he heads upstairs to be near his kids.”
“You need to just come out and ask his mom to take them a night or two a week so you can jump her son’s bones more regularly. What are you wearing?”
“When I jump his bones?”
“No. To Thanksgiving.”
“Leggings, a sweater with a turkey on it that Emma saw on my computer and went crazy over, and—”
“Wait. First, why were you shopping on sites that sell turkey sweaters, and second, you’re hanging out with his kids too? Lila. You know what this means, right? It means you’re being evaluated as a potential stepmom. And Thanksgiving. Oh my god. You need to get out. You need to get out now. Wait, wait. Are you in it for the whole family?”
“The turkey sweaters were an ad. I was on Tripp’s wi-fi. I think his cookies hit my computer. Which means he shops for turkey sweaters, which is kind of adorable, don’t you think?”
“Lila.” This Lila is way more frustrated than the first one was.
“Any day of the week, if you asked me if I wanted to have a family or a career, I would’ve said a career.” I put my phone on speaker and shift to my computer, where I pull up the current poll standings for the mascot finalists without actually seeing them, because I’m yawning again. “But there’s a big difference between not planning on having a family and meeting people that you could see becoming your family. And it’s not like I’m in. I’m just…here. And they’re kind enough to include me. How about you? How’s your Thanksgiving looking?”
“Knox’s nana is bringing a date.”
“So it’ll be interesting?”
“Very much interesting. How’re the ducks?”
“Weird. The duck cam Tripp set up caught them having sex again, so we had to remove the live feed from the Fireballs website. It’s not family-friendly. They’re like party ducks, just hanging out in the dugout—which Tripp says we should call the duck-out—and living off of scraps that the maintenance crew keeps feeding them. But we have a re-homing plan for them if they stay through the winter and lay actual eggs, so for now, we’re basically using them for publicity.”
“You have the best jobs ever.”
I laugh. “I really do.”
“I miss you. Come back to New York soon so we can do lunch again.”
“Soon,” I promise. “I have some meetings on the books in a few weeks about Bubble Bath Books, so I have to be there.”
But I’m not as excited about the publishing company as I once was, and it’s becoming pretty obvious I can’t do this baseball owner thing and run a publishing company and be a good relationship partner to Tripp. I’ve been handing more decisions off to Knox and the other employees, and I’ve done this dance enough that I know what’s coming.
I’m just not quite ready for it yet, so I push that worry out of my head and get back to cleaning up a few little projects so Tripp won’t have to next week.
Two hours later, I’m ringing his doorbell. I look like a holiday-confused leprechaun carrying a fruit tray. And when Tripp opens the door, his face splits into a massive grin. “Nice shirt.”
I could happily drown in that smile. Especially if I get to ogle him barefoot, in jeans, a polo, and that apron too. “Right? I had to beat off like a dozen men who were super turned on by my ugly Thanksgiving sweater.”
He snags my hand, pulls me into the house, takes the fruit tray, and presses me against the door, a frown temporarily overtaking his handsome features. “You okay? You look tired.”
“Someone’s been keeping me up at night,” I tease as I fiddle with the edges of his apron.
“Then someone probably needs to give you a break so you can catch up on your sleep.”
“That’s what four-day weekends are for, right?”
The worry lines in his forehead relax, and he angles closer, his eyes going dark. “Are you going to beat me off if I kiss you while my kids aren’t looking?”
“Now you’re going to have to define beat off.”
He groans and leans in to capture my mouth. I’m parting my lips and curling my fingers into the rough fabric of his apron when the unmistakable sound of footsteps clamors on the steps. “Daddy! Daddy, da turkey burning!”
Tripp wrenches away, spins, and darts to the kitchen with the fruit tray.
James stops on the stairs and smiles at me. “Da turkey in the pway kitchen,” he says.
“James!” Tripp hollers. “Not funny!”
But James is already dashing back up the stairs, giggling.
“Tookey!” Emma squeals as I make my way into the living room. She’s wearing a blue princess costume and sitting before the empty fireplace in a turkey roasting pan, surrounded by six unicorns, four puppets, a big firetruck, a chunky puzzle, and a plate of cheese. She points a chubby finger at me and my shirt. “Tookey!”
