Stealing Home by Tara Wyatt

Two

Dylan had spent the past day learning just how true the saying “you can go back, but you can never go home again” was. He’d caught a flight from San Diego to Dallas, leaving behind his luxurious apartment with a view of the water for a room at the Ritz-Carlton on McKinney Ave, just a few blocks from Dell Park, where the Longhorns practiced and played. Even though the city’s landmarks were familiar, it didn’t feel welcoming. There wasn’t that pull of honey-colored nostalgia he’d been waiting for. No, home was what he’d left behind in San Diego, with his friends and women and marina-side neighborhood. Dallas…well, Dallas was full of memories, but that didn’t make it home.

After settling into his hotel, he’d met with the team brass—the president, the GM, the executive vice president, as well as his agent, Aerin—to sign the contracts and shoot the shit. By then, the official announcement had gone out, and he’d posed for official photos in his brand-new Longhorns jersey. Then he’d swung by the clubhouse before that evening’s game to meet his new teammates. That part hadn’t been so bad; in fact, they’d seemed happy to have him, which was a nice change from the tension in the Padres’ clubhouse. Exhausted, he’d headed back to his hotel room and ordered room service. He’d been told to take a day to settle in, but was instructed to show up at the team’s charity gala the following night, and then be at Dell for the team stretch the next morning. He’d make his debut Sunday afternoon.

The past twenty-four hours had felt like a whirlwind. He’d never been traded before. He didn’t like it. Not one fucking bit. He didn’t want to be in Dallas, but he had no choice but to make this work. There was no alternative.

And now, he wasn’t really in a party mood, but here he was, monkey suit on. Upbeat pop music played through the stadium’s speakers, floating up into the warm evening air. The field had been transformed into a gala, with large round tables covered in deep red table cloths spaced evenly across the makeshift floor covering the grass. Strings of lights hung above, melding with the soft blue and red lighting coming from the stadium’s spotlights. The huge screen displayed pictures of kids the Longhorn Foundation had helped. A silent auction was set up along the first and third baselines, and there was an area where guests could have a photo taken with their Longhorn of choice by home plate. Given that his trade only just been announced, no one had requested him, leaving him free to…do what, he wasn’t entirely sure.

He smoothed a hand down the front of his tux and accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. He wished it were beer or scotch, but in a pinch, it’d do. His father was a champagne connoisseur, which meant that Dylan typically avoided the stuff. A group of fans walked by and waved at him, and he forced himself to smile and wave back, even though he didn’t feel like smiling. He was tired and overwhelmed by the sudden change and dreading the inevitable meet-up with his father. His knee hurt. It was too damn hot to be wearing a tux. His bowtie was too tight.

“Jesus, don’t look so thrilled to be here,” said Hunter Blake, the team’s center fielder and best hitter. Even though he was a talented player, Blake was better known for his antics off the field. Antics that involved scantily clad models, motorcycles, too much tequila, and a general pattern of poor choices. Dylan had been expecting him to be a dick, and while he was a little rough around the edges, he seemed like a decent guy.

Dylan smiled ruefully and then rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Long couple days.”

“Yeah. Got traded here from Pittsburgh two years ago. Being traded fucking sucks.” He took a sip from his beer bottle and Dylan scowled at his own glass of champagne. “But you’ll like it here. It’s a good crew. Not a great April, but we’ll find our groove. And the new manager, Javier, he’s great. Good change from Buck Connors.”

Dylan tipped his head. “What was wrong with Connors?”

Hunter waved his hand. “Ach,” he said, making a scoffing sound. “Too old school. Never cared about playing to stats, the shift, small ball and manufacturing runs.”

“But you like Flores?”

“So far, yeah. He’s younger, fresher, hungry to prove himself and win. He’s a good guy. Knows the game inside and out, values his players.” At forty-three, he was one of the younger managers in the league, so his fresher approach wasn’t a total surprise. Dylan nodded, glad to hear Hunter approved of the team’s manager. “So, you worried? Coming over from the NL, I mean.” He knew exactly what Hunter meant. The Longhorns were in the American League, while the Padres were a National League team. Teams from opposing leagues rarely played each other, which meant Dylan was completely unfamiliar with the players in the AL. Especially the pitchers, which could make his hitting slump even harder to break out of.

He shrugged. “A little.”

A stunning brunette in her mid-thirties clapped him on the shoulder as she passed. “Don’t be. I’ve got you covered.” Then she held out her hand. “Abby Gossman, hitting coach.”

Dylan couldn’t stop his eyebrows from creeping up his forehead. “So you’re the one I’ve heard so much about.” Abby Gossman’s hiring a few months ago had been big news. A former Olympian, she was now the first female coach in the MLB.

Abby tipped her head. “That would be me, yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll work with you, coach you through the different pitchers. We’ve got this.” She patted his shoulder and then wove her way through the crowd, her sparkly blue dress clinging to her athletic frame.

He exchanged a look with Hunter. “Well, damn.”

“No shit.” Knowing Hunter’s reputation with women, Dylan wanted to ask him a whole bunch of inappropriate questions, but he managed to hold himself back. Instead, he pointed at Hunter’s beer. “Where’d you get that?”

Hunter gestured to a little bar set up in the corner that Dylan hadn’t noticed. “Not happy with your bubbles, McCormick?”

Dylan shrugged and set his half empty glass down on a nearby table. “What can I say? I’m hard to please.” He started to move through the crowd, pausing to take a couple of pictures with fans as he went. The event was in full swing now, with people talking and laughing, drinks in hand. The crowd was definitely thicker than when he’d first arrived. He glanced up at the scoreboard to check the time. Another hour or so, and then he could leave. Frankly, sitting in his empty hotel room with the TV on and some pizza sounded a lot better than pretending he wanted to be here. At least then, he could ditch the tux.

He stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer, tipping the bartender generously.

“Well, I guess we should just get this over with,” came a female voice from behind him. Dylan frowned and turned, and then almost dropped his beer.

Maggie Jennings stood a few feet away, slender arms crossed over her chest. For a brief moment, Dylan wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him, if he was seeing the ghosts of his memories. But it was her, his Maggie, in the flesh. Damn, but the past ten years had been good to her. Her long, blond hair was draped over her shoulder in an artfully messy braid, her gray eyes sizing him up from beneath arched brows and thick lashes. Her features were more prominent now, her face slimmer, emphasizing her sharp cheekbones and delicately defined jaw. Her full lips were painted red and unsmiling. She wore a gorgeous dress that hugged her slim frame, showing off her subtle curves. The skirt was cut higher in the front, revealing her legs.

She’d been a beautiful girl, but now? Now, she was a jaw-droppingly sexy woman.

“Maggie?” he asked, taking a step closer, still not fully believing he was seeing her standing in front of him. His pulse beat fast and hard in his ears, competing with the music and the noise around them. For a second, he felt as though he couldn’t breathe properly. The only woman he’d ever loved, the one he’d never stopped thinking about, was right here.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’ll make this quick. Might as well rip the Band-Aid off, right?” He frowned, but didn’t say anything, mostly because he didn’t know what the hell to say. He was still trying to process the fact that he was actually talking to Maggie Jennings again, that this wasn’t one of the memories he often conjured in the middle of the night. “I work for the Longhorns. I’m the manager of media relations. So, we’ll be working together as needed. Just wanted to let you know, get the awkward introduction out of the way.” She said it all in one breath, not pausing, just barreling forward. “Anyway, I should…” She turned to go, and before he could stop himself, his arm shot out, his fingers curling around her wrist. She froze, her eyes darting down to where he touched her. Now that she was here in front of him, he couldn’t just let her walk away. She hesitated a second and then gently pulled her wrist from his grasp.

“Can we talk? Somewhere quieter?” he asked, gesturing at the crowd around them. His mind was spinning, his pulse racing, as though his body couldn’t contain this nameless emotion coursing through him. It was a combination of happiness and curiosity, remorse and regret, guilt, and lust. Heavy on the lust.

She bit her lip, glancing up as she thought. After a moment, she sighed, her shoulders slumping a little. “I don’t think we have anything to talk about, but fine. Follow me.” Relief filled him as he followed her into the stadium’s winding hallways. She turned left and then right and opened a door, ushering them into a small office. She shut the door with a quiet snick, leaving the music and everything else behind them. Once again, she crossed her arms over her chest in an unmistakably protective gesture.

She was more closed off than he remembered. Cold. Distant. Not that he could blame her. She had every right to hate his guts after he’d broken her heart—and his own in the process.

“You said you wanted to talk?” she asked, leveling him with her eyes.

There were so many things he wanted to say to her that he didn’t even know where to start. “It’s good to see you, Maggie,” he tried, wondering how it would land. “You look…you look fantastic.”

She blinked at him. “Thanks.” Her voice was flat, but her cheeks went just a little bit pink, and he could tell his compliment had had an effect, and satisfaction curled through him. He set his bottle of beer down on the desk and took a step closer, glancing at her left hand. No ring. Relief, sudden and sharp, flooded him. His gaze moved slowly back up to her face. He couldn’t stop looking at her, couldn’t stop drinking in the sight of her. Her eyes met his, and memories of the best summer of his life crashed into him like a freight train. Maggie laughing in the passenger seat of his truck, sun streaming in through the window and Brad Paisley on the radio, her cute little feet propped up on the dash. Lying in the park, staring up at the stars, talking about anything and everything—hopes, dreams, the future, the past. They were memories he revisited often, but now that he was here with her, they carried a new weight. Alone, in the middle of the night, they felt almost intangible. Here, with her, they felt like yesterday.

His heart rate picked up as he remembered the sweetness of her mouth on his. The way she’d looked up at him as they’d made love for the first time, with so much love and trust in those big gray eyes. The breathless way she’d begged him for more.

He’d had to turn his back on all of it. For her. To give her a better life—one she’d clearly taken advantage of, so at least that was something. At the time, he’d chosen not to tell her the whole story, and he was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to hear it now. It was in the past and couldn’t be undone, anyway.

In the ten years since he and Maggie had split up, he’d been with his fair share of women. Hell, probably more than his fair share. But none of them had gotten under his skin the way she had. None of them had made him feel alive. None of them had meant even a fraction of what she had.

Only ever Maggie. His Maggie.

Still holding his gaze, she bit her lip, and he could tell she was remembering too, pain flashing in her eyes. Guilt ate at him like a disease knowing he’d put that pain there, along with regret.

He cleared his throat softly. “So, you work here.”

She nodded. “Uh huh. For a couple of years now.”

He waited for her to say more, and when she didn’t, he took another sip of his beer. The pain etched on her gorgeous face gnawed at him, and even though he knew he deserved every ounce of discomfort, it didn’t change the fact that he wanted to erase that pain. “I need you to know that I’m really sorry, Mags.”

She frowned and took a step back, bumping into the wall in her haste to put distance between them. “Don’t call me that.”

He held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Okay, I won’t. But I am sorry.”

She shook her head. “It was a long time ago. We were just dumb kids.” She waved a hand through the air. “It didn’t mean anything.”

Dylan felt her words like a punch in the gut because being with her had meant everything to him. He tugged at his bow tie, loosening it, needing some air.

“It meant something to me.” He shrugged. “I just wanted you to know.” He lifted his hand, his fingers toying with the end of her braid.

“Uh huh. Sure it did,” she challenged, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

He invaded her space a little more, narrowing his eyes at her. “It did.”

“And that’s why in ten years you never tried to get in touch with me?”

“I left you alone because I hurt you, and didn’t want to hurt you again.”

Her eyebrows knit together, and he could tell she was weighing whether she believed him or not.

“The truth is, I’ve thought about you nearly every damn day for the past ten years.”

She sucked in a shaky breath and he let his eyes wander south, lingering on her breasts. Her back arched off the wall, just a little.

She made a small sound, a soft little hum, and it took him back to that summer. The two of them in his truck, his fingers slowly undoing the buttons of her waitress uniform. She’d made that same sound as he’d parted the fabric and palmed her sensitive flesh for the first time. Her nipple had beaded against his thumb as he’d stroked her through her bra.

“How’s your mama?” he asked, stepping back and leaning a hip against the desk. He reached for his beer and took a long sip, trying to cool himself off.

Sadness flickered across her features and she shook her head slowly. “She died.”

A hollow opened up in Dylan’s chest and he set the beer down. “What?”

Maggie nodded. “Eight years ago now. Cancer.”

“Shit, Mags—Maggie—I’m so sorry,” he said. He pushed off of the desk and wrapped her in his arms. He was a little surprised that she went willingly, but he wasn’t going to question it. He wanted to comfort her, but damn, it felt good to have her pressed against him again.

“It’s okay. It was a long time ago, too.”

He held her against him, an ache radiating through him at the thought that she’d been on her own all this time. That she’d had to endure that kind of loss at such a young age.

His fingers grazed the exposed skin on her back, and she gasped softly, arching into him a little. Responding to him the way he was responding to her, despite their ten years apart. Or maybe because of it. The corner of his mouth twitched as he fought back a satisfied smile. She pressed a hand against his chest, her fingers tracing over the contours of muscle there.

“Someone’s been working out,” she murmured, and when she glanced up at him, he saw it. A glimpse of the old Maggie. The sassy, lighthearted one. It felt like the sun coming out after a storm.

Maggie quickly stepped away, her cheeks once again a little pink. She looked flustered, as though she’d just remembered she was supposed to hate him. “Anyway, I need to get back to work. See you around,” she said, impossibly casual, and stepped around him and left without a backward glance.

Dylan blew out a breath and slumped down onto the desk. “Magnolia Jennings,” he said, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I’ll be damned.”

* * *

Maggie’s feet smacked against the path in White Rock Lake Park as she jogged around the water, trying to burn off the restless energy churning through her. It was a gorgeous spring morning, and there were a few other joggers taking advantage of both the weather and the park. The sun shone brightly in the clear sky, sparkling against the water, and a soft breeze blew against her sweaty skin, cooling her down a little, but not nearly enough.

God. Twelve hours after being alone with Dylan and she was still trying to cool down. She hadn’t slept much last night. All she’d been able to do was lie in bed and replay, over and over and over, how it had felt to see him again. She’d tried so hard for the frosty aloofness she’d wanted to project, but the truth was, seeing him again had melted her defenses. Those blue eyes, that smile, that chiseled jaw—they’d only improved with age. He’d filled out, too, adding a good twenty pounds of muscle to his athletic frame, which also didn’t hurt. Being so close to him in that small space, her body had taken over, responding to him as it always had. As it had never responded to anyone else. It was like Dylan was the only man who held the key that could rev her engine, and she didn’t know how to feel about that. He was also the only man who’d ever broken her heart, adding to the complicated mix of emotions swirling through her.

She pushed herself a little harder, trying to outrun it all. So she was still attracted to him, so what? That didn’t mean that she had feelings for him, or that he meant anything to her. He was a sexy guy. The way she’d responded was only natural. Any woman in her shoes would’ve felt the same way.

No, she was over Dylan McCormick, totally and completely. She’d loved him once, but that was long in the past, nearly half a lifetime ago. She’d moved on, and anything she’d ever felt for him was a distant memory. Seeing him again after all this time, it was easy to get caught up in nostalgia. The butterflies she’d felt when his hand had touched the bare skin of her back were only because of her pent-up lust thanks to her dry spell. She was looking at the past through rose-colored glasses. Horny rose-colored glasses. Nothing more.

She wasn’t sure if she believed what he’d said last night, about thinking about her all the time, that their relationship had meant something to him. If he was full of shit, that made him an asshole for lying to her. If he was telling the truth, that made him an asshole for breaking her heart. She kept making herself go back to the night when he’d broken up with her, trying to remember how much that had hurt. How humiliated and betrayed she’d felt. She hadn’t forgiven him for that.

But if you haven’t forgiven him, you’re clearly not over it, said a small voice from somewhere deep inside her. She turned her music up, not wanting to listen to it. Not wanting to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, that voice was right. Because it couldn’t be. She was over Dylan McCormick. Had been for a long time. It would be downright pathetic if she was still carrying a torch for him after all these years.

But her traitorous mind kept pulling long-buried memories to the surface. The first time he’d told her loved her. The scavenger hunt he’d sent her on for her birthday, ending with the little M pendant necklace. That day on the river, with the roses he’d bought her and the champagne he’d pilfered from his father’s wine cellar. The evening he’d come to her rescue when her car had died, leaving her stranded by the side of the road. He’d been so good to her. Until he hadn’t, she reminded herself. It had all been a show. If it had meant anything, he wouldn’t have just thrown it away because of a little distance. He wouldn’t have let his father’s disapproval wreck what they had.

She didn’t want to deal with those memories and confusing knot they’d created right in the middle of her chest, so she let other ones surface. Sexier, dirtier ones. Like the time he’d slipped his hand under her skirt and into her panties at the movies, sliding his fingers over her clit until she’d come, spilling their popcorn all over the floor. Or the time his dad had been out for the evening and they’d spent hours in Dylan’s bed, letting their teenage hormones run wild. She hadn’t wanted to leave because her sheets didn’t smell like him. The image of Dylan with his face between her legs, licking and sucking, telling her how fucking good she tasted…

She stumbled on a rock and took a few awkward steps forward as she regained her balance. An achy throb had taken up residence right between her legs, and she knew she was wet.

“Goddamn it,” she puffed out, her hands on her hips. With a shake of her head, she pushed all memories of Dylan down deep, where they belonged, and jogged the three miles back to her studio apartment in the Old East Dallas neighborhood she loved. By the time she got home, she was drenched in sweat and her legs felt like Jell-O, but she’d managed to tame that restlessness zapping through her like wild electricity.

Maggie lived on the fourth floor of an old factory that had recently been converted to lofts. Last year, she’d signed a lease on a 500-square-foot studio after getting tired of living right downtown. It wasn’t a huge space, but it was bright and airy, and she’d made it her own with paint and artwork and small touches, like the makeshift “wall” separating her bedroom from the rest of the space made of floor to ceiling bookshelves and a sliding barn door she’d had installed.

She walked down the hallway, past her bathroom and bedroom and into the kitchen at the back. The kitchen was really just one wall and a small L-shaped counter with barely enough room for her little bistro table by the window, but it suited her just fine. She loved her little place and the green space it looked out on. She loved that it was hers and that she could afford it all on her own. She loved keeping it tidy and cozy. It was home.

She pulled out her ear buds and headed for the fridge, grabbing the ingredients for her usual post-workout smoothie. She dumped everything in the blender and hit the start button, whirring it all together. As the ingredients melded into something new, so did her buzzing thoughts. Her eyes went wide as her idea solidified, taking hold and not letting go. She hit the button to stop the blender and grabbed her phone, her fingers flying across the screen as she typed her message into the ongoing group text with her friends.

Maggie: I’ve got an idea. It’s probably a crazy one, but…

Aubrey: What? You’re not thinking of dying your hair red again, are you?

Maggie: Ha, no. Learned my lesson on that one.

Jess: FWIW, I liked your red hair. Even if it was a little on the pink side.

Laurel: What’s your crazy idea?

Maggie: I think I should have sex with Dylan.

Three little dots instantly appeared beside everyone’s names. Maggie felt a little giddy at just typing the words out, as though seeing them and not just thinking them made them all the more real.

Laurel: What???

Jess: DO IT

Aubrey: Uh…honey, I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Maggie: Hear me out. I talked to him last night, and while any romantic feelings are in the past, there was definitely still chemistry. So why not take advantage of that and have a little no-strings attached sex with him? It’s the perfect way to end my dry spell.

Jess: Seriously, do it. You wanna bang him, I say go for it.

Aubrey: And I say this is a horrible idea. I don’t want you to get hurt.

Laurel: Well, she won’t if she’s over him, right?

Maggie: Right. Exactly.

Laurel: Unless this is some messed up way of proving you’re over him. Because that will totally blow up in your face.

Maggie paused, her fingers hovering over the screen. Was this her way of proving she was over him? No, not exactly. But she did need closure. Things had ended between them so suddenly and unexpectedly, and now that he was back in her life, confusing feelings were surfacing.

Aubrey: Ooh, is this revenge sex? Show him what he could’ve had and then BAM, you break up with him?

Maggie: LOL, no, definitely not revenge sex. But it’d be closure, which I need if we’re going to work together. I can bang him out of my system for good.

Laurel: Go for it, but tread carefully. We all know what he meant to you. Yeah, that was a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean this wouldn’t be playing with fire.

Jess: Exactly. Have fun and don’t get burned.

Aubrey: Have you talked to Dylan about this crazy ass idea of yours?

Maggie: Not yet. But I think he’ll be into it. There were sparks, y’all. He was totally staring at my boobs yesterday.

Jess: Well, they are fantastic boobs.

Maggie: Aw, thanks Jess.

Aubrey: He’s a dude with working eyes, of course he was. And for the record, I still think this is a freaking terrible idea.

Jess: C’mon, A. Let the girl live.

Laurel: So…what are you going to say to Dylan?

Maggie: I don’t know yet. I haven’t thought that far ahead.

Aubrey: Clearly.

Jess: Do you really think you’ll need to say more than “do me, Dylan?”

Maggie: LOL, probably not. But maybe I should go for something a bit more seductive than that.

Laurel: Well, good luck! Keep us posted.

Aubrey: Be careful.

Jess: Have FUN

Maggie: Thanks y’all. I’m gonna hop in the shower.

Maggie put her phone down on the kitchen counter and chugged her smoothie, nearly giving herself a cold headache. Adrenaline buzzed through her as she moved through her apartment to the bathroom, shedding her sweaty clothes as she went. She slid back the glass door to the shower and cranked it as hot as it would go, then caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair was a sweaty mess, her face flushed, and she smiled at herself. Sex with Dylan was exactly what she needed, for so many reasons.

She just needed him to say yes.

* * *

“We welcome you to Longhorns baseball here on NBC Sports Dallas. I’m Wayne Hopkins, and I’ll be joined by Ron Whittaker and Aubrey Norris during the broadcast. This afternoon concludes the three-game series against the Minnesota Twins, with the Longhorns hoping to avoid a sweep. The big story, of course, is the debut of Dylan McCormick, who’ll be playing right field this afternoon and batting seventh in the lineup. Let’s go to Aubrey now, who’s standing by with Dylan McCormick.”

The camera cuts to Dylan, in his Longhorns uniform, and Aubrey, holding a microphone.

“How are you feeling this afternoon, Dylan?” she asks.

“I’m truly excited to be here,” he says, glancing into the camera. He doesn’t look excited.

“Any thoughts on what’s happening at the plate?”

Dylan shrugs. “Everyone goes through slumps sometimes. Just gotta roll with it and keep working hard.”

“Fans may not realize this, but you’re from the Dallas area. How does it feel to be home?”

“Yeah, I grew up in Ivy Hills, about thirty minutes from here. It’s always nice to come home.” He smiles, but it’s tight, forced.

Someone off camera calls to Dylan.

“All right, I’ll let you get back to your warm-up. Let’s send it back up to Wayne and Ron. Guys?”

Ron shuffles papers in front of him. “It’ll be interesting to see what McCormick can do. If he can bust out of his slump and get hot, he’ll be a major asset to the team.”

Wayne chuckles. “And if not, he’ll be a darn expensive minor leaguer. Let’s take a look at today’s lineup.”