About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author KAT CANTRELL read her first Mills & Boon novel in third grade and has been scribbling in notebooks since she learned to spell. She’s a former Mills & Boon So You Think You Can Write winner and former RWA Golden Heart finalist. Kat, her husband and their two boys live in north Texas.

From Enemies to Expecting

Kat Cantrell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-06079-0

FROM ENEMIES TO EXPECTING

© 2017 Kat Cantrell

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Back Cover Text

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Winning is nonnegotiable…and so is parenthood!

Marketing exec Trinity Forrester needs PR buzz. By-the-books baseball tycoon Logan McLaughlin needs ticket sales. Their plan is simple: embark on a pretend romance to boost publicity. But soon their reality-show kisses lead to explosive off-camera lovemaking…

Trinity knows her fling with her frustratingly handsome costar ends when the cameras stop rolling—not with a diamond ring and proposal. But when their fake romance yields a very real pregnancy, will the emotionally guarded duo choose winning…or wedding?

One

Logan McLaughlin hated losing. So of course the fates had gifted him with the worst team in the history of major league baseball. Losing had become an art form, one the Dallas Mustangs seemed determined to master. Short of cleaning house and starting over with a new roster, Logan had run out of ideas to help his ball club out of their slump.

Being the team’s owner and general manager should be right up his alley. Logan’s dad had run a billion-dollar company with ease and finesse for thirty years. Surely Logan had inherited a little of Duncan McLaughlin’s business prowess along with a love of baseball and his dad’s dot-com fortune?

Ticket sales for the Mustangs’ home games said otherwise. A losing streak a mile long was the only reason Logan had agreed to the ridiculous idea his publicist had put forth, otherwise, he’d never have darkened the door of a reality game show. As last-ditch efforts went, this one took the cake.

But, as his publicist informed him, Logan had run out of charity golf tournaments, and they hadn’t helped drive ticket sales anyway. Short of winning games—which he was working on, via some intricate and slow trade agreements—he needed to get public support for his team another way. Now.

Exec-ution’s set teemed with people. Logan stood in the corner nursing a cup of very bad coffee because it was that or rip off someone’s head due to caffeine withdrawal. He should have stopped at Starbucks on the way to the studio, but who would have thought that an outfit that asked its contestants to be on the set at 5:00 a.m. wouldn’t have decent coffee? He was stuck in hell with crap in a cup.

“Logan McLaughlin.” A pretty staffer with an iPad in the crook of her elbow let her gaze flit over the other contestants until she zeroed in on him standing well out of the fray. “Care to take a seat? We’re about to begin filming.”

“No, thanks. I’ll stand,” he declined smoothly with a ready smile to counter his refusal.

Chairs were for small people; at six-four, 220, Logan hadn’t fit in most chairs since eleventh grade. Plus, he liked being able to see the big picture at a glance.

A soft-looking middle-aged man in a suit nodded at Logan. “Thought I recognized you. I’m a Yankees fan from way back. Used to watch you pitch, what, ten years ago?”

“Something like that,” Logan agreed easily.

The Yankees had let him go eight years ago, but who was counting when the career he’d poured his heart and soul into ended in a failed Tommy John surgery? His elbow still ached occasionally, just in case he didn’t have enough reminders that his days on the mound were over.

“Man, you were great. Sorry about the arm.” The man shook his head. “Shame you can’t get any of your starters shaped up. The Mustangs could use a guy with your skill.”

Yeah. Shame. Logan nodded his thanks. He tossed his crap in a cup into a trash can and crossed his arms over the void in his chest that owning a baseball team hadn’t filled. It was getting harder and harder to convince himself that his glory days were not behind him.

Winning games. Ticket sales. Merchandise sales. These were things that would fix that void. And when he won Exec-ution, sports news outlets would have something to do with his name besides dragging it through the mud.

The staffer called a few more people to take seats around the boardroom table. A photograph of the downtown Dallas skyline peeked through the faux window behind the table. Crew members buzzed around the cameras, and a few tech guys sat behind glass in a control room, wearing headsets. The host of the show sat at the head of the table, hands carefully laced in front him, with perfectly coiffed hair and a bogus TV smile.

“Let’s have a good show!” The staffer melted away, and Well-Coiffed Guy launched into his spiel.

“Hi, everyone! I’m Rob Moore, your host for Exec-ution, where executives compete in two-person teams in an entrepreneurial challenge designed to showcase the ability to run a business. The winners get one hundred thousand dollars for charity. Losers? Executed!”

Logan rolled his eyes as the host smacked the table with his trademark chopping motion. So cheesy.

A commotion caught everyone’s attention. A dark-haired woman strode onto the set with the pretty staffer dogging her heels.

Logan promptly forgot about the smarmy host and fake boardroom in favor of watching the real show—the dark-haired woman walking.

She moved liked an outfielder with a batter’s home run in the works: fast, purposeful and determined not to let that ball go over the wall. Maybe she could teach his guys a few things about how to hustle.

The closer she got, the more interesting she became. A wide stripe of pink ran down the left side of her hair. The right side had been shorn close to her head in an asymmetrical cut that made Logan feel off-kilter all at once. Or maybe that was due to her thick, black Cleopatra-style eye makeup, which was far sexier than it should be.

She had everyone’s attention exactly where she wanted it—on her. A woman dressed in a slim-fit, shocking pink suit cut low enough to allow her very nice breasts to peek out clearly expected people to notice her.

“Sorry I’m late,” she offered the host. Her throaty voice thrummed through Logan in a way he hadn’t been thrummed in a very long time. Not since his pitching days, when baseball groupies had been thick on the ground, which he’d taken advantage of far less than he could have.

This lady in pink had the full package, and then some. For some other guy.

Logan avoided packaged women like the plague, as they often came with nasty surprises once you unwrapped them. He liked his women simple, unaffected and open, a younger version of the best woman he knew—his mom.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate a gorgeous woman with a sexy voice.

Pink Lady drew even with Logan, electing to stand despite open seats at the table and ice-pick heels on her feet that couldn’t be comfortable.

“I tried to explain that we’d already started filming,” the staffer told Rob Moore in a hushed voice that carried across the whole set. “She barged in anyway.”

“It’s okay,” the host said with a crafty smile. He waltzed over to them, his gaze cutting back and forth between Logan and the lady in pink at his side. “Oh, I like this. Very nice. Bad girl meets all-American boy. The viewers will love it.”

“Love what?” Logan glanced down at his blue Mustangs T-shirt and jeans and then at the dark-haired woman. Moore’s comment sank in. “You want us to be teammates? I don’t think so.”

That was not happening. But Moore had already moved on to the next couple, both of whom looked relieved with their matches.

The sinking feeling in Logan’s stomach bottomed out. Pink Lady had crossed her arms under her spectacular breasts, shoving them upward so that they strained against the fabric of her suit. He averted his eyes as she started tapping out a staccato rhythm with one stiletto.

“What’s wrong with being my teammate?” Her agitation pushed her voice up a notch. “You don’t think I have any business savvy because of the tongue piercing. That’s crap and you know it.”

A…tongue piercing? Instantly, he envisioned exactly what skills a woman with a steel bar through her tongue might have. And they all centered on being naked. With her mouth on his flesh as she pleasured him.

Dragging his thoughts out of the gutter took entirely too much will. That’s why he liked unassuming, unsexy, uneverything women.

“I didn’t even notice that,” he informed her truthfully and tried to stop himself from catching a glimpse of the piercing. “My objections have nothing to do with you.”

That part was patently false. It had everything to do with the fact that she had distraction written all over her. He’d have to get a new teammate, no question.

For God knew what reason, she laughed, and that did a hell of lot more than thrum in Logan’s gut.

“I have a BS meter with new batteries,” she said. “Look around, honey. Everyone else has been paired. Can we get with the program?”

Logan peered down at his new teammate’s fingernail, which had landed in the dead center of his chest. Then he glanced back up at her incredibly disturbing eyes. They were a shade of ice blue that seemed so much more stark and unique than they should, probably because of her eye makeup.

“I’m with the program.” He reeled back the curl of awareness that her finger had aroused. “The question is, are you? I wasn’t late.”

“Five a.m. is an ungodly hour, and I was only fifteen minutes late. You can’t hold that against me.”

Yeah, actually he could. He’d been on time and so had everyone else. But since it did appear as if all the other teams had been set, he sighed. “Fine. You’re forgiven. What did you say your industry is again?”

“I didn’t. What did you say your name is again?”

The point wasn’t lost on him. He’d completely abandoned civility with this pink curveball, and his mama had taught him better than that. He stuck out a hand. “Logan McLaughlin. Owner and general manager of the Dallas Mustangs.”

“Sports is your thing, I see. The lack of dress-up clothes threw me.” She glanced at his Mustangs shirt, and then slipped her hand in his for what should have been a perfunctory shake.

The moment her palm slid against his, a shock zinged up his arm, arrowing straight for his groin. He let it ride because it was that powerful and, God, he hadn’t felt anything like it in ages. Her eyelids drifted downward a touch, and she peeked up at him from under her lashes, clearly affected by it as well.

“I own suits,” he muttered, loath to release her and completely aware that he should have ended the handshake at least thirty seconds ago. “I’d rather go naked than wear one.”

What was he doing?

Get a grip, McLaughlin. This woman was the polar opposite of his type, and flirting with her could only lead to disaster, especially since they were supposed to be focused on winning. Unfortunately, he had a feeling the disaster train had already pulled out of the station.

“Naked is my favorite, too.” Her voice had dropped back into the throatiness he much preferred. That was not going to work, either. “Trinity Forrester. Yes, as in the holy trinity, the chick in The Matrix and the river. I’ve heard all the jokes, so save them.”

“I guess I’m not allowed to ask if you’re overly religious, then.”

She smiled, leaning in close enough to share a whiff of her exotic scent that of course only added to her allure.

“If you do, you get my standard answer. ‘Any man in a ten-foot radius is expected to treat me like a goddess. You can get started worshipping me any time.’”

Oh, she’d like that, wouldn’t she? His eyes narrowed.

If they were going to be teammates, they had to get a few things straight. No flirting. No throaty voices coupled with come-hither glances. Logan called the shots, and Ms. I’ve Heard All the Jokes had better be able to keep up. Sexy heels were optional.

The cameras had captured every word of the exchange. So far, so good.

The more the cameras tuned in to Trinity, the more times the producers would overlay her name and Fyra Cosmetics on the screen. You couldn’t buy better advertising than that, and Fyra needed all the positive press it could get.

Trinity Forrester would get that press come hell or high water. Nothing could be allowed to happen to her company, the one she and her three best friends from college had built from a concept and a dream. Thanks to an internal saboteur, Fyra was struggling. As the chief marketing officer, Trinity took the negative publicity personally. It was her job to stop the hemorrhaging. Exec-ution was step one in that plan.

Otherwise, she’d be in her office hard at work on the campaign for Formula-47, the new product they’d hoped to launch in the next couple of weeks.

Mr. McLaughlin still had her hand in his as if he might not let go. Perfect. The more enthralled he was, the easier it would be to take charge. Men never paid attention to her unless they wanted to get her into the sack, mostly because that was the way she preferred it. Sex was the only thing she’d ever found worth doing with a man.

She smiled at Logan for good measure. He had good ole Texas boy baked into his DNA. Toss in his longish brown hair that constantly fell in his face and his casual clothes, and yeah, Logan McLaughlin was the epitome of the all-American type. Also known as a nice guy.

Nice guys were always hiding something not so nice, and she’d learned her lesson a long time ago when it came to trusting men—don’t. A surprise pregnancy in her early twenties had cured her of happily-ever-after dreams when the father of her baby took off, and then a miscarriage convinced her she wasn’t mother material anyway.

“Mr. McLaughlin,” she murmured. “Perhaps you’d give me my hand back so we can get to work?”

He dropped it like he’d discovered a live copperhead in his grip and cleared his throat. “Yeah. Good idea.”

They retrieved a sealed envelope from the show’s host, and Logan followed Trinity to an area with an easel and large pad of paper for brainstorming. Her fingers itched to mark up those pristine white pages with diagrams. If that didn’t jump-start her missing muse, nothing would. Though she’d tried a lot of things.

The cameraman wedged into the small area with them, still rolling. Perfect. She’d have to come up with more outrageous things to do, just to ensure the editors had plenty to work with. Coming in late had been a stroke of brilliance. And McLaughlin’s face when she’d informed him he couldn’t hold fifteen minutes against her…priceless. He was obviously a rule follower. Shame.

He tore open the envelope and pulled out the contents, scanning it quickly. “We have to run a lemonade stand in Klyde Warren Park. Whichever team makes the most money wins the task and avoids execution.”

“Excellent.” Rubbing her hands together, she then quickly sketched out her vision for the stand, filling in small details like cross-hatching to indicate shadowing. “Orange will be the best color to paint the booth. Good contrast against green, assuming we’ll be in the grassy part of the park.”

Her partner loomed at her shoulder, breathing down her neck as he stretched one muscular arm out to stab the pad. “What is this?”

“A sign. That says Trinity’s Lemonade.”

What did the man bathe in that smelled so…manly? The clean, citrusy notes spread through her senses and caught the attention of her erogenous zones, none of which had gotten the memo that she did not go for Texas boys who looked like they lived outdoors.

The man owned a sports team, for God’s sake. He’d probably need a dictionary to hold a conversation over drinks, which would no doubt include beer and a hundred TVs with a different game on each one. She and Logan were ill matched for a reality game show, let alone outside one, his rock-hard pecs aside. Her fingertip still tingled from when she’d poked him, not at all prepared for the body she’d discovered under that blue T-shirt.

“Why would we call it Trinity’s Lemonade, exactly?” he asked, his deep voice rumbling in her ear. “Logan’s Lemonade sounds better. Starts with the same letter.”

“It’s alliterative, you mean,” she supplied sweetly. “I understand the dynamics of appealing to the public better than you do, honey. So let’s stick with our strengths, shall we?”

She stroked a few more lines across her work of art and then yelped as her partner spun her around to face him. His mouth firmed into a flat line and he towered over her even in her five-inch Stuart Weitzman sandals. Trinity was used to looking men in the eye, and the fact that she couldn’t do that with Logan McLaughlin put her on edge.

“You’ve done a really good job of not mentioning your strengths, darling,” he threw in sarcastically. “I run a multimillion-dollar sports franchise. What do you do, Ms. Forrester?”

“Haven’t I mentioned it?” she tossed off casually when she knew good and well she hadn’t—on purpose. The moment a man like him heard the word cosmetics, he’d make more snap judgments and she’d had enough of that.

At this point, though, she needed to impress upon him that she was in her sweet spot. “I’m the CMO at Fyra.”

Blandly, he surveyed her. “The makeup company?”

“The very same. So now we’re all caught up,” she informed him brightly. “Marketing is my gig. Yours is figuring out which guy can hit the ball hardest. When we have a task that requires balls, I’ll let you be in charge.”

This lemonade stand graphic was the first inspired thing she’d done in weeks, which was frankly depressing. Her muse had deserted her, which was alarming enough in and of itself, but the timing was horrific. Fyra planned to launch its premier product in the next ninety days. Fortunately, no one knew she’d run dry in the creativity department. It wasn’t like she could tell her business partners that she had a mental block when it came to Formula-47. They were counting on her.

His mouth tipped up in a slow smile that didn’t fool her for a second. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re partners. That means all tasks require balls, specifically mine. Shove over and let’s do this together.”

Nice. Not only had he called her on her double entendre, he’d done it with a style she grudgingly appreciated. Which was the only reason she stepped a half inch to the right, graciously offering him room at the pad.

His arm jostled hers as he took way more space than she’d intended. The man was a solid wall of muscle, with wide shoulders and lean hips, and yeah, of course she’d noticed how well his jeans hugged the curve of his rear. That part of Logan McLaughlin was a gift to women everywhere, and she’d gotten in her share of ogling.

Without a word, he picked up his own marker and crossed out “Trinity’s Lemonade,” then scrawled, “McLemonade” across the sign. Oh, God. That was perfect. How dare he be the one to come up with it?

Scowling, she crossed her arms and in the process made sure to throw an elbow into his ribs. Which promptly glanced off as if she’d hit a brick wall. And now her elbow hurt.

“Fine,” she ground out. “We’ll go with yours. But the booth will be orange.”

He shrugged, shouldering her deliberately. “I didn’t have an issue with that.”

The man was intolerable. Nowhere near the nice guy she’d pegged him as, and once he opened his mouth, totally unattractive. Or at least that was what she was telling herself.

“Oh, yeah? So the stuff you do have issues with—that’s all getting the McLaughlin veto?” Standing her ground shouldn’t be this hard, but heels coupled with the immovable mountain snugged next to her body threw her off, and not solely because it was impossible to think through the shooting pangs of awareness that she couldn’t seem to get under control.

Instead of glaring, his expression smoothed out and he took a deep breath.

“Let’s start over.” He extended his hand.

Because he’d piqued her curiosity, she took it and he swallowed her palm with his. Little frissons of awareness seeped into her skin at the contact.

“I’m Logan McLaughlin. I run a baseball team and our ticket sales suck. My publicist insisted that this game show would be a good way to get some eyes on the team, so here I am. Any help I can get toward that goal is appreciated.”

His clear hazel eyes held hers, and his sincerity bled through her, tripping her pulse unexpectedly. Well, jeez. Honesty. What would the man think of next?

“Hi,” she said because that seemed to be all her throat could summon as they stared at each other, intensity burning through her. “I’m, um, Trinity Forrester. I sell cosmetics alongside three women I love dearly. Our company stepped in a negative publicity hole, so my publicist came up with the brilliant idea to stick me on a TV show. I’m…not so sure that was a good move.”

That made Logan laugh, and the rich sound of it wound through her with warmth that was so nice, her knees weakened. Weakness under any circumstances was not acceptable. But hardening herself against him took way more effort than it should have.

Was it so wrong to let a man like him affect her? Sure he was insufferable, pigheaded and way too virtuous for her tastes, but he had a gorgeous body, a nice smile and longish hair made for a woman’s fingers. He couldn’t be all bad.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing,” he admitted, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But I’ve changed my mind. I think we can help each other if we work together. Willing to give it a shot?”

Guess that was her answer about what else he had up his sleeve—he was going to be pleasant instead of an obstinate jackass. Strictly to mess with her head, most likely.

But she needed to work with him to benefit both of their goals. She bit her tongue and slipped her hand from his. “I can give that a shot.”

They put their heads together, and true to his word, Logan listened to her ideas. She considered it a plus when he laughed at her jokes. No one had to know she secretly reveled in it.

By the end of the afternoon, they’d amassed a solid four hundred dollars and change with their McLemonade booth. God knew how. They’d fought over everything: how much to charge, where to set up, how much lemonade to put in the cups. Apparently, Mr. Nice Guy only made an appearance when he wanted something, then vanished once he got into the thick of things.

Finally, the show’s producer asked them to pack up and head to the studio so they could wrap up the day’s shooting. They drove separate cars to the set and met up again in the fake boardroom.

This time, Trinity grabbed a seat. An entire day on her feet, most of it on grass while wearing stilettos, was not doing her body any favors.

“Welcome back, everyone!” Rob Moore called, and the teams gathered around the table.

Logan stood at the back and Trinity pretended like she didn’t notice the vacant seat by her side. All the other teammates sat next to each other. Fine by her. She and her partner got on like oil and water and had only figured out how to work together because they’d had to.

“We’ve tallied all the sales, and I must say, this was an impressive group of teams.” The host beamed at them. “But the winners are Mitch Shaughnessy and John Roberts!”

Disappointed, Trinity clapped politely as the winning team high-fived each other and jogged to the head of the table to claim the giant check made out to St. Jude Children’s Hospital. That was the important thing—the money was going to a good cause.

“The winning team’s proceeds were…” Rob Moore paused for dramatic effect. “Four hundred and twenty-eight dollars. Impressive!”

Oh, dear God. They’d lost by a measly twenty-five dollars? She thought about banging her head on the table, but that wouldn’t put the cameras on her face with a nice graphic overlay stating her company’s name. But what if there was a way to get some additional airtime? The cameras were still rolling, panning the losers as the host launched into his trademark parting comments.

“Fire up the electric chair, boys,” he cried. “We’ve got some executions to perform!”

This was the cheesiest part of the show, which she’d hoped to avoid. She had a good idea how to do that and get some cameras on her at the same time.

Pushing her chair backward with a sharp crack, she bolted to her feet and charged over to her partner, poking her finger in his chest with a bit more force than she’d intended. But she’d gotten the cameraman’s attention, and that was all that mattered.

“This is all your fault, McLaughlin. We would have won if it wasn’t for you.”

His gaze narrowed, and he reached up to forcibly remove her finger from his person. “What are you talking about? This ship started sinking the second we were paired. Bad girl meets all-American boy. Please. What they should have called us was train meets wreck.”

That struck her as such a perfect way to describe the day that she almost laughed, but she bit it back. She could admire his wit later, over a glass of wine as she celebrated the fact that she never had to see him again. “You know what your problem is?”

“I’ve got no doubt you’re about to tell me,” he offered and crossed his arms in the pose that she’d tried—and failed—to ignore all day. When he did that, his biceps bunched up under his shirt sleeves, screaming to be touched. She just wanted to feel one once. Was that so much to ask?

“Someone needs to. Otherwise, you’d walk around with that rule book shoved up your…butt,” she amended, lest the producers cut the whole exchange due to her potty mouth. “Some rules are made to be broken. That’s why we lost. Apply for sainthood on your own time.”

His expression heated and not in a good way. “Are you saying I’m a Goody Two-shoes?”

“If the shoe fits, wear it,” she suggested sweetly. “And that’s not even the worst of your problems.”

He rolled his eyes, fire shooting from his gaze, and she almost caved, because he was really pissed and while she wanted the cameras on them, she also felt like crap for poking at him. But when he got hot and bothered, he lost all his filters and focused on nothing but her.

That, she liked.

“Oh, I’ve gotta hear this. Please, enlighten me.”

“You’re attracted to me and you can’t stand it.” That was like the pot calling the kettle black, though she scarcely wanted to admit that to herself, let alone out loud.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

Her finger ended up back on his chest. Oops. It was hard and delicious and there was something super hot about how immovable he was. Logan was solid, the kind of guy who might actually stick around when unexpected challenges cropped up. Sometimes a girl needed a strong shoulder. He had two.

“I heard you,” he growled and went to smack away her finger—she’d assumed—but he crushed her palm to his chest, holding it captive with his hand. “What I meant was, that’s the craziest thing you’ve said so far today.”

The cameraman had zoomed in on their discussion. She noted the lens from the corner of her eye and nearly smiled.

You couldn’t buy this kind of exposure. This time tomorrow—with her help—this clip would go viral: Two executives melt down on the set of a reality TV show. Viewers would see a strong woman not taking any crap from her male partner. As long as they spelled Fyra correctly, it should amp up the positive publicity and counter the negative.

“Get ready for more crazy, because not only are you attracted to me, you can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss me. Admit it. You’re curious about the tongue piercing.”

“Of course I am,” he bit out, fuzzing her brain at the same time.

He was? Fascinated, she zeroed in on him, and yeah, there was a whole lot more than agitation in his expression. Logan McLaughlin, official Boy Scout of major league baseball, had never kissed a woman with a tongue piercing. And he wanted to.

Heat and a thick awareness flooded all the places between them. His heart thumped under her palm, strong but erratic, which perfectly mirrored the stuff going on under her own skin.

“What red-blooded male wouldn’t be curious,” he murmured. “When there’s only one reason to have a steel bar through your tongue—to pleasure a man.”

His eyelids shuttered for a beat, and when he opened them, his eyes held so much wicked intent, her pulse bobbled. Caught in his hot gaze, she swayed toward him, her hand fisting his shirt. “One way to find—”

His mouth captured hers before she’d fully registered him moving. And then all rational thought drained from her mind as Logan kissed her. The TV set melted away, the fascinated onlookers disappeared—none of it registered as he yanked her into his embrace.

Exactly where she wanted to be.

Logan McLaughlin was perfection under her hands, because yes, he was that hard all over. His back alone qualified as a work of art, defined with peaks and valleys that she hadn’t ever felt on a man before. Imagine that. Something new to be discovered on a male body.

She wanted more. And took it.

Tilting her head, she deepened the kiss, and he countered instantly, swirling his tongue forward to find hers, taking command of the kiss, heightening the roar of hunger pounding through her veins. His mouth. God, the things it was doing to her. The things it could do.

And then all at once, his lips disappeared and she swayed forward, desperate to get them back on hers. Instead, he leaned in and nuzzled her ear.

“How’d I do?” he murmured. “Close enough to what you were going for?”

Trinity laughed, because what else could she do? “Yeah. That was perfect.”

He’d been on to her scheme the entire time. Of course. What had she thought, that a man with commitment and white picket fences written all over him might actually go for a woman like her, who’d turned her independence into a shield? That he’d been as into the kiss as she had?

Never in a million years would they make sense together—unless it was fake.

This was a great place for goodbye. But for some reason, Trinity was having a very difficult time taking her hands off her partner.

Two

The next morning, Trinity entered the five-story glass-and-steel building that housed the cosmetics company she’d helped build with her marketing savvy and love of all things feminine. She still got a thrill out of the modern design and purple accents she and her three partners had selected, and the location just north of downtown Dallas was perfect for a single woman who owned an amazing condo in the heart of the city.

Cass had been making noises about moving the company to Austin. Trinity kept her mouth shut because Fyra’s CEO had a very good reason for wanting to do so—her husband, Gage, lived there and they were expecting a baby together. Trinity didn’t have anything against Austin, per se. But it was yet another example of something she had no control over. She hated anything that smacked of lack of control.

Plus, what was wrong with Gage moving his company to Dallas? Both CEOs ran large companies with lots of employees. Just because Gage was the man in the equation, why did that mean he automatically won the battle?

Trinity strode toward her office to the sounds of hoots and clapping. She took a moment to grin and wave. Obviously the footage of her kiss with Logan had made the rounds. The game show itself wouldn’t air until later in the week, but she’d charmed the producer out of a clip of the kiss, starting it on its viral journey by posting it to her own social media accounts and tagging everyone she knew to share it.

Trinity wasn’t one for leaving things to chance.

Cass had scheduled a meeting for first thing this morning, probably to get the full scoop. Humming, Trinity grabbed coffee and dug around until she found her iPad in her shoulder bag, then strolled to the conference room where Cass stood at the head of the table.

“Hey,” Trinity called and repeated her greeting to Fyra’s CFO, Alex Edgewood, and then to Dr. Harper Livingston-Gates, the chief science officer, whose faces appeared in split screen on a TV mounted on the wall. Both of them were participating in the meeting virtually since they’d abandoned Dallas the moment their husbands crooked their fingers.

Trinity sank into a seat and mentally slapped herself for being unkind.

Alex was pregnant with twins and on bed rest, so it made sense that she lived in Washington, DC, with her husband, Phillip, a United States senator. Harper’s husband worked in Zurich, and Trinity didn’t blame her for wanting to be in the same bed with a man as hot as Dr. Dante Gates, especially since they’d just figured out they were in love after being friends for over a decade.

Maybe Trinity was a little jealous that everyone else had such an easy time with normal female things like falling for a great guy and having his support during pregnancy. And none of them had suffered a horrendous miscarriage that had left them feeling defective. Well, so what? Trinity had other great stuff in her life, like more men than she could shake a stick at.

Except lately, great men had been pretty scarce. The pitfalls of turning thirty. Made you think more about the definition of “great,” and pseudo–frat boys with Peter Pan syndrome were not it. Unfortunately, that seemed to be the type she met at her usual haunts, which was fine for the short term.

She just wished she knew why that didn’t feel like enough anymore.

Cass started off with a sly smile. “You and your reality show partner got pretty chummy. Do tell.”

“All for the cameras, hon,” Trinity assured her. God, what was with that pang in her gut? The kiss had been fake. On both sides—never mind that she’d liked how real it felt. “We were both interested in getting additional coverage. It worked.”

Alex and Harper both murmured their disappointment that the story wasn’t juicier.

“I know we’ve turned dissecting our love lives into a regular boardroom agenda item, but let’s move on,” Trinity insisted smoothly. “I’m sure Cass didn’t call this meeting to talk about my partner on a reality game show.”

“Actually, I did,” Cass corrected. “We’ve got a publicity issue that’s at the top of everyone’s mind right now. After the mess with the leak and then the FDA approval fiasco, sales went into the toilet. We’ve got new problems daily as articles keep popping up in what feels to me like a smear campaign.”

Felt that way to Trinity, too. Which was why it pissed her off so much. This was her territory. Her company. And someone was after it.

“Yeah, I’m aware. That’s why I did the show, remember?”

“I’m not sure it’s enough.” Cass frowned. “I approved it since the publicist suggested it, but we need to move forward with launching Formula-47. When can you schedule time to present the marketing plan?”

“Next Monday?” Trinity suggested and started calculating exactly how screwed she was…since the campaign didn’t exist. Very would be the precise amount of screwed.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault but hers, but then she’d never had a creative dry spell like this one, and she couldn’t even commiserate with her friends. Recent personal events for all three ladies had driven a wedge between them, with Trinity on the wrong side of the married mom division.

Trinity hated it. She was happy for her friends, but sad that they’d all chosen lives so different from the ones they’d had. So different from the one she’d mapped out for herself. And she was pretty sure that was why her creativity had completely abandoned her when she needed it most.

The sketching she’d done on that pristine white pad while Logan peered over her shoulder had been a welcome flood of ingenuity. Maybe the medium was the key—she’d run out at lunch and pick up one of those easels. It could work.

She could totally get her muse to make an appearance, work straight through and have a brilliant campaign by Monday morning. Especially if the publicity from Exec-ution worked like it was supposed to. With that load off her mind, then she could concentrate on turning Formula-47 into a powerhouse wrinkle and scar cream that would put Fyra at the top of the industry.

Cass nodded and shifted focus to numbers, so Alex took the lead on that, while Trinity sank down in her seat to let her mind wander in hopes of jogging something passable from her subconscious. Didn’t happen, but she had almost a week. No problem.

The easel and pad did not turn into a magic bullet. Neither did the marathon brainstorming session she called to generate ideas from her creative team. At four o’clock, she sent Melinda, Fyra’s receptionist, to the office supply store to get a dozen more blank pads. The remains of the two Trinity had purchased at lunch lay in ripped and crumpled pieces on her office floor. She might have stabbed a couple of the papers with her Louboutin heels, but only because big jagged holes improved the package design she’d started on.

She didn’t even have a product name, which meant she had no business trying to design the packaging. Her creative process required building blocks, and the name always came first, but she’d been desperate to make some kind of progress. Formula-47 would be Fyra’s premier product and as the CMO, Trinity should and would take on the heaviest lifting. Her creative team had enough on their plates with managing the rest of Fyra’s marketing juggernaut while she buried herself in this mess.

Melinda poked her head in the door. “I’ve got your pads. Also, Lara from Gianni Publicity Group is here. She doesn’t have an appointment. Shall I send her away?”

The publicist. Great. That was exactly what Trinity needed right now—a reminder that Cass had hired an outside firm to do Trinity’s job. And Lara’s big contribution thus far had landed Trinity in the arms of a do-gooder Texas boy who kissed like a wicked fantasy.

Logan McLaughlin was a name she should have forgotten by now. For God knew what reason, it still rattled around in her head, heating up places that shouldn’t be heating at the thought of a rugged, lean-hipped outdoorsy guy who wasn’t her type.

She sighed. “No, it’s okay. I’ll see her.”

Lara Gianni rushed into the office, long hair streaming behind her as the chic woman grabbed Trinity by the shoulders and kissed both cheeks, Italian style. “You brilliant, brilliant lady. Logan McLaughlin is magnifico.”

“Back off. I saw him first,” Trinity said drily. Was the woman reading minds now? “Why is he magnificent again? Please tell me it’s because you’ve got good news.”

The publicist laughed. “The best. Your video has already been shared over half a million times, and the response? Amazing. People love you two together. The comments are priceless. Love on the set of a TV show is brilliant marketing.”

“Wait a minute. Love on a TV show? It was an entrepreneurial game show, not The Bachelor.” The look on Lara’s face gave Trinity a very bad feeling. “The public was supposed to see the name Fyra and think positive thoughts about it. That’s how you sold the idea to us.”

“That was before you went in a whole different direction. One I love! You’re truly brilliant.”

Yeah, that part was clear. What wasn’t clear was what the hell Lara was talking about. “I didn’t go in a different direction. We lost the game and I had to do something extra. I kissed my partner. Voilà, now Fyra is all over social media.”

“No.” Lara shook her head. “You are all over social media. They like the romance you unwittingly created. I would highly recommend continuing it.”

Trinity’s stomach dropped into her shoes. “Continue what? There’s no romance. It was one kiss.”

A hot kiss. If she’d watched the footage a couple of dozen times before she’d posted it, no one had to know.

Lara shrugged. “I suggest you figure out how to make it into more than a kiss. It doesn’t have to be a real relationship so long as you get yourself photographed with Logan McLaughlin. A lot. While kissing and making goo-goo eyes at each other.”

The logic of it warred with the insanity. A fake relationship strictly for publicity? She couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Yet…how was that so different than a fake kiss for the same reason? Logan had jumped on that deal like a starving dog on a steak. Maybe he’d be really good at pretending they were a hot-and-heavy couple.

The thought unleashed a shiver that nearly unglued her. The side benefits of such an arrangement held many interesting possibilities that she could not ignore, like enticing a nice guy into a walk on the wild side. How much fun would it be to corrupt the hell out of the all-American boy, especially on camera?

No. A long-term fake relationship was a whole lot different than one fake kiss. Her acting skills weren’t that good. Except all at once, she couldn’t figure out if she’d be feigning she was into him…or pretending she wasn’t.

“No way. I can’t do something like that.”

Lara’s brow furrowed as she pulled out her phone and tapped a few times, then held it out to display a nearly all-red pie chart. “That’s the click-through rate from your video to Fyra’s website.”

All the blood drained from Trinity’s head. Seventy-five percent. Seventy-five percent. The click-through rate of her most successful social media campaign ever was 12 percent.

In the wake of the smear tactics someone had launched against Fyra, she couldn’t afford to pass up this idea.

Looked like she’d be paying Mr. McLaughlin a visit. Tomorrow. Hello, new boyfriend.

Myra slapped the printed spreadsheet on Logan’s desk and didn’t bother to hide her smirk. “Told you that reality show would work.”

Yes, it had. He didn’t need his publicist to point out the double-digit increase in ticket sales. The Mustangs’ entire front office had been buzzing about it since he’d walked in this morning. And he had Trinity Forrester, CMO, to thank.

Who would have thought that sizzling kiss would pay such huge dividends?

Duncan McLaughlin had never done that to get customers to open their wallets, but in Logan’s defense, it hadn’t been his idea. Yet he’d gotten on board with it pretty dang fast, at least once he’d realized the hot woman he’d been salivating over was not coming on to him. She’d simply found one last way to get the camera on them. As tactics went, he could find little to complain about.

Other than the fact that one bad-girl kiss later, he’d come to the uncomfortable realization that he could not wipe the feel of that tongue piercing from his memory.

His admin, Lisa, popped into his office, eyes wide. “Um, boss? You have a visitor. Ms. Forrester?”

Well, well. He leaned back in his chair as Myra’s expression veered between intrigued and very intrigued. Logan had a feeling his own face might be doing something similar, so he schooled it before nodding to Lisa. “You can send her in. Thanks, Myra. I’ll get back to you.”

And then everything in the world of baseball ceased to exist as Trinity waltzed into his office, her off-kilter hair throwing him into a tailspin. God, how was that so sexy? On her, it was one more in-your-face reminder that she was a force to be reckoned with.

Today’s outfit consisted of a deep purple suit with a micro skirt, black stockings that made her legs look a mile long and silver ankle breakers that he’d like better on his bedroom floor.

“Thanks for seeing me on short notice,” she said.

That throaty voice. He’d underrated what it did to him when the sound slid down his spine. His blood woke up and sluiced through his veins in a rush that made him feel alive—only being on the mound had ever replicated that feeling.

Why her? Of all people? He’d always been on the lookout for a simple, uncomplicated woman who listened to country music and planned picnics. A nice woman to settle down with, who could have his babies and be the love of his life. That was how his dad had done it. That was how Logan wanted to do it. The fact that he’d yet to meet his fictional perfect lady was neither here nor there—she was out there somewhere.

And her name was not Trinity. He should not be attracted to her.

All at once, he remembered his manners and rose to his feet, palm outstretched toward the love seat near the window that overlooked the ballpark, his favorite spot in the whole stadium as long as there wasn’t a game in progress. Then it was the dugout until the bitter end.

Most general managers sat in an air-conditioned luxury box, but his players were slugging it out on the field, and in August, it wasn’t unusual for the temperature to hit 110. The senior McLaughlin had regularly hit the trenches alongside his employees. Logan could do the same.

Instead of taking the offered seat, Trinity slid a steamy once-over all the way down his body. “You’re wearing a suit. What was it you said about those?”

I’d rather go naked.

The unspoken quote hung in the air between them, dissolving into a dense awareness that answered one lingering question on his mind since that kiss—whether or not he misremembered how deeply she’d gotten under his skin with all her innuendo.

He’d recalled it perfectly.

“I’m being a grown-up today,” he croaked and cleared his throat.

“Oh, yeah, I once thought about being one of those for Halloween.” She shrugged with a smile that he felt in his gut. “By the way, I like you in a suit.”

“What can I do for you, Ms. Forrester?”

The sooner he got her out of his office, the sooner he could get back to work. Or take a cold shower. The last thing he should do was give her an advantage, or she’d railroad him into doing her bidding before he’d fully surfaced from being whacked upside the head by all the pheromones.

“You can call me Trinity.” She jerked her chin toward the desk, flinging the dark swath of hair into motion. She hadn’t colored it today, strictly to throw him off, no doubt. “Talk to me about your numbers.”

He glanced at the spreadsheet Myra had thrown at him to give himself a half second. What was she fishing for? “I’m happy with the results of the viral video and hopeful that when the show airs, the upward trend will continue. How about your numbers?”

“Fantastic. So good, in fact, I’m here with a proposal.”

The way she said it brought to mind closed doors, a secret rendezvous and a solid block of time to explore just how good that bar through her tongue would feel on his body. If that ever happened, she’d completely ruin him for all other women, no doubt.

His body tightened in anticipation. Let’s find out, it begged.

“I’m listening,” he said when what he should have said was there’s the door.

“My target customers loved the video of us together. My publicist thinks we should take advantage of it and start a public relationship. Pretend that we’re dating after meeting on the show.”

“That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. We’d kill each other before anyone believed we were a couple.”

His mind ignored his instant denial and latched on to the idea, turning it over. The timing of the video coincided with the increase in ticket sales too neatly to be a fluke. What would it hurt to capitalize on the momentum?

It could hurt a lot. His major objection had nothing to do with the brilliance of the idea and everything to do with his illogical reaction to her every time she got within breathing distance.

And then last night, she hadn’t even been in the room when he’d let himself envision a bedtime story about finishing that kiss with her legs wrapped around his waist. Yeah, she might be the star in his current shower fantasies. It wasn’t a felony. Except he’d never in a million years have guessed that today would bring her back into his orbit, especially not this way.

Her gaze glittered with calculation. “Actually, the worst idea you’d ever heard was the one where we got paired on that stupid game show. But we made that work. Together. It was a team effort, and we almost won. Just think what we can accomplish with a concerted effort to exploit the public’s thirst for celebrity couples. I’m offering you my complete attention to boost your ticket sales.”

Her negotiation skills hit all the right notes, buttering him up, stressing the goal. Worst of all? He had an urge to say yes, simply to find out what her complete attention looked like.

Was it distasteful to use this opportunity to sate his curiosity about Trinity? A better question was how long he could do it and keep his hands off her. Not long—either he’d make good on the urge to strangle her or he’d provoke her until she kissed him again.

This idea got worse and worse the longer he thought about it.

“How do you even know I’m single?” he countered. “Maybe I’ve got the perfect girlfriend already and I—”

“Please don’t insult me, McLaughlin.” She snorted. “Or yourself. You couldn’t have cut the sexual tension between us with a meat cleaver. If you do have a girlfriend and you can still kiss me like that, you’re not the man I assume you are.”

He scowled, and not just because of her excellent point.

“I get it now.” He nodded sagely. “This is a ploy to earn yourself some more camera time. Attend a few Mustangs games where the general manager’s hot girlfriend would most definitely be a subject of interest.”

Boldly, she contemplated him, not at all bothered by his half-assed accusations. “What if it is? Does that automatically make it a bad idea? My reasons for liking this plan have nothing to do with the reasons you should agree. Ticket sales are the only thing that matters.”

Wow. He shook his head. When you called a spade a spade with Trinity Forrester, she turned over a full house. “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You’re suggesting we manufacture a relationship. Date each other, be seen at some events. And the public is going to approve of this by spending a lot of money?”

“We’re going to help them do that with ad campaigns heavily laced with click bait. But, yeah. Get your publicist involved. Talk to your marketing people. Let’s make it a party and get some eyes on our individual brands.”

Not only did everything she was saying make sense, she had a unique way of presenting it that appealed to him. That alone ruffled his nerves. “How exactly are we going to date and manage to be civil to each other?”

Like that was the biggest issue.

“Who said we were?” Her blue eyes glowed as she caught his gaze. “Part of what sizzles about us is the way we clash. It translates really well on camera. Didn’t you watch the clip?”

He might have watched the video a few times, and there wasn’t a good way to pretend she was wrong. Nor could he forget how arguing with her had exploded into the heat of that kiss. “So not only are we supposed to fake date, but we’re also supposed to have knock-down, drag-out fights in public, too?”

That was way over the line. Logan and his temper were old enemies, and bad decisions followed when he allowed his emotions off the leash. He’d left his hothead days behind him when he bought the Mustangs. A team owner had to play it cool, and thus far, he’d call his newfound calm a success.

Until Trinity.

She was the only person of his acquaintance who threatened his composure on a minute-by-minute basis.

She shrugged. “Let me be clear. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you to agree to this. If you want me to be nice and sweet and smile at your fans, I will.”

Waltzing closer, she let her fingers trail down the front of his shirt, reminding him of the last time she’d done that—right before he’d tested out kissing a woman with a bar through her tongue.

As if she’d read his mind, her gaze instantly caught fire and swept him with a thousand licks of heat as she let her eyes wander down his body in a slow perusal that almost had him squirming. But he had far more control over his body than that—any athlete worth his salt had enormous discipline. Losing his pitching arm hadn’t become an excuse to sit on the couch and get fat.

“Logan,” she murmured throatily, splattering his control to hell and back as his lower half went hard. “If you want me to wear leather and carry around a whip because you like the bad-girl persona that Exec-ution coated me with, I would be happy to oblige. Tell me what it will take.”

Now that was an interesting proposition. His imagination took off at a brisk trot, and it was nearly impossible to rein it back in. “We’d have to make it look real.”

Guess it was too late to pretend he wasn’t considering it.

“Sure. Lots of public kissing. Affection. Lots of making up after a good fight. Maybe you pop the question at an event with a huge diamond ring that sparkles.”

Not for a thousand percent increase in ticket sales would he do something so sacred unless he meant it. “I’m not proposing to you no matter how fake it is. That’s reserved for the future Mrs. McLaughlin. She deserves to be the only one to have that experience.”

Something flashed in her gaze. Longing, maybe. But it was gone before he could process it and her expression hardened. “Fair enough. You play this however you want.”

“You realize we have to spend time together doing things. You’re going to have to pretend to like baseball. No glazed eyes when I wax poetical about Nolan Ryan.”

Actually, he might do that on occasion just for fun.

“Only if you listen with rapt attention when I mention Estée Lauder,” she countered with a sly smile. “I need you. Make me an offer.”

“I’ll think about it.”

He didn’t have to. There was no way he could say no. The part he had to think about was how deep this fake relationship would ultimately go. How deep he’d be willing to admit he wanted it to go. And whether he could, in fact, hold on to both his temper and his sanity while dating Trinity Forrester.

She swept from his office on a cloud of femininity and something spicy that he suspected he’d smell in his sleep for a long time to come.

Before he could remind himself of the million and one reasons it was a dangerous, horrible idea, he texted her: I’m in.

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