Magazine writers were willing to do anything it took to add romance to male-oriented occupation, though, so she had to give them credit for using her very public smooch as a jumping-off point. Since she’d spent her literature-based angst getting mad at Simon’s article, she didn’t have a lot left for the Vanity Fair piece. The picture of her and Tucker kissing wasn’t going to become iconic, she was sure of that, and in a few months it would fade back into obscurity.
“It’s just an article.”
“Oh, I’m not upset,” Louis said, waving a hand to stop her. “We’re thrilled. Do you know advance season ticket purchases are up for next year?”
“That’s…cool?” His giddy delight had been the last thing Emmy expected when he’d handed over the magazine.
“It’s amazing.”
“People know we lost the ALCS, right? We’re not even going to the World Series.”
“I know. But for sales to be this good after a losing season proves we’ve done something right. I’ve replaced the GM for next season, since Darren wasn’t the best fit for the team, and we’re upping the overall budget. We have a good feeling about our chances next fall. With Tucker at the top of his form, and all the new additions we’ll make… We have a very good feeling.”
Emmy wasn’t entirely sure the owner knew anything about anything except for the budget, but she smiled politely while listening to his assurances. If he wanted to believe more money would guarantee them a spot in the World Series, she’d gladly make some equipment purchase suggestions to him for her staff.
“So, you called me into your office to say good job?”
“No. I mean, yes and no. I called you into my office to say, good job. But also, no more kissing on TV, and to remind you the only reason I can’t change the dating policy in your contract is because human resources would consider the adjustment sexist. Am I understood?”
Ah, there it was, the scolding she’d been expecting. All things considered—she had made out with a coworker on national television—she was getting off pretty lightly. Not that she was going to complain. She and Tucker were professionals after all. They could keep their kissing private from then on.
She smiled. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
October 30
Emmy switched off the TV and slung her leg over Tucker, straddling his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck.
“So that’s that,” she said, seating herself on his knees.
“Seems to be.” He slid one arm around her while putting his empty beer bottle down on the coffee table, kissing her chin as he did.
“Back-to-back World Series Champions, the St. Louis Cardinals.”
He forced a smile and slid a hand up the back of her shirt. “I’d rather have heard, World Series Champions, the San Francisco Felons.”
She planted a kiss on his cheek, running her hands through his soft brown hair, which had grown longer over the course of the summer, giving her more to play with.
“American League Division Series champions isn’t bad,” she reminded him.
“It’s fourth place.”
Emmy smoothed his hair back off his forehead and placed light kisses on the tip of his nose and each corner of his mouth. “Next year, Tucker Lloyd.”
He flipped her onto her back, lying on top of her and arching his hips. The divine pressure of his hard-on rubbed against the seam of her pants, and she slipped her hand into the front of his waistband.
“How does it feel having your contract extended for three more years?” he asked her.
“Probably about as good as it feels knowing you’ll be stuck with me for the rest of your contract.” Barring any unforeseen issues, Tucker would be wearing Felons gray and orange until he retired from baseball.
“Oppressive, then?”
She slapped his arm playfully. “Not the word I was going for.”
“What would you have said?” He kissed her neck, then pulled her shirt up over her head, trailing his tongue along her collarbone.
“Perfect,” she whispered. “I’d say it was perfect.”
About the Author
Sierra Dean is a reformed historian. She was born and raised in the Canadian prairies and is allowed annual exit visas in order to continue her quest of steadily conquering the world one city at a time. Making the best of the cold Canadian winters, Sierra indulges in her less global interests: drinking too much tea and writing urban fantasy.
Ever since she was a young girl she has loved the idea of the supernatural coexisting with the mundane. As an adult, however, the idea evolved from the notion of fairies in flower beds, to imagining that the rugged-looking guy at the garage might secretly be a werewolf. She has used her overactive imagination to create her own version of the world, where vampire, werewolves, fairies, gods and monsters all walk among us, and she’ll continue to travel as much as possible until she finds it for real.