When Lily Langston goes to a game with her best friend. The last thing she ever thought to happen was being hit in the face with a ball.
But what left her even more shocked was when the guest pitcher himself, the known ruthless billionaire Hayes Gr...
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I hated it.
All of it.
It was annoyingly consuming my thoughts. It, as in him, Hayes Grant. His stupid face haunted my mind, and it didn't help that he was attractive. I think it's worse knowing that my vibrator used to be comforting me with average porn.
But now it was just my thoughts about what he could do to me. Which was insane; he was insane. But it was because of his looks, simply because of the ungodly look of his body. Someone seriously carved him; his skin was golden, and his eyes a dark brown that haunted me. He haunted me.
Even Jake noticed it because I no longer screamed his name during sex. I almost screamed his name. I'd lost my mind; this guy was an arrogant asshole, and that was for sure. It had been two weeks since he asked for that "meeting."
But I found myself diverging away from it. I felt so stupid, I wouldn't be one of those girls that he wanted me to be. The kind that gawked over him like some stupid idiot. I'd be myself, and I'd never see him again. Because no matter how horny I was, nobody but Jake was getting into my panties.
"What's wrong with you?" I looked over to Olive, who was flicking through a book that she was pretending to read. I knew it because she'd been flipping back and forth to the same pages while pretending not to stare at me.
She wanted the tea on everything all the time. I couldn't really say that I was horny for the man who threw a baseball at my face, now could I? I mean, I could, but she'd call me a loser.
"School has been stressful and draining, per usual, and Mom is, well, you know, my mother." Olive and I grew up trading houses. We were always back and forth, through thick and thin. College was hard. We both stayed in Massachusetts, but distantly.
It was a consuming point in my life, but difficult. She helped me through my depression. One that felt like a life-sucking hole in a way.
"How's your dad doing?" I knew she trod carefully around the question because it was a hard one.
"I feel guilty not being there. I don't want my last memories of him like this," she nods at me solemnly.
"I get it; when grandma died, I couldn't watch it. It's completely different, but the hospice process," she looks at her wrist, fiddling with the silly band around it. "It's absolute hell for the one going through it and the ones surrounding it."
"How's Gramps?" I ask.
"He's still kicking. Mom and I think he's found himself a lady." I gasped. Her grandfather hadn't spoken to a woman in five years, and that one was his late wife.
