 by Lauren Blakely.jpg)
Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
The second rule is–see the first rule.
Those guidelines don’t account for a man like Zane Archer though. The major leaguer is all confidence and big D energy as he swaggers into my life one night at a hotel bar, determined to spend the night with “the sexy suit,” as he calls me.
I’m so damn tempted to say yes, especially when my new client devastates me with a scorching kiss that has me reconsidering all my life choices.
The catch? If I tear up the rule book, my reputation as a lawyer to the most bankable stars in pro sports is on the line. Including my new goal of striking the deal of a lifetime for him -- one he desperately needs to take care of his family.
Instead, I fight like hell to stay professional as I work closely with the man I can’t have.
But the more time we spend together, the more his irresistible charm threatens to break my resolve . . . right along with my heart.
TURN ME ON is a red-hot, MM, forbidden sports romance between a sports agent and an athlete…
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
A GOOD SURPRISE
Zane Archer
I love baseball almost as much as I love my dick.
And first base is the perfect position for me on the field— I’m a talker and it’s Grand Central here.
Talking both keeps my visitors distracted and makes the time go faster. Like tonight, when I’ve been counting the minutes until I meet with my agent after the game.
Home stretch now, top of the ninth in a May night game. The Chicago batter slams a single to center and rolls up to first base.
“Hey, Santiago,” I say as he tags up. “Good to see you off the injured list.”
The opposing team’s shortstop gives me a baffled look as he pulls off his batting glove. “You’re thinking of someone else, man.”
“Huh,” I say, my eyes glued to the next batter taking a practice swing in the box. “I figured that was why I hadn’t seen you on base yet this series.”
He sighs, annoyed. “Fuck you, Archer.”
I grin, but I’ll have to picture the look on his face since the go-ahead run is up and I’m concentrating on the game action.
There’s the wind-up and whoosh, our closer fires a fastball that paints the corner of the plate. The batter lunges for it and sends a pop fly my way. I trot under the ball and let it drop home into my glove. Come to Papa.
That’s the final out. I pump my fist—we just swept the series and I am out of here.
I jog down the baseline, where Santiago is trudging along, head hanging. I tap him with my glove. “Hey, man. I was going to send you a get-well present. How about I make it a ‘thank you for helping us win’ gift?”
“Fuck you harder.”
“You wish,” I say with a grin, shifting gears. “How’s Emily and Rosie? Did your kiddo get her cast off?”
The Shark flashes a smile. “She did. Elbow is as good as new. Thanks for asking. You’re only a half-hole now.”
“Goals,” I deadpan, leaving him in the dust as I jog to the dugout where I high-five my teammates, finishing with my friend Gunnar.
“Great series, Gun,” I say. He racked up four RBIs, a couple shy of my total for this series.
“Same to you, bro. Imagine how amazing your game would be if you had to, you know, defend when you were in the field,” he says, straight-faced.
I grab my lucky water bottle from the bench. Other infielders are such assholes. “Good thing my bat is better.”
“That’s not what he said,” Gunnar retorts.
“That’s what they all say,” I reply. As we turn toward the steps to the locker room, I glance at the time on the giant scoreboard in the outfield. Seven-thirty.
The welcome distraction from my personal countdown ended with the game.
“Any movement on a new deal?” Gunnar asks.
“Nope.” I stretch my neck from side to side. During spring training, my agent was this close to nabbing a sponsorship deal with a video game company, but it fell apart at the last minute when the company reported lower revenue than expected. Now, the energy drink manufacturer he’s pursuing is getting cold feet. It’s enough to make a guy wonder if he’s damaged goods.
I’ve been on edge since my agent texted me this morning. “I have dinner with Vance in forty-five minutes,” I tell Gunnar. “He said he has news to share. An endorsement would be sweet.”
That’s an understatement. A good deal could set me up for a long time—and I need the money. Badly.
“I hear you,” the third baseman says as we descend into the tunnel under the ballpark. Gunnar gets my impatience. We’re both only a few years into our service time and hunting for partnerships that will make a difference.
He has his reasons. I have mine.
And as soon as I grab a shower, I can get the hell out of here and deal with them.
One shower later, I stand at my stall, buttoning a crisp purple shirt and tucking it into charcoal slacks. Turning to Gunnar, I hold out my arms wide. “So, do I look good or holy-fuck good?” A man should always look sharp for his agent—a sign of respect for the hard work they do.
My friend gives me a serious once-over, then shrugs. “Eh, I’ve seen better.”
I cup my ear. “What was that? Hotter than hell, you say? Thank you.”
Rolling his eyes, he laughs. “Get out of here. Go enjoy the news.”
I shudder. “News can be bad. It’s driving me crazy. I just want to know what it is.”
“Why do you play baseball if you hate surprises?” Gunnar asks.
“I like good surprises,” I say, stuffing my phone in my pocket. “Like when I homer off a tough lefty, or when the next season of my favorite comedian’s podcast releases early.”
And when a guy likes to fuck the same way I do. That’s the most welcome surprise of all.