Caught Looking - Audiobook

What happens when the girl of your dreams turns out to be the one who could destroy them?

With the sting from not being drafted still fresh, Dalton Boyd gets sent to the strictest coach with the most rules in summer league ball.

Was it mentioned the coach also serves as his host family? No? Well, everyone knows the player staying at the coach’s house has the most brutal regime.

But here’s the thing.

Dalton wouldn’t be in this situation had he not followed his heart and ended up ghosted. As much as he’d like to change the past, he can’t. 

So, he sets a goal to stay out of trouble long enough to get through this summer and impress the coach and scouts.

It’s an obtainable goal. Or so Dalton thought until walking into his coach’s home and seeing the reason for rule number one—don’t touch the coach’s daughter—is none other than Cassie Greenburg, his rule follower ghost.

Summer just got a whole lot challenging.

Dalton

This is such bullshit.

And I don’t mean arriving at the San Francisco International airport. Nope, I mean my destination—Baytown, California. But I can’t let my frustration show through. I’m about to meet my summer league coach, and you can bet your sweet ass I’ll be sporting the widest grin possible. I’ll own that first impression like a novice gymnast sticking a perfect landing. The coach won’t know what hit him.

At least, that’s the plan.

Stepping up to the baggage carousel, I silently curse the baseball-powers-that-be for sending me here in the first place. I ended the regular season with a .352 batting average, twelve home runs, eighty-two hits, and fifty-five runs batted in. And what accolades do I receive for these accomplishments—none, other than punishment.

I’m not amused.

Obviously, the fallout from not getting drafted still stings. Couple that with Dad’s echoing words that my dream will never materialize, and annoyance doesn’t come close to describing how I feel.

I’m fucking pissed.

My phone buzzes in my pocket right as the conveyor belt kicks to life. With plenty of time left before my luggage arrives, I pull it out and smile at the name, Noah Geren, sprawled across the screen. Noah is one of three former teammates-slash-roommates. I couldn’t have asked for a better group of guys to share these last two years with—the fact they won’t be at school when I return sucks. Especially since I haven’t exactly made friends with any other teammates.

Noah: Whatever you do, don’t fuck up. You’re welcome.

A self-deprecating laugh escapes, but I take note of his sound advice. Messing up isn’t an option. Not now. Not when it’s the summer before my last year of college. They redshirted me my freshman year, so technically, I could tack on another academic year, but funding would be an issue. Unlike my former roommates, my funds aren’t unlimited, and the baseball scholarship only covers so much. I’ve accrued a shit ton of student debt, and it won’t disappear on its own. I needthis upcoming year to work out for me.

Me: Stellar words of wisdom.

I spin Gramp’s ring on my finger as I wait for a reply.

Noah: Seriously, good luck. The guy may be a hardass, but he’s a good coach. Whatever you do, don’t get on his bad side.

Don’t get on his bad side, I repeat the words to myself. That may be an impossible task, considering The Guy is also my host. Yep, my life-long dream to live with the head coach has now been fulfilled.

Whoever coined the phrase “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade?” is a fucking dick.

I grind my teeth, watching the baggage carousel spit out every piece of luggage but mine. Am I being cynical? Maybe. But my entire life has been nothing but rotten lemons. Unless some vodka spills into that shit, I’ll have a tough time enjoying it.

Northern California isn’t where I want to be. My ass should be training with either a single- or double-A baseball team—not stuck in some Podunk town getting an attitude adjustment.

That’s the real reason I’m here.

Not to improve my game. To improve my attitude.

And I only have myself to blame.

Because here’s the kicker—Cessna University wasn’t my first choice. I turned down my dream college with a full ride to become a Wildcat. And why would I do such a thing?

That’s easy to answer.

I didn’t want to live my life in constant what-ifs. No regrets, no remorse has been my motto my entire life. This time, it may have gotten me in trouble. Or maybe it was my dick. Blame him for turning down my top-choice school to chase a ghost. Or better yet, blame temporary insanity. Either way, it was a matter of being stupid.

But honestly, I thought the ghost I followed was the one. The girl I would spend my happily ever after with, or whatever bullshit thought went through my head at the time.

How fucking stupid was I?

Now, my “what-if moment” is wondering if I would’ve been drafted by now had I attended the other school. I know for sure I wouldn’t be attending the worst summer collegiate league in the program. And I certainly wouldn’t be sentenced to the preacher’s house as if I’m under house arrest.

Oh, did I mention the coach moonlights as a preacher? No?

Well, like I said, “Fuck the person who makes lemonade.”

“Whoa, looks like you’re in need of some company while you’re in town.” The low, seductive voice draws my attention from the baggage carousel to a tall brunette. Her gaze rakes along my body, lingering on the tattoos sleeving my arms. Appreciation fills her eyes.

I bite back a sigh and transform the scowl shaping my mouth with my sexiest smirk that has worked in my favor since . . . well, since puberty. But if I’m honest, this whole seduction scene gets tiring. All I want to do is settle into my new home for the next three months and focus on my game. It’s been a long week staying at my former teammate’s house, followed by a turbulent airplane ride. After the fourth or fifth bump and dip, the lady next to me had to make quick use of the paper bag tucked in the seat pocket.

Yeah, that was awesome to watch.

And smell.

The brunette raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow, clearly waiting for an answer. What was her question? Oh yeah, if I needed company. Far be it for me to be rude. In my confident—often misconstrued as being cocky—voice, I ask, “Are you volunteering?”

Lashes too long and thick to be real sweep up to meet my gaze, followed by her own confident smirk. “I can be.”

And that’s my cue to take whatever this chick is offering. Her body is like a wet dream with long tanned legs sporting miles of flawless skin and tits that are more than a handful, considering her tiny waist. I’m out of my mind not to go for it, but I don’t know. Even with a body most women would kill for, I’m just not interested.

I’m more fucked up in the head than I realized.

At my hesitation, she sweetens the deal by brushing that generous rack against my chest as she reaches across for her luggage. I remain stoic. If she knew how many girls make this type of move, she’d realize it’s not that unique.

Before I can abort this whole seduction scene she has going on, my suitcase comes into view. I waste no time grabbing and sitting it on the ground. She positions those tanned legs right in my eyesight. I hold back a chuckle. She’s a persistent thing. I give her that.

As I click the handle up and stand taller, I have no choice but to drag my gaze along that tight body. Miles of flawless skin lead me to a face angled by model-like precision. Her hazel eyes are dusted with too much eyeshadow for my liking, but her calculated look holds heat. The little temptress is gorgeous, no doubt.

Ah, screw it. I may as well partake while I’m in purgatory hell. Maybe this sentencing won’t be so bad after all?

As the idea resonates in my mind, uneasiness settles in my stomach. Having sex is the last thing I should focus on right now. But like the fuckup I am, I ignore the warning and ask, “What’s your name?”

“Jenni with an I.”

“Well, Jenni with an I, I’ll be playing for the Baytown Crushers. You should check out a game.”

“I think I will.” The corners of her lips curve upwards. “A baseball player, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Hasn’t the season already started?”

We exit the baggage claim, and my phone buzzes again. This time it’s Garret Cartel. I stayed at his parents’ house before coming here. “It has. I had to finish the College World Series first. The Crushers were on the road when we won, so I had a week’s downtime.”

“Oh, you must be good.”

“One could say that.” But apparently, I’m not good enough. Garret, Noah, and Braxton, the third teammate-slash-roommate, were lucky enough to get drafted. There may be some jealousy involved, but I certainly can’t be mad. They’re damn good players and deserve to have a shot. And it was a good thing too. Unlike me, who had just completed my junior year, they were all seniors. It was either that or the unthinkable plan B.

I have no plan B.

I shake off feeling sorry for myself and read Garret’s message.

Garret: Just talked to Mom. She said you should be arriving there any minute. Wanted to warn you to keep your head in the game. The Preacher isn’t as bad as they say.

Yeah, right.

I heard he doesn’t allow us to go out at night. But they also say the curfew is at nine o’clock, which contradicts the previous statement. One thing everyone seems to agree upon is how he runs the team. They say he acts like a drill sergeant, constantly barking orders as if we’re recruits at boot camp. Sorry, but I’ve already lived that life. Except the barracks was my house, and the sergeant was my asshole father. The last thing I want is a repeat of that scenario. Cue in why I stayed at Garret’s parents’ house for the time between the College World Series and arriving here. I haven’t been home since freshman year.

Before I respond to Garret’s text, a message from Braxton’s sister, Shannon Smith, dings through.

Shannon: Good luck. Let me know what your surroundings are like. You’re close to my hometown. I may be able to swing by for a visit when I come back.

The corners of my mouth lift despite my mood. A visit from a recognizable face would be great.

“Uh-oh. Girlfriend?” Jenni with an I guesses.

“Not mine.” I don’t delve into my friendship with Shannon. This woman couldn’t care less that Shannon’s completely enamored with Noah Geren. But Shannon and I formed a bond, and I consider her a close friend. She’s a year younger than me, and we’ll be the only ones left from our group when we return next semester.

Without my former roommates, the next school year is going to suck.

“Good because I have plans for you,” Jenni says. The look she gives holds heat. I should be turned on or, at the very least, interested, but again, I feel . . . nothing.

This is new.

Maybe I’m more keyed up about my situation than I want to admit. Or perhaps I’m feeling sorry for myself thinking about Cassie the Ghost and the lack of detective skills I possess for hunting her down. Had I not tried to find her, I wouldn’t be in this situation.

“The only thing you have plans for is to find your ride.”

Jenni and I snap our attention to the stern, demanding voice. The man stands about two inches shorter than my six-foot two-inch frame. Flecks of white streak his otherwise blond hair that surprise, surprise is cut into a buzz. It wouldn’t shock me to learn if he was ex-military. The man stands with his arms crossed at his chest and a scowl settled across his features. His razor-sharp eyes zero in on me.

Fuck.

This is not how I wanted to meet my new coach and host for the summer.

So much for making a positive first impression.

Jenni hesitates and flashes a wary smile. “I’ll, uh, catch you later.” She gives a small but forced smile to the preacher, er, coach, and skitters away.

“We need to lay down ground rules,” he says unamused.

I bite back a sigh. This is going to be a long forty-five-minute drive.

That vodka-laced lemonade sure sounds good about right now.

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