Rhett—I’m superstar Yankee’s pitcher Rhett Bradshaw, and like another famous Rhett, frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. I’m filthy rich, filthy mouthed, filthy on the mound and in the mound. I’ve never met a woman who didn’t worship at the altar of my cleats. Opposing batters eat my smoke and scream for their mama as they swing through dead air. They’ll never be running the bases on my watch. But with the lovely ladies…I’ll take them around the bases and drive for home all day and all night long. I get everything I want whenever I want it.
But not her. Beautiful, smart, Brenna Sinclair. My arch nemeses. She’s a reporter for Sport Taste magazine and she’s been charged with hating my guts.
Brenna—Yankee’s pitcher, Rhett Bradshaw is a chauvinistic, immature playboy. An embarrassment to mankind. Women lift their shirts at games and throw their panties on the field. Their panties. What self-respecting woman does that? There’s nothing I relish more than announcing to the world what I think of him and his juvenile antics. Threesomes in a limo? Check. Blow jobs in a back alley? Check, check. He disgusts me. Bad decisions happen when money and talent meet those panty-melting good looks. I’d love to know if there’s any semblance of a decent human being underneath his pinstripes. I have the journalistic world by the tail and I’ll write anything I want whenever I want to.
But not about him. No, not anymore. I’m done with Rhett Bradshaw. Until an errant Sinker from his glove knocks me for a loop. Now, I don’t remember anything from the recent past. And like an angel sent from heaven, there’s this gorgeous baseball player hovering, worried about me. And before I know it, I’m thinking about what’s underneath his sexy uniform. He’s rich. He’s talented. He’s charming. For the first time in my life, I want to throw caution to the wind and just take what I want. Besides, what could possibly be wrong with letting myself fall?