Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(50)

Also, thinking of line-ups and pinch-hitting has me thinking of all the different ways I could spread Henri out on my bed, and no, I don’t entirely know why those phrases prompted images of naked Henri.

Fuck on a noodle, I need that trip to Boston to get here four days ago.

And that’s before I contemplate how Henri’s been bending over backwards, smiling cheerfully at Nonna anytime they cross paths, and generally being the bigger person.

How does she do that without falling apart?

I’d be planting cockroaches in Nonna’s bed by now if I were Henri.

Is she actually that bright-side-of-life in her thinking? Or is she insane? Or is she repressed, and I’d find out if I got her naked again that she’s crazy pants waiting to be unleashed?

I would not mind crazy pants waiting to be unleashed in the bedroom.

Also, she’s nearly naked with me every night as it is, except for the bra and granny panties, which I swear she’s wearing to be an intentional turn-off, but it’s not working.

“Rossi.”

Guilt at the reminder that Henri wants me to teach her to not fall in love, rather than to fantasize about her all day, has me jerking a glance over at Cooper like I’ve been caught choking the chicken in a pubic movie theater.

If he notices my reaction, he ignores it as he skips down the steps into the dugout mid-third inning. He’s grinning at me as he hooks a thumb toward the video screen over center field. “Thought you said your girlfriend wasn’t coming tonight.”

I almost grimace, because despite my teenage fantasies, and despite her making those erotic noises and squeaking my bedsprings like we’re having monkey sex twice now, I have not been involved in Henri coming again.

I have a problem.

I have a serious problem.

And that’s before I let myself look in the direction Cooper’s pointing to see video of my fake girlfriend lined up with Brooks Elliott’s fiancée, Emilio Torres’s girlfriend, and Darren Greene’s wife—complete with their new baby in a sling—at a table with giant cream pies in front of them and with a mascot contender behind each of them.

“What…?”

“The Lady Fireballs are standing in for the mascots in a pie-eating contest. Whichever one wins gets an extra five hundred points for their mascot.”

Mackenzie’s been paired with Spike the Echidna. Tanesha Greene has Meaty the Meatball. Emilio’s girlfriend, Marisol, is teamed up with Firequacker the Duck.

Which leaves Henri with Glow the Firefly.

Glow freaks me out. It’s the butt. His public campaign slogans might be all around voting for Glow because of “baseball butt,” but I’ve never known a baseball player who looks like his asshole decided to fart out the world’s largest bubble, and not a regular fart, but an infected fart on fire.

Seriously, his butt has this massive ball stuck to it, and it’s not right. Mackenzie might take exception to the meatball, but Glow is enemy number one in the Rossi household.

And my fake girlfriend is supposed to help him win five hundred bonus votes?

“This mascot contest needs to end.”

Brooks jogs down the stairs and slaps me on the ass with his glove. “Fiery forever. Welcome to the right side.”

I tilt my head as I study the video screen.

Something’s different about Henri.

It’s not the clothes. She’s worn a Fireballs T-shirt a few times, though the fact that it’s not on backwards is noteworthy.

Is it her make-up?

Have I seen her in make-up?

“I hope you’re not scowling at your girlfriend while the cameras watch us,” Darren mutters as he leans against the railing with me.

“I hate Glow.”

“My wife and baby are on Team Meatball, and I have to live with that. Get over it, man.”

“Who let Marisol close to that duck?” Emilio asks. “You know what that thing’s willy looks like?”

We all shudder as Grover Flanagan, the Fireballs’ Chief Entertainment Announcer, yells over the intercom for the women to Go!

But none of them bend over and dig into the pie.

I suck in a breath, because while I don’t know what’s different about Henri, I know that look in her eye.

It’s the same look she had yesterday morning at breakfast when she charged into the kitchen in a bathrobe with her hair dripping wet, dropped into a seat at the table, took a hit of cold tea out of her glittery “Addicted to Love Stories” coffee tumbler that she’d left out overnight, and flung open her laptop, where she proceeded to type maniacally and cackle even worse for the next fifteen minutes.

I should’ve left, but I was honestly fascinated.

Especially since she was muttering the whole time.

Apparently she had Confucius accidentally stumble into a day spa that he thought was a den of were-beavers who were gnawing vampire-killing stakes at the behest of the Lord of the Killer Hornets, aka the mob boss of Henri’s world, but it was actually a human day spa, and his super-vampire powers got incapacitated by the lavender clay mask.

I followed more than I want to admit, because admitting it means admitting that when I tell the guys I’m playing Frogger on my phone while we hang out before games, I’ve been bingeing Henri’s Confucius books.

They’re fun and unexpected.

And also wordy, but it’s Henri, so of course they are.