Love Irresistibly (FBI/US Attorney #4)(37)

She’d just hit “send” when Ford’s voice came over her shoulder.

“What are you acting all secretive about?” Sitting in the seat next to her, Ford tried to peek at her phone. “Sending dirty text messages to the mystery man, perhaps? Remind me again, which of the rules of casual sex was that? Number Five?”

“Still, with the rules?”

“This is payback,” Ford said. “How many times have you mocked me for the time I accidentally drunk-dialed you instead of Cara Patterson my sophomore year of college?”

From the row behind them, Charlie let out a bark of laughter. “Man, I love that story.”

Brooke held her cell phone to her ear, doing an imitation of Ford’s drunken slur that night. “Hey, babe—my roomatez wen’ to after-hours. Got the ho’ plaze to myself. How ’bout you come over for some strawburry margaritas?”

Charlie cracked up, while Tucker, who sat in the seat next to Charlie, chimed in. “Did we ever figure out why it was strawberry margaritas?”

Ford waved off their laughter. “The TV was on when I called . . . I think I’d seen a commercial for Chili’s . . . it seemed like a good suggestion at the time.” He pointed at Brooke. “And you didn’t exactly help the situation.”

Brooke feigned innocence. “Why? Because I pretended to be Cara and told you that I’d be right over?”

“No, because you pretended to be Cara and told me you wanted to pour the margarita all over my body and lick up every drop.”

“Certainly explains why Tuck and I later found you passed out cold on the kitchen floor, buck-ass naked, with one hand wrapped around a bowlful of strawberries,” Charlie said.

“I don’t think we even had a blender back then,” Tucker mused.

“No, we didn’t. Something I figured out after I was already naked, waiting for ‘Cara’ to show up,” Ford said with a dirty look at Brooke.

“Poor Ford,” she said. “Naked and cold on the kitchen floor, with nothing but a bowlful of strawberries and X-rated, tequila-soaked dreams. Truly tragic.”

He put his arm around her. “And this, Parker, is why the Facebook story will never die. Ever.”

Just then, Brooke’s phone rang with a new text message.

“The mystery man chimes again,” Ford said as Brooke reached for her cell.

Brooke read the text message Cade had sent her, and pulled back in surprise.

HOPE THE GUY IN THE STRIPED SHIRT KNOWS YOU ALREADY HAVE PLANS TONIGHT.

“He’s here,” Brooke said out loud.

“Who’s here? The mystery man?” Ford asked.

“He can see us.” Brooke leaned forward in her seat and peered over the skybox railing to the crowd below. There were thousands of people in the lower deck of the stadium.

Her phone rang, and she saw that it was Cade.

“To your right,” he said when she answered her phone. His voice was husky in her ear. “Who’s the guy?”

“Just a friend.” Brooke stood up and leaned against the railing, her eyes skimming the stands.

“Farther down the first base line. Nope, not that close to the dugout.”

She looked farther to her right. Still no sign of him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Definitely. You’re getting warmer now. Warmer . . . Look for Huxley’s glaringly white polo shirt.”

That should help, considering most of the crowd was dressed in Cubs and Sox T-shirts. A few rows back, Brooke finally spotted them, first Huxley—wow, that really was a white shirt—then Vaughn, who waved at her, and finally Cade.

He was too far away for her to see his eyes, but she felt his gaze on her nevertheless. It was a little strange at first, seeing him out of a suit and wearing a simple gray T-shirt and cargo shorts instead.

So this was what the mighty Cade Morgan looked like when he wasn’t being a tough-guy prosecutor.

Not bad.

“If that had been a Sox shirt, I would’ve had to cancel dinner,” he said in her ear as they faced each other across the crowded baseball stadium, referring to the Cubs T-shirt she wore.

She smiled. Funny coincidence, them being at the same baseball game on her one day off in ages. Perhaps it was a sign. “How are those seats down there?” Cade and the two FBI agents sat in the lower deck, in the sun, about halfway up the first base line.

“Not bad. But not as good as the seats up there, I’d bet,” he said.

Well, yes. Not to toot her own horn or anything, but the skybox was pretty awesome. Eight seats overlooking home plate, with a door that led to an air-conditioned private suite complete with couches, a plasma television, and a kitchen stocked with wine, beer, top-shelf liquor, and everything from hamburgers and hot dogs to beef tenderloin and shrimp—all courtesy of Sterling Restaurants.

“Although, now that you mention it, I am getting a little concerned about Huxley,” Cade added. “The poor guy’s probably going to get a hell of a sunburn out here. Seeing how he’s pretty much the whitest man in America.”

Brooke watched as Huxley, clearly having overheard the comment, shot Cade a look and said something she couldn’t pick up over the phone.

“Well, I would really hate for Agent Huxley to suffer,” she said. “Especially since I happen to have a few extra seats in this skybox.”