Champagne Brunch: The Stiletto Sisters Series Ainsley Claire (primary phonics books .TXT) 📖

to move to Santa Cruz?” I ask. “My place down there isn’t that big, but it would be a free place to stay for a while. You could give the boys some more permanent roots.”

She sighs. “I don’t know what we’re going to do. Mom’s made it clear that moving back to Laguna isn’t going to work for them, and Marco’s stepdad can’t take the chaos with the boys.”

“Ignore them. SoCal is too far away anyway. Come here. And if you guys want to stay in San Francisco, you’re more than welcome—with or without Marco.”

“Thank you. You don’t know what a relief that is to hear today.”

My call waiting beeps. I look and it’s my biggest client—the reason I’m here in San Francisco. “I’ll call you later this week and we can talk about plans for Mom and Dad. And think about where you want to go and let me know. I’ll get you booked for flights home. I’d love to see you.”

“I love you,” she says.

“Miss you and love you.” I end the call and click over to my next one. “Jeremy, what’s up?”

“Sorry to bug you,” he says. “Uh, have you heard anything about a trade?”

Jeremy Hamilton is a breakout pitching star for San Francisco’s professional baseball team, the Prospectors. He’s also just seventeen and emancipated himself from his parents because they couldn’t leave their Nebraska farm or their other five children to move with him as he began his baseball career, so it sometimes leaves me to be a bit of a surrogate father—or maybe an older brother.

“No news from my side about a trade,” I assure him. “You’re doing awesome. Why would they want to trade you?”

“I don’t know. Raymond was talking smack in the locker room yesterday.”

I sigh. “You know he’s only jealous. Why don’t you come over tonight after the game? We can order a pie and play some Fortnite.”

“Sure. What time were you thinking?”

He’s upbeat, which is always good. I look at my watch. The Prospectors play at two, and I was going to stop by. “We’ll head back to my place after the game. I’m out with SoBe giving him a good walk and then I’ll drop him at home and head over.”

“Cool. See you after the game. Thanks, man.”

“Of course.”

I stand up, and SoBe begins walking home with me trailing. Who’s the dog and who’s the owner?

Once I get him fed and settled in at home, I call a rideshare to Prospector Park, which is right here in the City, just across town.

“Great day for a game,” the driver says.

“Agreed.”

“You go to games by yourself?” he asks.

I shrug. “Why not? Better to see them at the stadium than at home on my couch.”

He lets me out at the curb, I enter the stadium through the main gate. Inside I just flash my badge and walk up to the owners’ box. It’s wall to wall people. There are almost forty members in the consortium that owns the team, but usually not everyone comes to the same games.

“Axel, my man.” Nate Lancaster, one of the largest shareholders of the consortium, pounds my back and shakes my hand.

“Nate, great to see you.”

“You rep Jeremy Hamilton, right?”

I nod. “Also, Crispin Meyer and Jake Garcia.” I’m not sure why I needed to say that, but while Jeremy is my most popular player, Crispin and Jake are great, too.”

Nate’s eyes grow large. “You’ve got a great eye for talent.”

“Thank you. Jeremy played with both of them in the minors, and they came over together.”

We make small talk for a bit longer, and before I know it, the crowd is doing the seventh-inning stretch. I make my excuses and step out. The team should pull off a win against the Dodgers today.

My cellphone pings as I walk down toward the locker room. I can’t enter until the game is over and the press is allowed in. Jeremy usually likes to leave before it gets too crazy. He hates dealing with the press. They’ve dissected everything about him, so I don’t blame him.

Jeremy: I think Crispin and Jake may come tonight. Is that okay?

I grin. Crispin and Jake are both eighteen and can’t drink without it flashing across the tabloids and gossip sites, so the team leaves the three of them behind.

Me: The more the merrier. I’ll be sure to order two extra pies and a case of Coke.

When I get to my place close to the locker room door, I lean against the wall, out of the way, and scroll through highlights of some of the high school baseball standouts on my cell phone. There are groupies hanging out, but I don’t pay attention.

“Hi, I’m Dawn.”

I look up. She’s young but cute with her blond curls and short shorts and a halter top.

“Hi.”

“You’re Jeremy Hamilton’s agent, right?”

People don’t usually know who I am. My name tag is backward—I’m wearing it as required, but it doesn’t have my name or my company showing.

I don’t say anything and just watch her, waiting to see what she wants.

“I’m a fan.”

Ah. She’s stalking my client. That happens when you’re seventeen and already have a three-hundred-million-dollar, six-year contract. It attracts the gold diggers.

“Jeremy’s a good player,” I concede.

She arches her back, making sure I don’t miss her D cups. “I’m a fan of yours.”

I scrutinize her. “Um, thanks, I think.”

“I’m in my third year at Berkeley Law, and I want to get into sports management.”

Oh, she’s one of those. “It’s a competitive business.” She’ll attract the guys who want to sleep with her, but that will get old unless she can prove her value. She’ll struggle with some of the older owners, but you never know.

She nods. “It is. Are you open to an internship?