Debi’s Diner smelled of waffles and bacon and eggs. The smells were especially comforting because the rain poured down outside, and we had barely escaped getting drenched. It reminded me of a place back home in Sugar Tree where my mom used to take my brothers and me after their Little League games. After the divorce, it hadn’t been as fun.

Today I had been watching a Little League game, yes, but it had felt borderline unethical following Jake. The glare he’d been giving me for the past ten minutes while I tried to dry off was warranted. I didn’t blame him. He sat across from me with Tate at his left, and the two bantered on and off while Tate ate. From their talk about the game for the past half hour, Jake was his coach, and they mostly talked baseball. I sat there, trying to reconcile that in my head, but I was having a hard time.

I wiped my glasses on the only dry part of my tee. The front was nearly plastered to my chest, and Jake, surprisingly, had managed to not give one ogle since we’d sat down. As I continued to clear the water off the lenses, both boys went a little blurry for a few seconds. When I could see again, Jake was watching me closely. Tate was watching both of us just as intently. I looked away, out the window, and watched it pour. But then I saw my reflection. I looked like a drowned cat. Yeah, I’d stick with watching Tate wolf down his food with gusto. He was the only one eating. I’d ordered a coffee just to have something for my hands to do, but Jake had ordered nothing.

A million thoughts had raced through my mind as I’d tailed him after the game on the South Side of Chicago.

Maybe he’s dealing performance-enhancing drugs to his teammates?

Maybe he’s just a regular-ass old drug dealer, going to make a drop?

Or maybe he’s just going to get drunk with his local friends after the game?

The truth was stranger than fiction, and now I was sitting across from Tate, a hungry little eight-year-old who was on his second plate of bacon and waffles. The kid could was so scrawny—borderline emaciated—yet he ate like a horse. I also recognized him as the little boy from Jake’s Instagram account. So many questions were on the tip of my tongue, but I refrained, just barely, from asking them. Until I was out of the doghouse, I’d play this real nice and easy. Honestly, I was just enjoying watching these two and didn’t want to ruin that with my questions.

“Hungry little fella we got on our hands.” Jake smiled, ruffling the boy’s blond mop of hair with a tattooed forearm.

Tate, taking a breath between bites, now looked up, and his eyes darted back and forth between the two of us. Very slyly.

“So, Coach…is this your girlfriend?” he asked in a teasing voice that only little boys could do.

Jake paused and looked in my direction. His gaze lingered on me like a fire licks at a piece of wood it wants to burn.

“What do you mean by girlfriend?” he asked, winking at me and glancing down at Tate.

He scrunched up his face. “Do you, like, leave her silly notes and stuff? And then she writes you back sometimes? And you like it when your desk is sittin’ next to her?”

I bubbled up inside. This kid was so damn cute. I couldn’t help but beam a smile at him as I took another sip of my coffee. I waited patiently for Jake’s answer.

He gave me a sidelong glance. “Do we like to leave silly notes and stuff? Well, she sends me emails—and they’re silly sometimes. And there’s stuff in her notes that I don’t always understand.” His eyes were on Tate now, but I glared at his perfect profile. “But, yeah, I definitely enjoy sitting next to her.”

No. I was determined. I was not going to be flattered by that last comment. He’d just called my emails “silly.” I had spent way too much time composing those emails. But then I realized something. He’d read them.

“Why you ain’t sittin’ next to her now then?” Tate looked up as he finished off one of his last slices of bacon.

“We’re having a...squabble right now,” Jake said, so patiently. “She’ll be sitting next to me soon enough though.”

I gave a harrumph at that and wrapped my hands around my warm coffee mug. Both males ignored me. So typical.

“Coach, what’s squabble?” he asked, struggling with the word.

“We’re having a fight, but with words,” I interjected.

Tate lit up like a firecracker. Not exactly the reaction that I was expecting. “A fight like when Coach pushed the guy’s head into the dirt! That was awesome. How you do that with words?”

I resisted rolling my eyes in front of the kid, but I did shoot Jake a look that said, See what kids are learning from you and your damn adolescent behavior?

Jake had no problem rolling his eyes back at me, but he fought back a smile. I was pretty sure he’d officially forgiven me since we were pseudo-flirting and using an eight-year-old as a buffer. “It’s always better to work out your disagreements with words, in a respectful manner, and not by, ah, putting people’s faces in the dirt,” Jake added, refusing to look at me as he said it. I shook my head. I heard him say it, and I so wasn’t going to let him forget it. “If you can help it, that is. Cuz some people though, they just don’t listen.” I sighed. I’d almost had him. Jake gave me a wink and a winsome smile. To Tate, he asked, “You gonna finish that last piece of bacon?”

Jake feigned like he was going to steal it, and the kid quickly snatched it and chowed down on it. We laughed, but when Tate yawned and blinked sleepily at me like a cat, I looked down at my phone.

“Oh wow, nine o’clock,” I said, surprised. We’d been here for over an hour—and I’d just spent an hour watching these two boys talk to each other like they were a movie or something.

“It’s really past your bed time,” Jake said, calling at our waitress for the check.

“Nah uh, I go to bed at like eleven. My auntie says she don’t care.”

I saw Jake wince at that, which surprised me. Had I found a chink in the playboy’s armor? I knew he’d been raised in the foster care system along with his sister. That was general knowledge, but he’d never spoken about it to the media or in public. I started to wonder if the secret life of this mysterious man wasn’t so mysterious as it was personal. Deeply personal.

“If you want to play in the big leagues, you gotta get your sleep, buddy. Got that?”

Jake leaned back and looked at the little boy. I wondered if Jake knew what he was doing to me. I had been somewhat able to resist his charm the night before—well, at least I had the wherewithal to run out of the room before I made any bad decisions—but watching him in a tickle fight with this kid was damn near bringing tears to my eyes.

Maybe he had found the chink in my armor, too.

Jake wasn’t a one-woman man, at least not lately. He never told me any different, and the media image supported that one hundred percent. But somewhere, deep inside, I sure wanted him to be one.

And I was certainly regretting my policy against dating players.

“Say goodbye to Miss Andrea,” Jake ordered Tate in a very teachery voice once we were outside. The rain had died down, but even as I got into my car and rolled my window down, I didn’t want the night to end. Ironically, I had learned more about the real Jake during this impromptu date—if we could call it that—than I had learned during our official “client dinner.”

Tate jumped back into Jake’s car, but Jake lingered by my car window, leaning his forearms onto the doorframe through the open window.

“So. Miss Andrea,” he began, his voice velvety.

“Hmm?” I had to resist. Had…to.

“You don’t have to follow me, you know. If you want to take me out again, all you gotta do is just ask.”

This time I did do a big, sweeping eye roll. He was charming, too charming, but I could see through it.

“You know, I felt weird enough that my boss made me follow you this time. But do let me know when the next game is… Coach.” I meant for it to be light, but he stiffened. “What?” I asked.

“Do not go telling anyone about this,” he said, a tone of seriousness present in his voice that I’d never heard before. “This is my one escape. These kids and their parents—they’re so poor, they don’t give a shit if it’s Joe Schmoe down the street or Barry fucking Bonds coaching the team. They just want someone who is able to give their kids a little extra time and care, and show them how to have fun playing the game. And for a few hours a week, it keeps them off the streets and out of trouble. We cannot go telling people about this hobby of mine. I’m shocked that the tabloids haven’t found me out already, to be honest. They’d never believe it, either. They’re too busy looking for ‘Jake the Playboy’ in the north side bars. And I’m perfectly okay with that.”

Darn it. He made a fair point, and I couldn’t fault him for that. The supreme irony was that this was the perfect image to give to the public. This was the side of Jake Napleton the world, or rather, most of the world, had never seen.

“I hear you…but, well, what the heck am I going to tell my boss then?” I asked, giving him a long look. “I have to produce results. That’s the point of PR.”

He sighed, making a face. “I don’t know, say that I was out at some bar getting hammered with my homies.” He laughed. “That’s what everyone thinks, anyway.”

This time, I sighed, very loudly. “You make it really difficult to be your social media manager when you keep all the good parts about you a secret and let the world keep believing that you are some sort of alcoholic fighting Irishman. You really want that to be your legacy?”

He shrugged, but he didn’t blow me off this time. He was actually thinking about it before he gave me a stock answer. “Couldn’t give less of a shit what the public thinks about me. Never have. Maybe that’s a bad thing, but I just want to play the game the best way I can, have fun with my friends, and live my life.” Jake paused and looked at his car. “Have the small moments that mean a lot to me, without it being a big deal.”

I made a little noise at the back of my throat. It might have been an “Oh my gosh, how sweet” whimper.

Jake’s lips curved upward in a slight smile. He leaned in and brushed my hair behind my ear. “By the way. You look extremely hot in those glasses. When are you going to let me take you on a real date, Miss Andrea?”

My hands tightened on the wheel. I looked straight ahead. “We already did.” I hoped he’d just agree and move on. But Jake…well, Jake was Jake.

He chuckled and took his forearms off the doorframe. “Uh, I don’t think so. You left halfway through. And someday you’re going to tell me what those looks between you and Grant were all about. But I think the place was all wrong. I only did it to impress you.”

I tore my gaze away to look up at him. “What?” I asked, my jaw dropping.

“I hate uppity places like that. Marseille Club. Bunch of phonies in that place. Case in point—we ran into Grant dipshit Newman there and his fake-ass blond bimbo. If it were my choice, I’d take you somewhere honest, a hole-in-the-wall diner, like Debi’s, or a pub with normal people and delicious, juicy homemade burgers and real, down to earth Chicago people. Not the type of jigglypuff place where you pay two hundred dollars for a bottle of wine and then pay more for food that’s not even that good.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Speechless. Me. Who knew! Dear God, the Jake I was discovering was going to get me in trouble. Big trouble.

“Hey Coach?” Tate shouted, and I was relieved. Jake straightened up and looked back at the kid, who was standing by the open passenger door. “We goin’ home yet? I gotta get my sleep to be a big leaguer like you!”

“Guess you gotta go.” I flashed a smile, glad to have an excuse to end this conversation.

“I guess so,” he said, shooting me a look that said this wasn’t over. “Hey, drive home safe.”

“Sure. See ya.”

He took a step away, then turned and looked back over his shoulder at me.

“No. I mean, seriously, be careful. I grew up here, and this is not a good neighborhood. Especially this time of night.”

I soaked that up. I grew up here. Finally, a small piece of info I didn’t have to drag out of him, even though I’d figured that out. I smiled, oddly uplifted. “I’m a big girl, I’ll be fine.”

“Take main streets to the highway. That’ll get you back safely out of this area.”

He walked away from my Prius to his blue Challenger, and I watched. Damn, did he look okay in jeans and a tee—from all angles. Maybe even better than he did in his tight baseball pants. I heard his car roar to a start, and he pulled away, but he paused on the street until I started my car by pressing the button on my dash and turned my headlights on.

I went one way, and Jake went the other. On my phone, I clicked on my Waze app; I used it religiously to direct me around Chicago. The soft English accent floated through my car.

Take a right onto 24th Street. Quickest route straight ahead. I drove for a while on the busy street, cranking some T-swift, because that was how I liked to roll.

Waze had me turn down a side street, and I followed. Right as Taylor was singing about how she had a long list of ex-lovers, and I was wondering if I could make a bad guy good for a weekend, a car pulled out right in front of me. I slammed on the brakes.

I was jolted hard. I felt the seatbelt press against my chest, and then my body slammed back into the chair.

“Asshole!” I said. The windows were closed, and it wasn’t like he was going to hear me.

The car in front of me, a black Cadillac, moved forward about two feet and then stopped. All four doors opened up, and four men stepped out, two of them with guns.

My hands began to tremble. I tried to put the car into reverse and get out via the back route, but a second car pulled up behind me, blocking my route.

Hands shaking, I fired off a text to Jake. Then, a man in a baseball cap knocked on the driver’s side window with the muzzle of a gun.

“Don’t even think about calling the police, lady.”