Stealing Home

Epilogue

Four Months Later

LORELEI STEPPED OUT the back door of Peter Kowalskin’s house and walked across the patio, plastic cup of keg beer in hand. She strode by Leslie, John Crispin, and a dozen other players. She sidled past Drake Paulson floating on a blow-up lobster in the pool—still clothed, thank God—toward the man lounging beneath a green and white striped umbrella table.

There he was, in tan cargo shorts and a navy “Baseball Players Hit It Hard” T-shirt, dark blond hair curling around the edge of a baseball cap. Her husband. Denver Rush’s star catcher with the quick moves. Her lover, her best friend. Her heart.

He glanced up and smiled when he spotted her. “Hey, honey, come over here and help me convince this loser that you are officially, seriously off the market.” He leaned back in his plastic deck chair and tipped his chin at Kowalskin.

It was September and they’d been married three weeks already. Three wonderful, magical weeks on so many levels. Michelle was getting stronger and healthier every day since she’d had surgery. It still made Lorelei cry when she looked at her sweet, precious niece and knew the little girl was going to live to grow into a woman. That she had a future.

And Logan—he was a new man. A man with hope and happiness. When he smiled and laughed, it reached his eyes. Even now he was in the pool, all bright smiles while he towed Michelle around on a floaty and she giggled and splashed at him. Seeing them together like that made her heart sing a very happy song.

She had that computer chair she’d always dreamed about—the one that cradled her behind like a glove. And she was trying her hand at writing a full-length novel. Oh, she was still writing articles about which organic pesticides were most effective and she still got all excited about it. The tomato plant Mark had given her had been the inspiration for a zinger of an article about natural compost. When it had appeared in last month’s Go Natural gardening magazine, Mark had bought a copy and practiced reading it to her one night while they’d snuggled on the couch. He’d been mighty impressed to discover horse crap was high in nitrogen.

He said that the Rush would win the World Series for sure because he had the most potent lucky charm a guy could get. Her. And yeah, she’d rewarded him good for that one.

Mark raised his hand and slid his arm around her waist when she reached his side. “Tell this bozo you’re not interested, sweetheart. That you’ve got me whipped good and I’m your love slave.” He winked at her and caressed her bottom. “And that you’re Fonda Peters, my rodeo queen.”

Lorelei laughed and slid onto his lap. He had her there. When it came to him she was definitely Fonda Peters—sex goddess.

And why shouldn’t she be?

He was Mark Cutter, all-around major league badass. The sweet-talking catcher with the best moves on and off the field. Who she was so deep in love with that she’d never get out. Never want out.

And because he was seriously good with his hands.