Text Me Baby One More Time Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Teagan Hunter

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer quoting brief passages for review purposes only.

  Cover Image from Depositphotos

  Editing by Editing by C. Marie

  Formatting by AB Formatting

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Coming Soon

  Acknowledgments

  Other titles by Teagan Hunter:

  About the Author

  To Laurie.

  Half the shit I decide to do is last minute, and you’re always there to make it happen. You’re da best. Thank you for wrangling this crazy kitten.

  ONE

  SHEPARD

  AROUND THESE PARTS, I’m a king.

  That’s not me being cocky; I’m just being realistic.

  No matter where I go, people stare. They look at me like a fucking celebrity or some shit. Pictures, my autograph—begged for. People go out of their way to gain my attention, even if only for a moment—especially women.

  In fact, it’s about to happen right now.

  At 10:30 PM on a Wednesday night in the middle of Smart Shoppe, aisle three.

  I see the thirst in her eyes the moment I turn the corner. Her back snaps up straight when she notices me, a hungry grin stretching across her red-painted lips. She tosses her perfectly curled, long locks over her shoulder as she forms her plan of attack.

  She’s hot as fuck, I’ll give her that. She’s not quite what I normally go for in a girl, but I’m not one to say no to pussy.

  It doesn’t hurt that she knows how to wear a pair of jeans like a second skin.

  I bet her legs would look pretty damn great wrapped around me.

  My lips—and dick—twitch at the thought.

  She thinks that’s her cue and begins her approach, taking long, exaggerated steps toward me, her hips swaying back and forth as she moves closer.

  “Hi.” Translation: You’re hot. “I’m Brandi, with an I.” Stripper name. “You’re Shep Clark, right?”

  I try not to snort at her I’m so innocent act. She knows exactly who I am—everyone does.

  Just like I know she wants me to take her back to my apartment and fuck her until the sun comes up.

  Though I’ve sworn off meaningless flings, I’m considering it. It’s been over a month since I acquainted myself with anything other than my hand, and it’s getting old—quick.

  “I watch all your games—you’re good.”

  “I know.”

  She takes a step closer and laughs. It’s one of those playful, slightly husky laughs girls do that don’t sound genuine.

  Another step closer, our feet now touching.

  Her fingers trail along the arm I have outstretched against the shelving. “I haven’t seen you on the field lately, though.” Her lips jut out in a frown. “What gives?”

  I gnash my teeth together, jaw clenching tightly at the inquisition.

  It’s true, I’m taking some time off from the game—but not by choice, just so we’re clear.

  You get into one little bar fight, cause a measly couple thousand dollars’ worth of damage, and suddenly you’re “troubled” and “need a break”.

  It’s bullshit.

  “None of your business.”

  She either doesn’t hear the bite in my tone or chooses to ignore it.

  “It’s a shame, so much talent being wasted. But…” Her eyes flick to mine, another grin dancing on her lips.

  They’re plump, kissable. I bet they’d look even better wrapped around my cock.

  Based off the pulsing Shep Jr. does at the idea, I’d say he agrees.

  She pushes onto her tiptoes, bringing her mouth to my ear. “Baseball isn’t the only thing you’re talented at, right?”

  Fuck no, it isn’t.

  I slide an arm around her waist, pulling her tight little body against mine.

  She purrs—literally fucking purrs like a cat—at the move. I want to shove her away for that alone, but honestly, my dick is lonely.

  “How about we get out of here?”

  She giggles. “I’d like that, baby.”

  Baby.

  I stifle my groan at the pet name. I fucking hate pet names. To try to get myself in the mood a little more, I run my nose along her jaw, and she giggles.

  I also hate giggling.

  Good thing sex doesn’t have to involve talking. It’ll be a whole lot of moaning and orgasms, just like I like it.

  “I know a—”

  “Really, universe? Really?”

  The words are muttered, but there’s no denying who is standing behind me, her cart mere inches from ramming into the back of me, and I’m sure that’s entirely on purpose.

  My chest feels like it’s about to explode. It always does when she’s around.

  It doesn’t matter the situation, doesn’t matter what insults she’s hurling my way—anytime Denver Andrews is near me, my attention is solely hers.

  Like now.

  Stripper Brandi doesn’t notice her, or the change in my demeanor. She continues to try to paw at me while I work to disentangle myself from her grasp, trying to escape because whatever this was going to be isn’t going to happen. I’ve lost all interest in going home with her.

  Especially now that I’m reminded there’s so much more out there for me.

  Like Denver.

  The only good thing to come from my…leave of absence from baseball is coming back home. I knew Denver didn’t move after graduation, knew she’d still be here…knew we’d eventually run into one another.

  I was counting on it, actually.

  I have a lot to make up for, especially to Denny. I planned to seek her out, get her to forgive me—I just didn’t realize I’d be starting my I’m sorry for sucking so much ass apology tour tonight.

  “Can you not have sex in the middle of the grocery store? It’s disgusting.”

  I grin and spin toward the intruder, still holding on to Stripper Brandi for show.

  “Is that jealousy I detect, Denver?”

  “Your name is Denver? Like the state?”

  Holy fuck. My standards are shit.

  I drop my arm from around Stripper Brandi’s waist and take a step away from the stupidity, unable to handle it any longer.

  “Look, Brandi with an I, it’s not
gonna happen tonight.”

  Harsh? Possibly, but I’ve done this enough times to know getting straight to the point is the only way I’ll be able to get a girl like Brandi to back off.

  Her mouth falls open. She quickly slams it shut and rolls her shoulders back. “She can join. I don’t mind.”

  “While that’s a lovely offer, Brenda,” Denver says, butchering her name on purpose, “that would be a hard pass from me. I’d rather peel my own toenails off than ever—and I mean ever—see Shep naked.”

  I smirk at the vivid imagery. “Now, now, Denny, we both know the lie detector would determine that’s a lie.”

  “You wish it was a lie, Slug.”

  I grunt in distaste at the nickname, because she of all people knows how much I hate it, and I know what it means when she uses it.

  “What are you even doing here, Andrews?”

  “Grocery shopping. This is the grocery store, isn’t it? That’s what you’re supposed to do here—not other people.”

  Stripper Brandi gasps at Denny’s words, and I can’t help but laugh.

  She always did get right to the point. There was never any pussyfooting around with her, and it’s something I’ve always loved about her, even when I was supposed to be hating her.

  “You have a point there,” I concede.

  “She does?”

  “She does,” Denny tells my…well, whatever Brandi is. Potential hook-up? Ex potential hook-up?

  “Listen, Strip”—I catch myself at the last moment—“Brandi, like I said, it’s not going to work tonight.”

  Her lips fall into a pout. Suddenly they don’t look as kissable as they once did.

  And it’s all fucking Denny’s fault.

  I glance over and can’t help but compare her to the girl I had plans to use as a distraction tonight.

  It’s late, and we’re at the grocery store, yet Stripper Brandi is dressed to impress, right down to the studded boots on her feet.

  Denny…well, she’s dressed all right, but it’s clear she isn’t trying to impress anyone with what she’s wearing.

  She’s clad in bright teal yoga pants and a soft gray sweater hanging off one shoulder. Her dark hair is twisted into a messy knot, not an ounce of makeup is on her face, and with the way I can see her nipples straining against the thin cotton of her sweater, I’m fairly certain she isn’t wearing a bra either…and I’m not going to argue with that.

  It’s simple, and she even looks a little homeless, yet I can’t stop my eyes from lingering on her. It’s not because of the homeless thing, either.

  It’s simply Denny. It’s always been that way with her. No matter how much I want to, I can’t hate her the way she hates me.

  Honestly, I never hated her at all.

  “Can I at least give you my number?” Brandi asks, pulling my attention back to her.

  I won’t use it, but… “Sure.”

  She holds her hand out, waiting for my phone, but I know a whole hell of a lot better than to hand my precious over. When it finally dawns on her that I’m not going to give it to her, she digs into the oversized purse dangling off her arm and pulls out a wad of receipts and a pen. She quickly jots down digits I don’t plan to use and folds the scrap of paper, dragging this out longer than she needs to.

  “I hope we can pick this back up…” Her eyes dart toward Denny. “Later tonight.”

  “It’s after ten thirty—don’t you have school tomorrow?” Denny taunts.

  Stripper Brandi huffs then stretches onto her tiptoes to press a kiss to my cheek. “I’ll be up.”

  As she disappears around the corner, Denny bursts into hysterical laughter.

  “Please tell me she knows you’re not going to call her.” She stares after the girl, adding, “That is your MO after all.”

  I ignore the jab, because I deserve it. “I mean, she did think you were named after a state, so you tell me.”

  “God, Shep, you sure know how to pick ’em.”

  That’s funny coming from Denver.

  I picked her once a upon a time too.

  We fall into a silence, and it’s not one of those comfortable kinds you share with old friends. It’s awkward as fuck, which isn’t exactly surprising.

  If we’re not slinging insults at one another, we don’t know how to act. You’d never guess from the way we interact that Denny and I share a long, painful history.

  “Well, this tension-filled silence is my cue. Have a good night with your right hand, Slug.”

  And there it is.

  This tension she’s referring to is unfinished business. We both know it, and if I can get Denny to give me the time of day, I intend to finish it.

  “I’ll have you know I’m a switch-hitter. I was going to give Lefty some showtime tonight.”

  “Such a gentleman,” she tosses over her shoulder as she pushes her cart down the aisle and away from me.

  My shoulders sag in relief as she retreats—but only for a moment, because I know exactly what’s coming next.

  Misery. Anger.

  Toward her. Toward myself.

  Denver Andrews used to love me. Now she hates me.

  I used to love her too…and I still do.

  TWO

  DENVER

  I’M a big believer in everything happens for a reason. I’m one of those weirdos who truly subscribes to the idea that everything is mapped out for us from day one, even when we can’t see it for ourselves.

  That said, why in the actual fuck the universe decided I should run into my ex…well, whatever he is…in the middle of Smart Shoppe while I’m dressed like this is beyond me.

  I could slap myself for running to the store for the famous period trio—you know: sweets, salts, and stoppers—wearing this outfit.

  Or non-outfit.

  It’s just whatever I found lying around on my way-too-messy apartment floor.

  Of course the universe would screw me over and I’d run into my mortal enemy.

  Okay, that might be a little harsh, but the last person I expected to see was him.

  Shep Clark.

  The Shep Clark.

  The guy I moved across the country to be with.

  The guy who broke my fragile heart.

  The guy I hate.

  That Shep Clark.

  I had to endure four years of college with the man who unceremoniously ended things. He ruled the campus, and I could never truly escape him.

  When he was drafted for the MLB, I was ecstatic. He was leaving, meaning I’d finally be able to put Shepard Clark behind me. Sure, I was a journalist in his alumni town and I’d probably have to run an article or two on him and his accomplishments, but I could deal with that.

  To actually have to see him, though?

  I’ll take No Fucking Thank You for $200, Alex.

  He may be a baseball legend to everyone else in this town, but I won’t be falling at his feet anytime soon.

  Not again.

  I angrily march myself down the aisle, pushing my cart much faster than I need to. I just want to get out of here before I run into Shep again. I don’t even pay attention to the chips I toss into the cart, something I’m certain I’ll regret later.

  I don’t bother scoping out the ice cream selection for something new. I know I’ll inevitably choose my trusty mint chocolate chip—the green one, thank you—and cookies and cream in the end.

  I bustle over to the feminine products and grab the biggest pack I can find before making my way to the front.

  It would be my luck that they’ve closed self-checkout, there’s only one lane open, and the oldest lady on the entire planet is sliding groceries across the scanner in a painfully slow manner.

  Eff you, universe.

  I push my cart up behind the woman in front of me, who I’m fairly certain is the second oldest woman on Earth, then rest against the handle.

  The cashier scans a box of cereal and I swear it takes a full thirty seconds to do so.

  I’m going to die here.

/>   My eyes drift toward the gossip magazines lining the shelves to my right. Normally, I ignore this trash, but I’m bored and since I’ll probably be here for another fifteen minutes, why the hell not.

  I reach for one featuring my favorite Chris then something catches my eye.

  Is that…

  Holy crap, it is!

  Can I not escape him?!

  Shep’s mug shot is plastered across the front of the local newspaper—and my rival paper at that.

  Local Star Arrested for Destruction of Property the headline reads.

  Looks like King Shep went and did another dumbass thing—started a fight and racked up a pretty penny in damages to the inside of a fancy-schmancy club a few hours north of here.

  He’s lucky he’s not being hit with assault charges too.

  I sneer at the paper in front of me. The urge to rip every copy off the shelves just so I can burn them all is strong.

  Shep doesn’t deserve any kind of attention. He’s a liar, the biggest asshole in the history of assholes.

  I hate him with a fiery passion.

  I scowl at the image of his face, resisting my desire to snatch and burn, and instead grab a candy bar sitting below the papers, open it, and shove at least half into my mouth.

  “Wow, I’m impressed.”

  I groan when I hear his voice.

  “Go away.”

  “Can’t—it’s the only lane open.”

  “What are you even doing here, Slug?”

  I swear I can hear him grind his molars together at the nickname. Good. Asshole. His dentist must have a hell of a time rooting around in his mouth with how much he gnashes those teeth.

  “Grocery shopping. This is the grocery store, isn’t it? That’s what you’re supposed to do here,” he deadpans, repeating my words back to me.

  “I hate you.”

  “You only think you hate me, Den.”

  I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me, and he chuckles because he knows I did it.

  I’m certain he’s standing back there with that famous smirk of his lining his lips. That’s the thing about Shep—you can never tell if he’s upset or not because he’s always sporting that fake-ass smile of his.

  But, if you look close enough, you can see his jaw tick.

  That’s his tell.

  I nod my head toward the magazine racks. “I see you still don’t have your shit together.”