“A convertible Camero,” I reply with a satisfied grin. “Black.”

“Of course it’s black.” I can almost hear her rolling those bright green eyes, and it makes me laugh.

“Hey, I need a way to get around while I’m here. This inn is in BFE.”

“But it’s worth it,” she insists. “It’s so peaceful out there. You’ll recover quickly there.”

“I’m already recovered,” I reply, gritting my teeth. “I feel fine.”

“Bullcrap.”

Of course it’s bullshit. My shoulder sings every time I try to throw a ball, but I won’t admit that to anyone, least of all Kate, who seems to think it’s her God-given right to mother me.

“It’s really far from the city. I could probably stay somewhere closer to you.”

“It’s quiet there, and it’s not that far. Stop whining.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and look at it, then reply with, “Did you just tell me to stop whining?”

“Yes.” She giggles.

“You’re going to pay for that.”

“You don’t scare me.”

She’s probably one of the few that I don’t scare.

“Go rest,” she says, serious now. “Heal. The inn is the perfect place for it.”

Being away from the media circus and my coaches, who are constantly on my ass about conditioning my injured shoulder, sounds perfect.

Being off the grid, calling my own shots for a while, without anyone checking on me every five seconds, sounds like pure heaven.

“I want to see you,” I tell Kate as I take the exit off the freeway.

“Let’s do lunch tomorrow. That’ll give you time to get settled and rest from your trip.”

“Why do you think I need all this rest?” I grumble. “I’m a healthy almost-thirty-year-old man, Kate. I hurt my shoulder. It’s not like I’m coming home from war.”

Although recovering from this one has felt like a fucking battle every single day since it happened a few months ago.

“Okay, tough guy, I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch.” She sounds perky and happy, and that makes me happy.

Kate was unhappy for far too long. Being in New Orleans and with Eli Boudreaux, seems to be agreeing with her.

But I’ll save my opinion on that until I see her with my own eyes.

“Call me if you need me,” I say, just like I always do right before we hang up.

“Ditto.”

And she’s gone. I take a deep breath as I adjust my grip on the steering wheel, loving the way this car handles. It’s as smooth as a beautiful woman’s bare skin.

Not that I remember exactly what that feels like, given that I’ve been preoccupied with major league baseball, and doctors, and the very real prospect of losing the sport that has been the only love of my life far too much lately.

Maybe that’ll change while I’m down here in Louisiana. It wouldn’t hurt to distract myself with a fun woman for a while.

I rub my hand over my lips and quickly dismiss that idea. I don’t need any distractions. I need to get my shoulder in top form again so I can return to the team and sport I love in the spring.

The GPS announces that I’ve reached my destination, and my jaw drops as I slow the car before turning into the driveway and take in my first glimpse of Inn Boudreaux.

A row of enormous old oak trees lead to the front door of an impressive white building with wide pillars and a deep front porch. Porch swings hang on either side of the inviting red door and ceiling fans spin lazily above them.

The trees soar high into the air, the branches heavy with Spanish moss dripping from the limbs. Some of the limbs are so long that they rest on the ground.

I turn into the driveway, still crawling along. The grounds are adorned with different buildings, gardens, a creek—complete with bridge—and beautiful colors everywhere.

If there is a heaven, this is exactly what it should look like.

I come to a stop beside a Buick with Florida plates and climb out of the car just as a pixie of a woman with long dark hair steps out of the house, tossing a friendly smile and wave in my direction.

Yes, heaven should have her greet every person to show up as well. Still hidden behind my glasses, my eyes take a leisurely stroll up and down her petite frame, not at all offended by her smooth, bare legs and bare feet. She’s in tiny denim shorts and a black tank top, because of the hot weather, I’m sure. Her hair falls almost to her waist, and I can’t tell what color her eyes are, but that smile could melt the coldest heart.

She descends the stairs, slips her feet into flip flops, and walks toward me.

“You must be Rhys. I’m Gabby.” She holds a hand out and I immediately take it in both of mine, and rather than shake it, I raise her knuckles to my lips and kiss them lightly. Her eyes—the color of old whiskey—widen in surprise, and then she giggles, making my gut tighten. “My sisters warned me that you’re a charmer.”

“They did?” I reply delightedly. “Did they also warn you of my debonair good looks and giving spirit?”

Gabby laughs again and shakes her head. “I must have missed that part.”

“I’m wounded.” I reluctantly give up her hand and cover my heart, as though I’ve taken a bullet to the chest.

“You’ll survive,” she replies and rests her hands on her hips, pushing her breasts forward, and I rub my fingers against my thumb, instantly wanting to touch her again. “Do you need help with your bags?”