Out of Her League

by Kaylea Cross

  “Chocolate pudding cake. It makes its own hot fudge sauce.”

  Oh man, he was already drooling. He leaned over the island counter, propped his chin in one hand and gazed at her. “Run away with me,” he said earnestly, and earned a laugh.

  “Flatterer. You’d die of boredom within a week.”

  Don’t bet on it, sweetheart. “Was that your way of trying to let me down easy?”

  She gave him another playful grin and went back to prepping their dinner, his lips tugging upward when he read her apron: “Kiss the cook.” Maybe he’d kiss her after dessert, once she’d relaxed a little, and see how she reacted.

  Interesting how she made a habit of laughing off his attempts at flirting with her. She’d been doing that since the day they’d met, probably to keep him at a comfortable distance. Or was it that she didn’t take him seriously? Thing was, he didn’t flirt with her just to get a reaction anymore.

  She deftly covered the meat with tinfoil and gave the herbed potatoes a final toss. “Okay with you if we eat outside?”

  “Sure.” He took a dish of vegetables from her, headed onto the patio and set it on the table. “Did you do all this yourself?” He indicated the riot of blooms filling her garden.

  “Michael helped me with the big stuff. And I run a landscaping business, don’t forget. Until I scrape enough together to start my own landscaping design company.”

  Oh, he remembered. A landscaper, a great cook, a hell of an athlete, and a sweetheart to boot. He couldn’t understand why men weren’t crawling all over her. As far as he knew she didn’t date much, but she’d been in one long-term relationship that had ended badly. All his previous relationships had been short, fun and physical, just the way he wanted them. Christa didn’t seem like the kind of woman who would be into that sort of arrangement, so why didn’t that dull his interest in her?

  Ella Fitzgerald crooned in the background as they sat down to enjoy the meal, the moon hanging in the twilit sky like a yellow lantern and the chirp of crickets drifted on the air.

  “So, I’ve always wanted to ask you—how come a guy from Charleston wound up working in Canada?” she asked as she dished up the beef and potatoes.

  “I was raised in Charleston, but born in Montreal.” He eyed his plate appreciatively, waited until she’d served herself before digging in. The food tasted even better than it looked, the beef tender, the potatoes aromatic with garlic and rosemary. Man, he could get used to this.

  “So how come you ended up in Vancouver?”

  With his attention riveted on her fork as it slipped between her lips, he lost the thread of conversation. Damn, she had a sexy mouth. Realizing she was staring at him expectantly, he struggled to remember what she’d asked him and cleared his throat. “Right after I left the Marines I moved here to live with Nate and his family. He’s kind of like my surrogate father, heads up the serious crimes unit for the force.”

  She lowered her fork. “And you knew him because...?”

  Rayne leaned back in his chair, smiling at her curiosity. She seemed genuinely interested. “Nate was in the military, did a tour in Beirut and became best pals with my dad. When I was a teenager I used to come out here to spend the summers with Nate’s family. They’ve got a beach house down on the Oregon Coast they still let me use. And since I’m a dual citizen it was easy enough to move to Vancouver when my enlistment was up.” He savored another bite of meat. “This is amazing, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” Her smile made her eyes shine like aquamarines in the candlelight. “So your dad was a soldier?”

  Rayne shook his head, swallowed the mouthful. “A Navy SEAL.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Yep. He’s a real-life professional ass-kicker.” In spite of all the bad history between them, he couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice. His old man was bad-ass.

  “That must have been a tough act to follow. Is that why you joined the Marines?”

  He had to laugh. “No. Dad didn’t want me in the service at all, but the summer I turned eighteen I was being a dickhead and piled my mom’s car into a bus stop after I’d been out drinking with some friends, and I knew there was gonna to be hell to pay. My parents split up when I was eight, so when I woke up the next morning and saw my dad standing in my bedroom doorway, I knew I was in deep shit. He’d flown in from Louisiana that morning to kick my ass. He took one look at me and said, ‘Downstairs. Ten minutes.’ Don’t think I’d ever moved so fast.” Now, he could chuckle at the memory. At the time, he’d been scared shitless. “He handed me a packed duffel bag, made me apologize to my mom and then told me to get in the car. Drove me straight to Parris Island without another word and dropped me off.”

  Christa stared at him, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth. “That’s pretty harsh, Rayne.” She tilted her head as she considered him. “And you stayed there? No arguments?”

  He nearly laughed at the idea of taking on his father, verbally or otherwise. “Oh, I stayed all right. Nobody argues with my dad, Chris, not even me when I was dumb and eighteen. I’m younger, I’ve got three inches and twenty pounds on him, but believe me I still wouldn’t mess with him.” He reached across the table and helped himself to another Yorkshire and gravy. “In the end I guess he figured a stint in the Corps would straighten me out. He never imagined I’d end up following in Nate’s footsteps, become a tactical cop once I was out.”

  She smiled softly. “He must be proud of you.”

  “I dunno. Maybe.” Honestly, he didn’t care one way or the other. “He came to my Marine Corps graduation, though, and when I marched onto the parade ground there he was, decked out in his dress whites with about six pounds of medals decorating his chest. I went up and saluted him in my uniform, feeling all macho, and after he saluted back the son of a bitch actually handed me his Trident—that’s the pin the SEALs wear. God, I had goose bumps about an inch high all over me.” He’d never admit it to his old man, but he still wore it in his fatigues when he went on an operation. Like a talisman or something.

  Christa set down her fork and propped her chin in one hand. “Sounds like you admire him a lot.”

  Man, she had no clue how beautiful she was. “I did, once.”

  “Oh. You don’t anymore?”

  He shifted in his seat. Nothing like some light conversation to set the mood. “He kind of fell head first off the pedestal I’d put him on when he dumped my mom and me. Upped and left one day when I was a kid, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  She lowered her lashes. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, savoring the firm muscles beneath the warm, smooth skin before pulling back. The combination of strength and vulnerability fascinated him. “When I came home from school one day, he was gone and my mom was hysterical.” He traced the condensation beading on his water glass. She made him feel like he could tell her anything. “The strangest goddamn part of it is that they’re still in love with each other. He still wears this chain she gave him— a Saint Christopher medallion engraved with some message of protection. He’s never taken it off in all the years they’ve been apart. My mom would have him back so fast his head would spin, but my old man’s too stubborn. He’s got his reasons I guess, but I sure as hell don’t pretend to understand them. Anyway, we don’t see much of each other.” He glanced at her, hoping his expression wouldn’t reveal all the buried bitterness. “What about your parents?”

  She wiped her mouth with her napkin before answering. “My step-dad, Michael, married my mom when I was six, and then they divorced when I was nine. He’s the love of my life, hands down.” Her lips curved upward, making his muscles tighten as he thought of leaning in and kissing her.

  “And your mom?”

  She hesitated, and when her gaze clouded over he felt bad for asking. “My mother isn’t the easiest person to love,” she confided. “She’s very...involved in her work. We’ve never been close, even before Michael. She’s one
of those women who should never have had children.” Without thinking, Rayne reached for her hand and wrapped his fingers around hers. She smiled a little, left her hand in his. He liked the feel of those slim, cool fingers against his palm.

  “When I left for university in Arizona we agreed to see each other only at Christmas, and only if it was convenient. I think she was relieved.” Despite the sadness in her voice she shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “I have my life, and she has hers.”

  Her loss, Rayne thought. Christa was a phenomenal person. He was still holding her hand; he should probably let it go, in case she took it as a come on and got the jitters. He never questioned his instincts when it came to a woman—if there was one thing he knew, it was how to seduce a woman— but sitting across from Christa tonight he felt like a teenager on his first date, fumbling along on a quest to get to first base. Unbelievable.

  Probably because Christa was so unlike any of the others and had never given any indication of wanting anything but friendship from him. She was easy to be with, but whenever he’d tried inching things further her body language gave off clear ‘stay away’ signals. But they were both single, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t mistaking their mutual attraction.

  What had made her so wary of men? When he stroked his thumb across her knuckles she pulled her hand away and started arranging the dessert dishes. Back off, dumb-ass, before she slams up that invisible wall. “So I’ve been wondering—how did you get so involved in softball?” he asked.

  She served the pudding cake, seeming more relaxed now that he’d changed the subject. “Teryl and I started playing when we were six but she quit a few years ago because it took too much time from her career. It’s too bad, because we were great together. She was a pitcher.”

  His mouth watered at the heady aroma of chocolate, and at the scoop of ice cream she added. “For some reason I have trouble imagining you on the ball diamond.”

  She arched a brow at him. “That's because you've never seen me with my game face on. Once I step onto that field, I kick ass and take names.”

  He chuckled. “I’m a cop—I know all about game faces. I just can’t picture you being scary, that’s all. You’re too sweet.”

  She made a face at that, as if it embarrassed or insulted her, which was the last thing he’d meant. “Well, you’ll have to see me in action then, won’t you?” She brandished her spoon at him. “Believe me, on the diamond I’m all business.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.” And he very much wanted to.

  “Yeah?” Her eyes held a hint of challenge. “I’ve got a game tomorrow at two, if you can make it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He’d never even watched women’s fastpitch before, but he was intrigued enough that he wanted to see her in action. “I’m on call tomorrow, but I’ll be there if I can,” he told her, already looking forward to it.

  She shot him a wry grin. “I hope I don’t strike out while you’re watching. I’m not sure if I’ll be catching or playing third base, but you’ll see me. And if you can’t, just check out my number-one fan in the stands. He’s the crazy one who shows up to every game and sits right behind home plate as my personal cheering section. When he’s not trying to throw me off, that is,” she added under her breath.

  Though she tried to make light of it, the rigid set of her spine suggested an undercurrent of anxiety. The thought of anyone frightening her made his hackles go up. “Yeah? How long has he been doing this?”

  Another shrug. “Since the first week of the season, I guess, but it’s nothing. He’s just creepy, that’s all.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, not liking the sound of this already. “Does he ever single you out? Leave you notes? Anything like that?”

  She frowned. “Well, after my game last night he followed me out to my truck. So now I’m going to make sure I never leave without one of my teammates. And I’ve never initiated a conversation with him.”

  “But you’ve talked to him?”

  “Only to be polite. Though he did say something weird to me last night.”

  He fastened his eyes on her, waiting for her to elaborate.

  “He told me to be careful because ‘most accidents happen close to home’.” She pushed a melting lump of ice cream around her dish with her spoon. “I’m not sure if he was warning or threatening me, but that’s pretty much why I stopped by Teryl’s place yesterday. I was afraid he might try and follow me home or something.”

  “So that’s why you kept checking your rearview last night.” God, why hadn’t she just told him? At least he could have followed her home to make sure she got there okay. “You should have told me. Told someone, anyhow.”

  She swallowed a spoonful of dessert. “I told Teryl. The Stalker’s just a nickname we’ve given him. And then last night I thought he might be threatening me but I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

  All his cop instincts were jangling. “If he’s at your game tomorrow, I’ll let you know if I think he might be a problem. But if I were you I’d steer clear of him.”

  “I will,” she promised. “I don’t really want to believe he might be a threat, but if you’re concerned, I’ll be more careful.” She grimaced, glanced away. “Now that I’ve told you and Teryl about him, he probably won’t even show up tomorrow and I’ll look stupid for worrying about it.”

  “Hey.” He took hold of her wrist and her gaze jerked back to his. “Worrying about something like that isn’t stupid. It’s smart.”

  When he released her she pushed her plate away and let out a sigh, leaving half her cake untouched. “Well, that certainly spoiled the ambiance, didn’t it?”

  With his point made, Rayne wanted her to relax and enjoy herself, so he let the matter drop. “What do you mean? I was getting ready to ask for more dessert.”

  A smile formed, smoothing the worry lines on her forehead. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, right?” Embarrassment flitted across her face. “That came out wrong,” she blurted. “Pretend I never said it.”

  He grinned. “Trust me, darlin’, I’m not offended. As it happens, home cooking is one of the ways to my heart, so pass the cake, will you?”

  She let out a breath. “Let me fill ‘er up, then.” She served him another heaping portion of the gooey chocolate dessert and ice cream.

  “And just for the record?” He paused long enough to lock his gaze with hers. “You can hit on me anytime you want.” Her nonplussed expression was priceless.

  As he ate the first warm bite he let out a throaty growl, trying not to smile as her gaze flicked up to him, then down to her plate. Wary was good, he decided. The fact he’d gotten under her skin meant she wasn’t as disinterested as she wanted him to believe.

  Chapter Three

  “Now batting for White Rock,” the announcer boomed, “number six, Dani Miller.” A cheer erupted from the home fans. Dani was a favorite, and their team was trailing by two runs in the fifth inning. Christa was on deck in full battle gear: lower legs covered with socks and stirrups, knees cushioned by pads and thighs concealed with sliding shorts. Two national team coaches were in the stands watching her tonight.

  Not only were the people holding the keys to her dream in the crowd, but her stalker was once again behind home plate, forcing her to blank out his frequent comments and leers. On top of all that, Rayne had shown up a few minutes after the game had started, so her brain kept bombarding her with the awareness that he was sitting in the third base bleachers next to Teryl. Between innings she’d permitted herself a single glance and wave at them, then put her game face back on and forced herself to tune out everything else.

  The crowd murmured as Dani grounded out to shortstop.

  “Next up for White Rock, number nineteen, Christa Bailey.” The announcement brought another round of cheering as she made her way to the plate from the on-deck circle.

  “Come on, Christa,” a young girl in a little league uniform shouted.
“You can do it.” Her friends joined in with encouragement, clapping excitedly, a dozen grade schoolers all sporting inside-out hats backwards, like rally caps.

  Christa settled herself into the right-hand batter’s box, holding up one hand toward the umpire until she was ready. The pitch smacked into the catcher’s glove, outside and low. “Strike!” yelled the umpire.

  She stepped out to take signals from the third base coach and returned to the box, awaited the next offering from the opposing pitcher, who shook off two signals before agreeing on a pitch. It zoomed in high and tight, causing Christa to jerk back to avoid being hit. The crowd booed.

  “Go get her, Christa!” her number one fan shouted.

  Coolly she settled back into the box, set comfortably into her stance and took a big cut at the next pitch, smoking it over the shortstop’s head, and took off in a dead sprint. The crowd went crazy as the throw home came too late and the runner from third scored. With the catcher distracted by the play at home, Christa rounded first and headed for second base.

  The catcher wound up and hurled the ball down to the second baseman, who whipped her glove down in a sweep tag. Christa whipped past the glove with a hook slide and managed to grab the edge of the bag on the way by.

  “Safe,” called the base umpire, and the crowd roared as Christa called time and dusted herself off.

  The next batter struck out, leaving Christa stranded at second base. The teams cleared the field and her team assumed their defensive positions, a back-up catcher taking the first few warm-up pitches while Christa hurried to get her gear on. She jogged onto the field and crouched behind the plate, taking the last pitch and launching it down to second.

  “Be a leader out there, Christa! You’re the best they’ve got.”

  The stalker’s voice. She gritted her teeth. If her head had been locked into the game properly, she would never have heard him. She honed her focus as the inning started.