by Kathy Lyons
“Here he is!”
My father peered out the kitchen window. “Nice limo.”
Mom tsked. “Forget the car, Bob. Look at the tux!”
My panicked gaze shot to Rachel as I mouthed, “Tux?”
She grinned. “Bet you’re wishing for those sequins now, huh?”
“No,” I growled. “I’m thinking I should have stayed in Indy!”
“Too late,” she crowed as she hauled me to my feet, then in rapid succession adjusted my neckline (lower), bra placement (higher), and the length of the skirt (way too high). I slapped her hands away right when the doorbell rang.
Mom answered it before I could stop her. Fortunately, I was in the living room hidden from view by a recliner and a large lamp. I heard Mom gush the usual stuff: “Aren’t you handsome? And what a game you had today!”
I glanced over at Rachel in a panic. I mean, I knew they’d won, but I’d been getting ready so I hadn’t actually watched the game. Fortunately, my dad had. He picked up the slack.
“Nice backhanded stop on that double play. But I was sure you were safe at first in the fifth inning.”
“Umps are blind,” Jake answered, his voice a low rumble that slid down my spine in all the best ways. “But at least they’re evenly blind. I couldn’t believe Connor made that catch in the sixth. It kept us in the game.”
“Oh stop, you two,” Mom chided. “There’s more to life than baseball. Now come in, come in. Ellie’s here and waiting.”
Jesus, if this were any more like a prom date, I’d be descending the stairs while Dad shot pictures. It was time to assert some adulthood. Taking a split second to tug my skirt a little lower, I stepped into the hallway and stopped cold.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Years ago, my prom date had arrived sweating bullets in an ill-fitting tux. Not Jake.
First, no sweat.
Second, his tux fit like a dream and emphasized every mouthwatering inch of him—broad shoulders, muscular torso, trim hips. I hadn’t seen the back side yet, but I’d seen him in his uniform. I knew his butt was one of his best features.
Third, he was carrying a dozen roses, which he handed off to my mother.
Wait…my mother?
“These are for you, Mrs. McDonald.” He glanced over to Rachel. “I’ve sent another dozen to you at your loft, since I know this date wouldn’t be happening without your help.”
And then his gaze landed on me. I was about to say something about him giving roses to every female in my family except me. But my thoughts were short-circuited the moment his gaze landed on me.
It was all in his eyes. Sure, his body stilled. His hands paused, and his mouth slipped open a bit. His nostrils might even have flared, but his eyes were what mesmerized me. They looked at me from top to bottom and back again. And then they just held my face. He seemed awestruck, his gaze taking on a laser-like intensity that I’d only seen him have when he played.
Okay, I admit it—I’d watched him play a few thousand times, seeing the camera catch the way he’d knock down a grounder with ease and whip it to first base. I’d even made it into a GIF, repeating that catch, pivot, turn, over and over. It was that one moment when everything in his body and mind were aimed at one goal: to get the runner out.
Except now, that attention was locked on me. My breath caught, my toes curled in my sparkly sandals, and yes, my nipples tightened. Right there in front of my parents. But hell, I couldn’t stop it. And I certainly couldn’t look away. Jake Armstrong had his gaze focused on me, and I was powerless in his grip.
And the silence stretched on.
In the end, it was Rachel who broke the moment. “Flowers for me, huh? Cool. What did you bring for Ellie?”
Blunt, much? My cheeks heated to crimson. “Um, I kind of forced him into this date, Rach. He doesn’t need to give…” My voice trailed away as he pulled out a velvet jewelry pouch from his pocket and held it out to me. But at my words, he tightened his fist around it.
“You didn’t force me,” he said, his tone indignant. “How could I be forced into a date?”
Oh, shit. Had I wounded his pride? “Um, because I asked you out. In public. And in a way you probably felt you couldn’t refuse.”
He snorted, the sound at odds with his GQ appearance. It told me, as clearly as anything, that peer pressure wasn’t a factor in anything he did. And then suddenly, he was back to smooth. His hand relaxed on the jewelry pouch, but he didn’t give it to me. Instead, he used his other hand to reach out to me. I hadn’t thought he was close enough to touch me, but he was an athlete, quickly nabbing my numbed fingers and tugging me forward.
I took a step, grateful I didn’t stumble when he raised the back of my hand to his mouth. His lips were soft and the slip of wetness when his tongue slid over my skin was indecently erotic. And then he flipped my hand over so my palm was facing up.
“I wanted to go on a date with you, Ellie. You have no idea how much.”
And then he opened the jewelry pouch and spilled a silver charm bracelet into my palm. It was heavy in my hand and glimmered in the light.
“May I put it on you?” Now he had the smooth moves to go with the GQ attire. Enough that I couldn’t speak except to nod.
He released my hand, then picked up the bracelet and linked it around my wrist. I shivered at his touch. It wasn’t just the tingles that came with the caress. No, I was still looking at his eyes, and his gaze was holding mine with an intensity that set my nerves on fire as he fastened the jewelry on.
Dark, deep green eyes. And while he held my wrist, his gaze dropped to my mouth.
My lips were dry, so I licked them. It was an unconscious gesture, but the moment I did it, his hand tightened on my wrist. His nostrils flared. And damn if he didn’t draw me another step closer.
Um, was it possible to orgasm from just having a hand around your wrist? While in front of your parents? I never would have thought so, but I was wet in places and plump in others. And I was still powerless to do anything but feel.
“Oh, look!” said Rachel. “It’s got your number on it.”
“Yes, it does,” Jake said as he lifted my wrist higher into the light.
Then he looked away from my face. And when he shifted, I was finally able to tear my gaze away from him. Spell broken, right? Except no. My eyes went where he wanted them, to where our hands were joined and the number 32 flashed on my bracelet right next to a baseball charm.
I felt marked. It was silly. But the moment I saw his number on my wrist, I felt like I was his. Labeled. Claimed. Owned. It should have triggered all my feminist outrage, but it didn’t. Instead, I felt warmed in a deliciously naughty way. Like I shouldn’t want this, but oh my God, I did.
And that confused me.
“Do you like it?” Jake asked. He twisted my wrist to show me the charms.
“I love it,” I whispered. “It’s beautiful, and it’s your number.”
He flashed me a grin. “Is that your way of saying, You’ve got my number?”
“I think that would be you saying it to me, right? You’re the one who picked it.”
His grin widened. “Maybe I was. Or maybe I just like the idea of you wearing it.”
Hell, I already knew I’d happily wear anything of his. His jersey. His number. His anything. But I couldn’t say that out loud. Because somehow, I’d stepped even closer to him. Near enough to catch his scent mixed with some cologne that smelled expensive. It went straight to my head and tangled my tongue.
And then Jake was steering me out the door. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”
“Where are you going?” Rachel asked as she followed a step behind us.
“None of your business,” I said with a bit of snark, then immediately flushed. Apparently, I’d fallen into my old habit of striking out at my bolder sister whenever I felt inadequate. Fortunately, she took it in stride with a laugh that never failed to charm anyone who heard it.
I glanced surreptitiously at Jake. Was
he turning to look at her? I wouldn’t blame him. It was that laugh that got her a job doing radio. No one could resist it.
Except Jake. He didn’t even break his stride. His gaze was on my wrist and the charm bracelet. His body was gently touching mine—a hand at my lower back, his shoulder sweetly bracing mine—as he guided me to the limo.
The spiteful sibling in me cheered. It was a small thing, but damn, how wonderful to be with a guy who wasn’t distracted by Rachel. Even though it was just one moment, it was enough to make me feel special. I flushed with warmth. And it lingered as I stepped into the limo and slid across the seat. My skirt rode up, of course, and I showed a lot of thigh.
I started thinking about cellulite and all kinds of other horrible things. Was I still bruised from that seizure patient? But one glance at Jake’s face had me blushing for other reasons. His gaze was right on my legs, and his mouth was split into a lascivious grin. And when he realized I was looking at him, he lifted his shoulder in a half shrug.
“Have I mentioned how much I love that dress?”
“Um, no. You haven’t.”
“I’ve never seen a more beautiful dress or a more beautiful woman wearing it.”
Over the top, much? Yes, of course. But did it work on me? Hell, yes. Because he seemed to mean it. There was no part of him that wasn’t fully absorbed in looking at me. And that made me feel beautiful. And sexy. And so wet, I feared I would start sliding on the seat.
Jake climbed in and slid close while the chauffeur shut the door and spun sharply around before heading to the driver’s seat. I didn’t want to be swayed by shallow things like a tux and a chauffeur—not to mention a sparkly bracelet—but I was halfway under Jake’s spell. What girl got all this on a date? It was a fantasy come true. Especially when Jake gestured to the minibar and smiled.
“Care for a drink?”
I shook my head. I was already light-headed from the extravagance of everything.
With a cheeky grin, Jake pushed up the privacy window, effectively sealing us into a cocoon of leather and glass. And Jake. All Jake. Then he leaned close to whisper into my ear. He took his time at it, teasing my hair with his breath and the shell of my ear with his heat. I had to clench my hands together to keep them from trembling too obviously. Or from grabbing him, when I’d made a big deal of how this wouldn’t end in sex.
And then he spoke and effectively killed the entire mood.
“Okay, Ellie. Fess up. What’s this really all about?”
Chapter Four
Jake
There’s a moment in every game when I know my entire day rests on the next few seconds. Sometimes I make it, and it’s glorious. Sometimes I miss, and I have to suck it up until the next key moment arrives. But it’s rare indeed when that moment happens outside a ballpark. And that always makes the stakes a bit higher.
The first time, I was headed for second base…on a girl. Result: glorious. It had me grinning for days.
The second time was when I was writing the SATs, and I realized I sucked at standardized tests. There was no way I’d get into a good college with my brains. Result: miserable. But it meant I worked harder than ever at baseball.
The third time was right now, here with Ellie. Sure I’d pulled out all the stops to make this date memorable, but the girl had a different agenda than I did and I wanted to know what it was. Especially since she’d shown up in that dress.
For someone who had no intention of having sex, she looked like pure temptation, with every curve on tantalizing display. From the moment I’d laid eyes on her, I’d been harder than granite, even in front of her parents and sister.
I needed an explanation. I just prayed that I could focus on her words long enough to understand them. Because damn, she had nice legs.
She took two tries to find her voice, and even then, it came out half croak, half squeak.
“Um, what?”
“You said you wanted an old-fashioned date. I’d pick you up, say hello to your parents and family, and we go out to dinner.”
“Y-yes?”
I cocked a brow at the length of leg on display and had to stop myself from caressing it. “That is not an old-fashioned dress.”
“Um, right.”
It took me a moment to realize she’d stopped talking and that I needed to look at her face, not her legs. So I dragged my gaze up to her mouth. She was chewing her lower lip, licking off the gloss in her nervousness. I was suddenly flooded with the image of what else she could be doing with her mouth on me.
Yeah, it was immature, but damn, I couldn’t figure out what she wanted.
“Ellie?” I said, her name coming out in a low, lust-filled growl.
“It’s Rachel’s dress. I didn’t pack for a date.” Then she shrugged. “Remember? I live in Indianapolis and drove up here for the barbecue. No dresses required.”
“And Rachel didn’t have anything in her closet that was a little less…” What? Sex in black knit? “Modern.”
“You were expecting a poodle skirt? Sweater and pearls? Nun’s habit?”
I flushed. I hated it when someone caught my inner thoughts. “Look, I know I’m a jock, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”
She jolted upright. “I never thought—”
“So what’s the agenda here? There’s going to be press, and I need to know your game plan.”
She blew out a breath. “You weren’t supposed to say yes.” And then she frowned. “Wait…press? What press?”
I leaned back and folded my arms. It was the only way to keep them off her. “You made a big show of asking me out publicly.”
“In my parents’ backyard!”
“In front of the team. And Gia.”
She frowned. “Who’s Gia?”
“You remember the bouncy brunette in heels. She had a thing for your mom’s ambrosia salad. She’s the team’s publicist.”
I watched as her eyes widened in memory. Yeah, for all Gia’s perky beauty, the woman knew how to fade into the background when needed. Neat trick for a publicist.
“But this isn’t about the baseball team.”
“Gia’s job is to make us popular. There’s nothing better for clickbait than an old-fashioned date.” I watched her expression closely. “In fact, I considered the possibility that you and Gia had set this up beforehand.”
Her eyes widened in shock. “No! This has nothing to do with publicity. God!” Her expression morphed into horror genuine enough that I knew she wasn’t faking.
“So what’s the deal?”
She swallowed and her gaze slid away. Clear guilt and embarrassment. The girl carried her emotions on her sleeve, and part of me wanted to make this easier for her. It’s not like I enjoyed embarrassing pretty girls, but the Bobcats took publicity very seriously. And I’d just been chewed out by team owner Joe Deluce about how my playboy ways were unacceptable. I had to cool my bad-boy antics. Which meant I couldn’t afford to go out there not knowing what was going on.
“You were supposed to reject me,” she said in a low moan.
“You said that before. It still doesn’t make any sense.”
She huffed out a breath, making her breasts bounce in a really distracting way. Then she glared at me as if it were my fault. “I was trying to get rejected. Rachel thought if I made it clear there’d be no sex, you’d turn me down flat.”
Okay, so now my eyes were on her face. Well, her mouth specifically, but that didn’t help me process her words. “You thought I’d say no?” To going out with a beautiful woman? While in front of the girl’s parents and the guys? Was she crazy?
“Well, nicely, of course. I, um, thought you’d say you were tired after a game or something like that.”
“Keyed up.”
“What?”
“After a game. I’m usually physically tired, but emotionally keyed up. Almost hyper.”
She blinked. Long lashes, soft brown eyes. I knew from yesterday that when the sun caught the irises just right, her eyes shimmered w
ith gold.
“Oh,” she said.
Right. I took a deep breath and tried to figure this out. It didn’t work. “So why are you trying to get rejected?”
“Because I’m a wuss. It’s, um, exposure therapy.”
I started to put the pieces together. “Exposure to being rejected.”
“Or, um, humiliated. Like if you’d laughed in my face or something. If I didn’t die from embarrassment—”
“It would be easier to get rejected the next time? That’s like saying you should bang your head against the wall because it will feel good when you stop.”
Her mouth tightened a bit as she processed that. Then she squared her shoulders. Uh-oh. Fighting stance. “Look, there’s no way you can understand this, but some of us struggle to be strong. To, you know, speak up and stuff. I’m trying to find my voice. And realizing that rejection doesn’t kill anyone is part of the process.”
“So you go around asking celebrities out, just so they’ll say no?”
She flushed and looked away. “That was Rachel’s idea.”
“Oh no.” I grabbed her chin lightly and tugged her gaze back to mine. “You did it, not her. Tell me why.”
“Because you were supposed to turn me down.” Her voice came out as a breathy whisper, and her eyes were huge, liquid pools. She was just so damn beautiful that it hurt a little to look straight at her. Sure, the media machine always had me with dramatic women. Flashy, sequined bodies with wild makeup and very short skirts. But that’s because those were the baseball babes who strutted around the media circus. They were easy, and they never wanted anything more than their picture in the paper and maybe a night of sexual antics. My fantasy women always had big, honest eyes and freckles on an apple-pie face. And a mouth that was plump and tasty.
And then…hell…I took a whiff. Jesus, could she get any more perfect?
“Are you wearing apple perfume?”
“What? No. Chanel or Burberry or something. Rachel had it.”
“I smell apples.”
Her mouth dropped open in shock. And there I was staring at that lush, wet center and thinking filthy thoughts.
“It’s my lip gloss,” she said. “Apple strudel.”
