Extra Innings and In His Wildest Dreams

by Debbi Rawlins

  Her gaze narrowed. “Uh, gee, thanks.”

  “It was a compliment.”

  “You know what?” Pausing, she pursed those perfect lips, then slightly shook her head as if she’d reconsidered voicing her thoughts. “It’s okay that you don’t remember me. That was a long time ago, and frankly, most of it I’d rather forget.”

  He snorted, understanding completely. Man, high school had been heaven and hell for him, worse than grade school by a mile. He’d been so humiliated that he couldn’t read at the level of everyone else, but then he’d become a baseball sensation, and no one seemed to notice that he could barely get through Dick and Jane. “Does Lester finally have a middle school?”

  She frowned. “I’m not sure, but I think seventh graders move to the high school.”

  “Yeah, I guess the town is still too small to separate the two.” He would have benefited from a few more years of smaller classes, but he shouldn’t complain. Especially not if his weird path led him to a Major League contract. “When did your family move to the area?”

  “When I was a freshman.”

  “I bet you aced every class.”

  Beth studied him with those serious blue eyes, and it hit him that the glasses were gone. Oversize and round, they’d made her look so studious. “I’m not writing for the school paper anymore,” she said. “I really need this interview to be good. I’d appreciate it if you’d stop wasting my time. You jerking me around just means I’ll have less time to spend writing the article, which won’t do you any favors.”

  “I’m not jerking you around.” He knew she was right, that he was avoiding her questions, but at the moment, he didn’t care. He was far more interested in Beth than he was in his pathetic story. “I don’t get it. Why would you need this interview? If anything I would’ve thought an assignment like this would be beneath you.”

  Clearly surprised, she lowered the notebook. “Why?”

  “You’re too smart. Not just to be working for a small-town paper, but to be doing a story on me? That doesn’t make sense.”

  Her brows drew together in a thoughtful frown. “I agree, but I don’t understand how you came to that conclusion.”

  Her lack of humility made him smile. “Weren’t you voted most likely to succeed?”

  “I was,” she said slowly. “I can’t believe you know that.”

  “Told you I remembered you.”

  Groaning, she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

  “What?”

  “Amazing that after ten years I can still be embarrassed.”

  “About?”

  She drew in a deep breath, her shoulders hunching slightly. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

  “I guess so since I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The picture,” she said. “Of us. Well, not us…obviously it was done with Photoshop. But I swear I don’t know who did it.”

  Dylan knew exactly what she was talking about now. He shook his head and frowned. “Oh, that. It was Mark Custer.”

  “Mark Custer,” she repeated softly, looking as confused as if someone had told her the sky was yellow. “Sounds familiar— Wasn’t he on the baseball team with you?”

  “Yep, if Coach hadn’t stepped in, I would’ve given the dumb ass a black eye for pulling that stunt.”

  “I thought for sure it was one of my friends. But why would Mark do that…” Her voice trailed off, and something that looked suspiciously like humiliation flashed in her eyes. Her cheeks turning pink, she abruptly got to her feet.

  Dylan grabbed her arm. “Beth, wait. I think you have the wrong idea.”

  Her smile seemed strained. “Hey, it was ten years ago. I’m sure everyone had a good laugh. No big deal. I’m going to peek outside and see if it’s still raining.”

  “Let’s just go.” He released her when she pointedly eyed his hand. “After we get back to the hotel and changed, we’ll have a nice dinner, and then you can use that recorder of yours.”

  She didn’t respond for a minute, probably thinking he had some other distraction in mind. Then she nodded. “Sure, I’ll take a pity interview.”

  “It wasn’t what you think.” Sighing, he jumped to his feet and followed her when she wasted no time in heading through the gym toward the front door. Mark’s stupid stunt had been about Dylan, not her. But it apparently still bothered her and he’d have to explain.

  He dropped the towels off at the counter, pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit the number for a cab company as he pushed open the metal door. She’d already stepped outside and was huddled against the building, her blazer once again pulled up over her head to ward off the light drizzle. Damn, she had a beautiful body.

  He hadn’t remembered that part. But of course a lot of the girls, mainly cheerleaders, who’d hung around the jocks had killer bodies. Beth’s smarts had been what he’d admired about her. Back then, she’d represented everything he could never be. But then he’d seen her courage, standing up to the bullies and idiots at their small school, and he’d admired that even more. Still did.

  She had to have known he wasn’t going to be an easy interview, yet she hadn’t tried to trade on their past or flirt her way to getting him to talk. Nah, that wasn’t Beth’s style.

  “We could wait inside where it’s dry,” he suggested, watching her nose wrinkle when raindrops caught on her lashes.

  She blinked away the drops and peered down the empty street. “Guess we have to call for a cab, huh?”

  “Already done.”

  “Ah. Good. Thanks.” She met his gaze. “You’re getting wet,” she murmured. “Go inside. I’ll let you know when the cab gets here.”

  “Or you could move over.”

  “Right.” She shrank back, casting a doubtful look at the grimy graffiti-laced wall.

  “Tell you what…” He took her by the shoulders, then wedged himself between her and the offending brick. “Here, so you don’t get wet.” He put an arm around her and drew her back against his chest.

  He could feel her exhale. “Um, awkward,” she muttered.

  “You’d rather get wet?”

  “I can wait inside.”

  “Relax, Beth,” he whispered against her hair. “The night’s just beginning. I’m not going to do anything…not entirely kosher.”

  She tilted her head a bit, exposing more of her slender neck. “Good,” she said, her voice barely audible above the dripping rain.

  He smiled. “I’ll leave that to you.”

  5

  ELIZABETH WASN’T AN indecisive woman, nor was she someone who hesitated. Especially when the only appropriate reaction was to step away, wait inside until the cab arrived. But Dylan’s chest was solid and warm against her back, his arms strong and protective crossed under her breasts and cocooning her from the raindrops bouncing off the eaves and splattering the pavement.

  His breath stirred her hair, the moist heat finding the sensitive skin at her nape. She shivered, cursing herself for being a complete fool. Knowing it would make a bad situation worse, she touched the ridge of muscle running along his forearm, allowed herself one more brief moment of insanity, then pushed out from between his arms.

  “I’ll be just inside the door,” she said. “Give me a heads-up when you see the taxi come around the corner.”

  “I think that’s it now.” He gestured with his chin, his stubbly jaw catching her hair.

  “Great.” Several fat raindrops hit her cheek.

  Dylan pulled her back against his chest. “No point in getting wet now,” he said, his hands wrapped around her upper arms, his knuckles grazing the sides of her breasts.

  To resist would only make things worse, she told herself. He was playing her, trying to make her lose her focus on the interview. But she was on to him, so his nearness shouldn’t matter. Except it did.

  She was supposed to be a professional; hadn’t she already derailed her career because of a man?

  The cab pulled up a couple of feet away a
nd she broke for the passenger door. Dylan was right behind her, forcing her to scoot her butt to the other side.

  He gave the driver the name of their hotel and then smiled at her.

  “I’ve never worked so hard for an interview in my entire life,” she said, self-consciously touching her wet cheek, because he was still smiling, and she had the distinct feeling his amusement was aimed at something very specific.

  “Hope it’s worth it.”

  “Really?” She sighed. “You’re still going to give me a hard time?”

  “Nope. I’m gonna make you an offer.”

  “Another one?” She gestured impatiently when he took too long. Impatience wasn’t even close to what she was feeling. She had to stop letting his teasing get to her. Twenty-six was far too old to let hormones and fantasies twist her into a pretzel. If he’d been anyone else, she’d have ignored his tactics completely. “What?”

  “For every question you ask me, I get to ask you one.”

  That startled a laugh out of her. “Trust me, I’m not that interesting.”

  “I’d like to find out. Come on, it’s not that much to ask for.”

  “You do understand that this interview could be good for your career, right? That the more fans who get invested in you making the team, the more negotiating room you have.”

  His grin faltered. “Fans are great, but they don’t make the decisions, not this decision. If I get called up, it’ll be on merit, nothing else.”

  “The interview won’t hurt.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Unless you’ve got something really ugly in your past. But I know that can’t be true.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve met you.”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t said I won’t give you the interview. But I need something in return. So. Question for question, how about it?”

  “How about I get five questions to your one.”

  “Three and we have a deal.” He extended his hand as though this was his final offer, the glittering challenge in his eyes daring her to refuse.

  Grudgingly she pressed her palm to his. “This will only be effective if you give me straight, honest answers,” she said, wondering how a simple handshake could make her arm tingle all the way to her shoulder.

  He squeezed lightly. “That goes both ways, Beth.” His gaze fell to her lips. Abruptly he released her hand, before shifting his attention to the watery scene outside his window.

  ELIZABETH TOWEL-DRIED her hair, then stared at her reflection in the mirror with disgust. Her sleek grown-up hairstyle had been replaced by an unruly mass of loopy curls. No wonder Dylan had recognized her. Normally taking a flat iron to it each morning did the trick for the day, but her diligence had been no match for the rain, heat and humidity.

  She checked her watch. They were supposed to meet in ten minutes. If she wanted to fix her hair, ten minutes wouldn’t be nearly enough time. So what was more important, her vanity or the interview? He’d already seen her with her hair pulled back—what was the difference?

  She grabbed a handful of curls and twisted it high on her head, securing it with the ugly brown clip she used to keep her hair back while she washed her face. She angled her chin to check out the result in the mirror. The finished product wasn’t pretty, but maybe that was a good thing. This wasn’t a date.

  Her gaze shifted to her eyes. What was the deal with her reaction to this guy? She understood what he was trying to do, and still she nearly came unglued every time he touched her. Good God in heaven, just thinking about his arms wrapped around her as they waited for the cab made her entire body flush. Talk about inappropriate. It had stopped being about the rain after the first three seconds. And what had she done? Stood there and lapped up the attention because he was Dylan Andrews, for heaven’s sake—only better. Much better. She’d been prepared for him to laugh at her, not whisper into the shell of her ear, not press his body against hers so she could feel his cock swell.

  She heard the knock. Dylan? No, they were supposed to meet in the lobby. From the closet she grabbed a green silk blouse and slipped into it while she checked through the peephole. It was him, wearing a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled back on his tan forearms, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his khakis. How could he look so hot? It didn’t seem fair.

  She still hadn’t finished applying her makeup. Reluctantly she opened the door.

  “Yeah, I know I should’ve called first but meeting in the lobby is no good.” He hesitated at the doorway, casting a glance down the hall. “May I come in?”

  “Sure.” She moved back, wishing she’d told him to wait in his own room until she was ready, but he seemed out of sorts. “What’s wrong?”

  “The whole team seems to have congregated in the bar and lobby.” He exhaled, pushing a hand through his short wavy hair. “Some fans are hanging around, a couple of local reporters. I really don’t wanna deal with all that.”

  Reporters? Dylan was the player most likely headed to the Majors and the one they’d want to talk to. Damn if she’d let anyone scoop her. “How about we have a pizza delivered here?”

  He took in her tan linen slacks, then her blouse, and his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Sorry I rushed you.”

  She glanced down to see what had caught his attention. Only three buttons were fastened, all of them slipped through the wrong hole. It wouldn’t have been a big deal except half her black lacy bra was showing.

  She promptly gave him her back while she made the necessary repairs, though he’d already moved to the window.

  “I’d planned on feeding you something better than pizza.” With one hand, he parted the curtains and peered outside.

  The only view from her room was the parking lot. She spotted her Homer Simpson nightshirt in a heap at the foot of the bed and snatched it up. “I’m buying, and pizza is fine with me. There’s a flyer near the phone if you don’t mind calling it in. I like everything but anchovies and onions.”

  She didn’t wait for his answer, but returned to the bathroom and promptly closed the door. She went light on the makeup, trying to hurry and hoping she hadn’t left out anything near her laptop that she didn’t want him to see.

  When she came out, her laptop was exactly as she’d left it, and he was sitting in the only chair, flipping through TV channels, the sound on mute. He seemed so relaxed and at home among her things that it threw her off a bit.

  He looked over at her and smiled. “If you’re not too hungry we can wait a while and go out later.”

  It was just a polite smile for heaven’s sake, so why the hell was her pulse zinging? “You don’t like pizza?”

  “I do. But you look so nice I figured we should go out.”

  “Nice?” She laughed, and touched her hair. Oh, God, her curly, messy mop.

  “Like I said, I like your hair curly.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered, not believing him for a second. “I’d rather get started on the interview than go out to eat.”

  “Right.” The smile was gone and he rubbed his eyes. “I don’t suppose you’d skip the recorder.”

  “It’s a lot easier for me, but that doesn’t mean every word will make it to print.”

  “What if I write the article for you? That would make it real easy.”

  Elizabeth grinned and reached for the recorder and notebook sitting on the table. “Not that I don’t appreciate the generous and completely altruistic offer, but I’m going to pass.”

  He shrugged, acknowledging how lame that try had been, as he got to his feet to offer the sole chair to her.

  “Stay. I’ll take the bed.” She perched on the edge, stacking the pillows behind her, and then flipped on the recorder. “Interview with Dylan Andrews.” She added, “Tape one,” and ignored his snort. “Let’s start at the beginning. How old were you when you first knew you wanted a career in baseball?”

  “I’d say three or four.”

  She waited a few seconds for him to elaborate. “Becaus
e?”

  “I liked baseball.”

  “As did most of the kids in your neighborhood, I’m guessing,” she said with as much patience as she could muster. “They didn’t all end up professional players.”

  “I was lucky.”

  “Not just luck. You had to work hard to get where you are.”

  He shrugged, his gaze going back to the muted television.

  She stared at his profile, the long straight nose, the chiseled jawline, his stubborn silence gnawing at her hope for a good story. Good-looking and oh, so talented. No doubt he’d gotten away with murder most of his life. She remembered how even the teachers had treated him like a celebrity back in high school. If he didn’t cooperate with her, there’d be nothing she could do about it.

  “Throwing and catching a ball was easy,” he said finally. “School was hard.”

  His voice was so low she barely heard him. Certainly too low for the recorder to pick up, though Elizabeth was unlikely to forget his admission. Already he looked uneasy about sharing. Which didn’t make sense.

  “But you did all right.” She had no idea if that was true, but he’d graduated on time so it was a valid assumption.

  He moved a shoulder. “I struggled, even with a tutor.” He looked over at her then, his lips twitching into a smile. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Statements count as questions. My turn.”

  She started to tell him what she thought of that crap, but then quickly reconsidered. He’d actually given her something—more, she suspected, than he’d given any other reporter. Not that she could make much sense of it…yet. “Okay, shoot.”

  He turned away from the television and gave her his full attention. “Why aren’t you further up the food chain? You’re too smart and ambitious to be working for a small-town paper.”

  “Wow, you go right for the jugular.”

  He frowned, seeming surprised. “Didn’t mean to.”

  She breathed in deeply, not sure how much honesty was too much. “I was doing pretty well in Indianapolis, and then I met this guy.” She remembered the recorder and quickly switched it off.