by Cindi Madsen
I circled the room again and found myself back in front of the Pride and Prejudice–esque painting. Once in a while, I wondered if finding your match was easier back then. You pretty much had to find someone who lived near you, considering the lack of planes, trains, and automobiles.
I guess we’ve got one up on them there. We’ve got more opportunities to meet people.
Maybe all those extra choices only made it harder to narrow down, though. Made people think they should see if something better was out there, even when they already had something good.
While we certainly had a lot more to sort out in the modern world, I couldn’t say they had it better in the past, especially women, who could basically get married or become spinsters, governesses, or ladies of the night. Perspective was as important in dating as it was in art.
“I’m almost afraid to approach you while you’re in front of this painting now, but it didn’t look like you were moving anytime soon. You realize this isn’t the cat picture, right?”
I glanced over my shoulder at Linc. “I told you that I don’t know much about art.”
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Did you do all the research you needed to?”
“I think so. It seems most of the available men here are artists, with the exception of one older art collector who told me he’d be happy to show me his personal collection. I’m not sure it’s high on my list of where to meet singles—for women anyway. You seemed to fare better.”
“I think more females come with friends than males, yes. Probably not many that are my type, but if you wanted to write a men’s magazine article, I suppose it’d be a good option. Then maybe more single men would come, and your clients would have better success.”
“I guess that’s the secret. Skew all men’s magazines and dating articles—it’s genius, really.” I set my empty glass on a tray as a waiter walked past. “I thought your type was females in general.”
“Maybe I’ve changed,” he said smoothly, no hint of offense.
“People don’t change.”
“Then why do you bother teaching workshops and coaching your clients?”
I opened my mouth and snapped it closed. After a few seconds, I recovered. “Okay, some people can, but it takes time and a lot of steps. It’s the three C’s. Choice, chance, change. You have to make the choice to take the chance, if you want anything to change.”
“Sounds like the steps I took that brought me back to Atlanta,” he said. Which was nice and all, but not reading more into comments like that was one of the steps I took to get me to where I was.
Besides, he was talking about his life in general, not his love life. And since we were friends, not taking a conversation about relationships seriously didn’t make a difference to me. I just felt sorry for the next girl who unwittingly fell for him.
Linc leaned in and I knew I should step back, yet my feet didn’t seem to be working right. “I’m afraid the time has come to make you pay for those earlier slams on baseball,” he said. “You didn’t think those would go unanswered, did you?”
Before I could reply, he grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the exit.
Chapter Eight
“This is a bad idea,” I said as I stared into the eye of the machine that looked like it had evil intentions, plastic or not. “I’m in a dress and heels.”
“According to you, that’s about the same as a baseball uniform,” Linc said from his safe spot on the other side of the fence. “You claim baseball is so predictable, and I figured the best way to settle this debate was with a demonstration.”
“I said the movies were predictable. Not playing baseball.”
“Well, I’ve been wanting to come check this place out anyway, and like I said earlier, you make things more fun. Now, think of your heels like cleats.”
Gripping the rubber handle of the metal bat, I scooted forward to the batter’s spot—whatever it was called—and blinked, afraid to fully close or open my eyes. I’d thought Linc would tease me, or… Or I don’t know what, but I certainly didn’t expect to be standing in a batting cage.
A loud pop sounded, and then the ball flew at me. I swung too early and missed, the plastic helmet wobbling on my head, which made me worry it’d fall off. Protecting my brain was nice and all, but I was thinking the situation called for full body armor.
I swung too late on the next one.
“Your form’s actually not too bad,” Linc ever so helpfully commented.
“They’re coming so—” I swung as another came at me and I actually caught part of it, hitting it into the left side of the fence.
“That was a bit too late.” The screech of metal against metal accompanied the rattling of the chain-link fence. Then Linc was inside, even though there was a sign at the entrance that screamed only one person at a time in large, red font.
“Is this where you demand I admit defeat?” I jumped back as another ball whizzed by.
“This is where I help.”
“Ah, the classic smooth guy move.” It won’t work on me, buddy. I’ve got my screen up.
“In your case, it’s more of a necessity.”
I expected another ball, but it didn’t come. Guess I used up my last few pitches talking instead of hitting.
“Okay, stand how you were,” Linc said.
I lifted the bat and moved into position as instructed.
“Lift up your arm, elbow high.” He tapped my right elbow up so that it was squared. “Watch the ball.” He turned my chin toward the pitching machine. “And when you swing, put your hips into it.” He gripped my hips and swiveled me using his strong hands, and a traitorous dart of heat shot through my core.
My screen wasn’t nearly as effective when his hands were on me, so I should avoid that in the future, but for now… Well, how could I learn if I didn’t have some hands-on instruction, right?
He had me do a few more practice swings and then fed another token into the machine. I thought he’d leave me to swing alone, but he wrapped himself around me, his hands right below mine, his squared arm propping up mine, and his firm chest pressed tight to my back. “Just before it gets here…”
The loud pop of the pitching machine sounded. Trying to keep everything he’d told me in mind, I swung with him, hip swivel and all. The ball hit the end of the bat with a metallic crack and soared to the far end of the cage, smacking the center before rolling down.
“Okay, that was pretty awesome, and I’ll admit, hitting the ball is harder than it looks. But I still don’t see how this proves silky pantaloons aren’t like baseball uniforms,” I said, and he shook his head, his warm exhale of breath skating across my cheek.
We hit the next pitch together, and then he let go of the bat and stepped back. I focused on the ball and mimicked the way he’d swung with me. While the crack wasn’t as loud, the ball hit fairly center, and it was surprisingly satisfying.
I dropped the bat and jumped around, being obnoxiously showy—if it were a game, I’d be called for unsportsmanlike conduct for sure.
Linc lunged at me. At first I thought he was going to tackle me, and my brain couldn’t quite compute why he’d do that, but instead he grabbed my arm and yanked me to him.
Right as a ball whizzed past, so close it stirred my hair.
My heart pounded, getting the idea way too late that I’d nearly been knocked out by a speeding baseball. “Guess that’s why you don’t dance around home plate.”
“It is frowned upon,” Linc said with a smile. “At least until after you’ve made a homerun. To be fair, though, the pitcher doesn’t usually keep on throwing.”
The heat coming from his body seeped into me, and my heart switched its pace, quickening for a different reason. I released the iron grip I had on Linc’s arms and stepped away, making sure to go to the corner away from the batting square. “I think I’ve done enough damage. Time for you to show me how it’s done.”
He handed me a token. “Crank it all the way up.”
“Ar
e you sure?”
“I’m used to hitting faster balls than it can pitch. Seventy miles per hour will feel like I’m playing with my grandma.”
I’d been on forty, so I wasn’t sure how I felt about that comparison. I moved to the other side of the fence and watched as he hit ball after ball. When the last ball hit the back, he lowered the bat.
“Show off,” I said, and he grinned. “For the record, though, baseball pants are much more manly than pantaloons.” Plus they did nice things for Linc’s butt—I remembered that much, even if I’d never admit to spending so much time in college admiring that fact. Of course, considering the exceedingly snug nature of pantaloons, the same could probably be said of them.
We turned in our helmets, and as we headed to the parking lot, I decided to broach the subject of his former career. “What exactly happened with the baseball thing? You said you threw out your arm?”
Judging from the way he hit the ball, he seemed fine to me.
“Yeah, I tore a ligament.” He reached up and massaged his right arm, just above the elbow, although it seemed to be more out of habit than current pain. “I should’ve told Coach to pull me, but I’d had some bad games right before that, so the pressure was on to perform, and I was finally on a hot streak. I could feel myself fatiguing…” A solemn expression overcame his features, so opposite of his usual light manner. “I’d already pulled it once in high school because the coach was pushing me to throw my curveball, and that week I’d been hitting the weights hard and trying to show off my range so I’d have a shot to move up to the majors. Pretty much it was just the perfect storm of overworking it and stupidity, and when I felt the snap, I knew something had gone horribly wrong.”
I winced, a sympathy twinge going through my arm.
He stuck his hands in his pockets, his posture forcefully casual. “I had Tommy John surgery to repair it—it’s something a lot of pitchers undergo, and several have gone on to have successful pitching careers.”
The defeated way he said it let me know he didn’t think he’d be one of those people. “Maybe in time…”
“I did the rehab and sat around not being able to play for a year, and it was torture. Even when I got the green light to play, I just couldn’t get back to where I was, and that was a new form of torture. I can throw seventy—even eighty if I really push—but I pay for it if I go too long.” He paused next to the passenger side of his car and braced his hand against the top of the frame.
“You couldn’t play another position?” I had the urge to reach out and squeeze his shoulder to give him some kind of comfort, so instead of over thinking it, I went for it. “You can obviously bat and catch.”
“They signed me as a pitcher, and it’s what I’ve trained for all my life. Switching positions doesn’t happen a lot at that level, although I might’ve been able to swing it. As much as I loved it, though, it’s not like minor league baseball is a very lucrative career. Plus I’m not good at holding back, and every position requires some level of throwing. I know if I kept on pushing, I’d end up needing another surgery and losing even more use of my arm. I probably would risk it for the majors, but for minors…” He shrugged. “So I decided it was time to switch it up.”
“New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.”
Linc’s brow crinkled as he stared at me.
“It’s a fairly well-known quote,” I added. “By Lao Tzu.”
“Oh, of course. Good ol’ Lao. How is he these days?”
I tilted my head. “You know what I’m trying to say.”
“I do. I wish I could say it made me feel better.” He reached for the passenger door of his car and held it open for me.
“Once you find what you want to do, maybe it will.”
“Maybe,” he said.
Traffic in Atlanta could be horrendous, but this Thursday night it was fairly light considering, and we made it to my place in record time. When I turned to say I had a good time, I realized how true it was. In fact, it’d been a while since I’d had such a fun evening.
“Thanks for going with me tonight.” Part of me wanted to tell him I was glad we were friends again, but I worried it’d be too easy to slip into the past version of myself with him if I didn’t keep firm boundaries, so I held back.
“Sure thing. What’s next on the list?”
“Um, I’m not sure. I’m going to a jazz show tomorrow with that Andrew guy I met at Azure, so I’ll try to check that out the best I can without really talking to single guys.”
“What about Saturday?”
“That’s when I teach my workshop.”
“You should come by the bar afterward,” Linc said. “Help my shift go faster.”
“I’m sure you’ll be busy enough serving drinks to make it go by quickly. I’ll be there on Sunday, though. I’m meeting this guy there for drinks.”
“Wow. You’re booked all weekend, aren’t you?”
“It’s not like I’ve got a string of guys. This weekend just happens to be a busy one. I’m dating. It’s a thing single people do. And I haven’t done it for a while, so I’m catching up.” And I don’t know why I gave you that much info or why I’m defending myself, when I’ve got nothing to defend myself over. “Anyway, thanks again for going with me to the art show, and the batting cages were fun. I’ll, uh, see you later.”
“Later, Savannah Gamble,” he said, and I froze partway out the door, the deep timbre of his voice echoing through me. It’d probably make me look crazy if I asked him to refrain from saying my full name like that, right?
Chapter Nine
The doorbell rang, interrupting my online hunt for the best cuts and styles for Abigail’s curly hair. My limbs tingled as I got up, signaling I’d been seated for way too long. Even though I didn’t have plans to go out until later, I’d put on jeans and done my makeup, so I felt like it’d been a pretty rock star day already.
My brother stood on the other side of the peephole. I opened the door and swung it wide. “Come on in.”
Jackson strode inside, toolbox in hand. Whereas I was about average height, Jackson cleared six feet with a few inches to spare, and had been one of the linebackers for the football team in high school. It’d been a while since I’d been around him without heels on, and I suddenly felt short.
“Ma and Aunt Velma are worried,” he said without preamble. “They demanded I make sure you were okay. In person, because my ‘she’s fine’ only got me the Come to Jesus Speech about how we take care of our family, good and bad, rain or shine.”
“Since I’m familiar with that speech—as well as the first-class, no-expense-spared guilt trip the two of them like to send their family members on—the in-person visit makes sense. But I’m trying to figure out why you thought you needed to bring your tools.”
“I’ll probably need a miracle just to get you to a place I can call okay, but sometimes you’ve gotta use what you got.”
I smacked his arm with an offended “Hey!” He laughed and set his toolbox on the counter with a heavy thunk that made whatever tools he had inside clang against each other.
“I had it in the back of my truck, so I figured I might as well see if anything in the loft needed fixing while I was here. Kill two birds with one stone and all that.”
“Well, you can tell the Nosy Nellys I’m fine. Not sure why they’d be so worried.”
“Really?” Jackson squared off in front of me and crossed his arms. “You missed Sunday dinner. Count yourself lucky that they sent me instead of showing up and ambushing you themselves.”
I threw my head back and released an exasperated sigh. “I was busy. I know they don’t think that’s an acceptable excuse, but I do work. I’m fine and moving on, too, just like they keep not-so-subtly hinting I should do. I’ve got two dates scheduled for this weekend—only don’t tell them that, because they’ll probably say a proper lady wouldn’t date two guys at once. Just say I’m dating again.”
“Taking a cue from your man-eating frien
d, Ivy?”
“Be nice,” I said, adding a finger-point for emphasis, then quickly retracted it when I realized it was a total Mama move. Jackson and Ivy had an interesting dynamic. At first I was scared they’d date and it’d be a disaster, because neither one of them were great at relationships, but instead they alternated between making eyes at and verbally jabbing each other. “In fact, if you want to help someone, Ivy’s looking for help painting her place. We could all pitch in and—”
“Not gonna happen. I stay far, far away from the succubus type now.”
Apparently he and I had different definitions of the word “nice.” I knew he wasn’t thinking of Ivy, so much as the last woman he’d dated. She ended up being straightjacket crazy. Like she’d flirt with another guy in front of Jackson to try to make him jealous, then go into hysterics when he walked away instead of fighting the dude. Then she’d call and cry and beg him to take her back and the cycle would repeat. After their last big—and thankfully final—blowout, he’d sworn off women with strong personalities and dated sweet, un-opinionated ones he quickly grew tired of.
“So? What’s broken?” He gestured around the room, basically telling me to give him a list of things to do. As a contractor who’d recently started his own business, he knew how to fix everything when it came to home repairs, and I suspected that side of him was why he’d always chosen broken women. I didn’t say that aloud, though, because the one time I dared to talk about his dating life, he got mad at me for trying to psychoanalyze him. Told me he wasn’t a client and never would be, thank-you-very-much.
I glanced around my place, doing a quick inventory. I could do most of the minor repairs if I got motivated enough, but he could do them way faster, without having to consult Google first, and let’s face it, I’d never be that motivated about home repair.
“The icemaker in the fridge doesn’t work right, and I know it’s not a big deal, but it’s annoying. I have to feed my bathroom sink Drano on a regular basis or it takes two years to drain. Oh, and the cupboard with my cups is also about to lose the door, because the screw at the top is loose—I just know it’s going to fall and smack me in the face someday.”
