Caught Looking (Dating Mr. Baseball Book 2)

by Lucy McConnell

  It wasn’t until she was drowsing in the passenger seat on the ride home that her brain finally shook the befuddlement caused by Dustin Colt, and she had the perfect comeback.

  Next time, she promised herself. I’ll get him next time.

  Chapter Four

  Dustin ducked into the team meeting right before the doors closed. He could feel Coach Wolfe’s eyes on him and worked to keep his poker face. A roster’s worth of guys had commented about Dustin’s new look. Every. Guy. He had been razzed to within an inch of his life in the parking lot by Ricky and Joe. Once inside, his bare chin became the hot topic. A man had to have thick skin to play this game.

  He’d taken it all in stride—even the jokes about being a mama’s boy and a whipped pup in love with a new woman. While a certain woman may have been the initial motivation, she wasn’t the reason. Wanting to impress Coach Wolfe, who was clean shaven, was the real reason he’d made a drastic improvement. With Wolfe’s eyes boring into his head, he kept his face passive. He couldn’t let the coach know that he’d gotten inside his head.

  He searched for a seat, and had a whole team staring at him like he was an alien in their midst. Their teasing was getting on his nerves. They had more important things to do than discuss his face. “What?”

  “Moonlighting much?” asked Juan Castillo, right fielder.

  Dustin froze, wondering if he had Sheetrock dust on his black T-shirt. “What makes you say that?”

  “You’ve got Extreme Makeover, MLB edition written all over your face.”

  The guys chuckled or threw pens and gum wrappers at Juan for his lame joke.

  Dustin relaxed. “They wanted you, but I told them there was no pretty under your mane.” He jerked his chin toward Juan.

  Juan ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, pausing to hold the pose he’d done for an underwear commercial. “That’s not what the ladies tell me.”

  A.J. Peck smacked the back of Juan’s head amidst groans from the other players. Dustin took a seat near the back by Brayden. They exchanged “Sups?” and chin jerks. Brayden’s girlfriend, Tilly, had met them at the club the other night. She admitted that clubs weren’t her scene, so they ended up getting last-minute tickets to Cirque du Soleil’s Michael Jackson performance. Tilly was big into rock climbing, working as a guide in Snow Canyon and other areas in Utah, so she had a whole different outlook on the trapeze and how much time and control it took to do the stunts.

  Coach Wolfe called them to order. “Before we prep for the Marlins, Sheila needs a minute.” He motioned to the perky PR representative. She got to her feet, smoothing out her long, platinum hair and pressing her red lips together. Several of the guys let their eyes dance across her trim figure.

  Dustin closed his eyes, bringing up the image of the mystery woman from Saturday night. She’d been through a thorough spit and polish. Instead of her hair being up in a ponytail, it was smooth and shiny and moved like liquid. He could easily imagine it falling across his chest as she lay in his arms. Her olive skin was soft and luxurious. It was all he could do not to brush his fingers up her bare arm as he stared into her deep, golden eyes.

  “… promoting goodwill in the local community …” Sheila’s throaty voice and a nudge from Brayden brought Dustin out of his daydream. He did a lot of daydreaming about his Essentials Girl—too much. He needed to keep his head in the game.

  One thing was certain: Gary Betts would love to take Dustin’s place on the field. The guy warmed the bench during games, and he was hungry for a chance at shortstop. Not only was his replacement nipping at his cleats; Dustin’s batting average was down. He’d been bumped to ninth in the lineup and wasn’t happy about it. Not that he could blame Coach; his performance at the plate was the worst it had been since high school. Dustin didn’t have anything against Gary, but he would do everything in his power to keep him on the bench—including banishing a vixen from his head.

  He tuned in to what was going on around him and noticed the owner, Harper Wolfe—daughter of previous owner, Jack Richmons—step into the room. Harper was married to Coach Wolfe. The two seemed like a good match, but it couldn’t be easy working and living together. Of course, Mrs. Wolfe was more involved with the day-to-day management of the team than most owners, but her father had set the example as owner before his death. Mrs. Wolfe hung back, observing.

  “Put your name on three lines,” Sheila continued. “You can choose three different charities or spend all three volunteer opportunities at the same one.” She handed the clipboard and signup sheet to the nearest player. Dustin scowled. Sitting in the back was a mistake. He’d be lucky not to get the assignment to scrape gum off the stadium seats.

  “What if I don’t want to volunteer?” asked relief pitcher Turk Smith.

  Coach Wolfe stood. “Community involvement is our new mission. You can expect these opportunities—” He leveled Smith with a “don’t challenge me” look. “—to continue throughout your time with the Redrocks. I will excuse you from pregame on the days you volunteer. If your performance on the field suffers, you’ll start postgame workouts to make up the time. As long as you play well and show up to your assignments, I’ll be happy.”

  A low grumble buzzed through the room. Dustin added to the noise. How was he supposed to volunteer, play baseball, and help his brother run a business?

  Sheila laced her shaking fingers together in front of her. Someone ought to give this woman a lesson about on-field composure. Dustin had noticed her weakness—all of them noticed—and some of the guys would pounce. “A photographer will accompany you to your chosen venue, and we’ll be using the photos in news releases and on social media.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work,” groused Smith.

  “Don’t worry,” called Mrs. Wolfe from behind Dustin. The sound of heads whipping toward the back of the room caused a hush over the team as they all looked at the woman who signed their paychecks. “We won’t ask you to write the news stories. All you have to do is show up and look happy about it.”

  Now there was a woman who knew how to keep her composure on the field. She met each challenging gaze with a slight lift of her eyebrow. The gesture was akin to a batter winking at the pitcher—begging him to throw his best stuff.

  Sufficiently subdued, knowing this scheme was backed at the highest level, the guys passed the signup sheet around quickly. Brayden signed his name and handed it to Dustin with a smirk.

  Dustin braced himself to see what was left. There was one slot at the elementary school to talk about healthy living. That was fine. Kids were enthusiastic and easy to entertain. The other two open lines were under the local food pantry, the same one he’d been invited to visit as a patron. His mouth went dry—the taste of irony bitter on his tongue.

  “Are you kidding me?” Dustin muttered.

  Brayden leaned closer so he could talk without disrupting the last of Sheila’s spiel. “You going to buy them twenty dinners too?” He smirked.

  Dustin shook his head. He’d been so embarrassed when he walked into the club and saw the woman who had mistaken him for a homeless man that he’d puffed himself up like a grizzly bear on the attack. He needed to save face and embarrass her as much as she’d embarrassed him. The idea to flood her table with food had come quickly, and he’d acted before thinking things through. Looking back on the night, he regretted his rash behavior. “Shut up.”

  Brayden leaned against the chair, kicking one leg out in front of him. “Have you seen her?” he asked out of the side of his mouth.

  “Who?” Dustin wrote his name under The Pantry, filling out his required three slots. Good thing he already had the address.

  “The girl—she was fine.”

  Dustin had noticed her graceful arms and silky skin, but he didn’t like knowing Brayden had noticed too. He ground his teeth. “Haven’t seen her.”

  “Maybe she’ll be at the shelter.”

  Sheila handed the floor back to Coach. She made her way to Dustin and held out her hand
for the clipboard. Her smile never faltered. Good for her, she was learning how to keep the game face in place. Dustin handed it back and smiled encouragingly.

  Coach had the tech guy bring up film of the Marlins, and they got to work dissecting the team—looking for weaknesses. Rex Barnes, the Redrocks’s catcher, had a tattered notebook open on his lap and a mechanical pencil between his teeth. He kept his own notes on players—probably had the whole thing memorized. Even though he was retiring at the end of the season, he didn’t float his time. Dustin leaned forward in his seat, intent on kicking up his game. Practice on the field wasn’t the only way to improve. Strategy started long before the National Anthem played.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t get his brain to fully focus on the Marlins. The Redrocks were headed out of town for a seven-day road trip, but Dustin knew he was going to see her again. His whole body hummed with the knowledge as surely as it had hummed when their eyes met on Saturday night, and he imagined the feel of her skin against his.

  Chapter Five

  A week passed by, and Clover could say she hadn’t thought about Dustin Colt, or his giant ego, in seven days.

  She could say she hadn’t thought of several ways she could have gotten back at him for his prank at the club.

  She could say she hadn’t come up with eleven zingers so quickly he wouldn’t see them coming.

  And, she could say she hadn’t thought about his smooth cheeks, wavy hair, and darn nice backside.

  But if she said any of those things, she’d be lying.

  She didn’t like to lie, so she didn’t say anything at all. If Maddie brought up Dustin, Clover quickly changed the subject.

  What disturbed her about the whole situation was how it pushed her from a companionable, sweet person to an individual with less-than-Christian thoughts toward another person. She’d worked hard to shed the outer shell she’d put on to survive growing up, and here she was throwing on armor and thinking things that Moses wouldn’t approve of. Not that she hated Dustin. Hate was such a fierce word, and she could overcome the sense of dislike if she never had to see him face-to-face again.

  The most unsettling feelings she had were in line with Moses’ number ten sin of coveting people you shouldn’t covet. Dustin had this magnetism that pulled her thoughts in directions they shouldn’t travel. Pastor Paul wouldn’t commend her for her desires if he counted wondering what Dustin’s smooth cheek would feel like against her cheek lusting. Which she was pretty sure he didn’t. Or wouldn’t. If she ever told a pastor about those things. Thank heavens she wasn’t Catholic! Her face burned with embarrassment at the idea of telling Maddie where she spent most of her daydreams; confessing her longings to Pastor Paul was unthinkable.

  The reason her un-Christian-like thoughts bothered her enough to disturb her sleep and distract her mind was that she firmly believed that what you put out into the world came back to you. Her mother had been a free spirit—Okay, she was a gypsy. Free spirit was less judgy, and her mom had been all about no judgment, but there was no denying the gypsy blood in her veins.

  She’d carted Clover from one end of the country to the other, hitting the lower states in the winter because they often slept outside. School wasn’t an issue. Rainbow—yes, her mother’s name was Rainbow—taught Clover to read and write and do basic math. They didn’t have a lot of books, but they spent time in libraries because they were climate controlled and entertaining.

  When Clover was eighteen, Rainbow had flapped her hands like wings and told her daughter it was her time to fly. The next morning, Rainbow Journey was gone, and Clover was on her own. If it hadn’t been for Pastor Paul and his wife who started the soup kitchen, Clover would be the one asking for a free meal instead of the one prepping for them.

  The official name of the charity was The Pantry. Clover had wandered in, hungry and abandoned, and she’d received a meal and a word of encouragement. Over time, Pastor Paul and Jane Stana took her in and helped her get her GED.

  She was the only part-time employee on staff. The Pantry survived on government subsidies and donations. Jane worked as the manager, allowing Paul time to shepherd a congregation. Jane often checked with the local elementary schools and invited children and their families on the free lunch program to the shelter on the weekends. That made Saturdays and Sundays extra busy, but no one seemed to mind.

  Today was a Wednesday, one of the slower days of the week. Because it was slow, Clover liked to bring in a couple loaves of bread and some peanut butter and jelly and make sandwiches for the little ones to take with them. She hated the idea of a child going hungry, because she remembered well the raw ache and lethargy that had plagued her childhood. Thanks to Dustin’s stunt at the club, the feelings were fresh, and her heart was extra tender.

  She juggled the grocery bags as she reached for the door, the bread bags poking out the top and blocking her view.

  “Here, let me help you with that,” said a deep voice. The baritone triggered a womanly instinct, making her want to reply in a sultry Southern accent and bat her eyelashes.

  She hid behind the grocery bags and said, “Thanks.”

  The door whooshed open, the cool air sending goose bumps over her skin. Her rescuer took two bags out of her arms, allowing her to see clearly.

  Her mouth fell open, and she snapped it shut. Dustin Colt stood there, looking like the cat who caught the canary. Had her hands been free, she would have yanked the grocery bags right out of his arms.

  Dustin didn’t look at all upset to be face-to-face again. He should be—he should be quaking in his pristine running shoes after the way he’d treated her. Throwing money around like it was chalk dust and walking away before hearing her out was just plain rude.

  Well, she was no songbird, and she wasn’t about to chirp a merry little tune for Mr. Big Shot. “Come for your free meal?” she nettled him. It wasn’t quite the jab she’d thought up the other night, but it would work. A sense of vindication filled her. She’d managed to keep her wits even though his glorious green eyes warmed her insides like fondue.

  He beamed. “I’m not here to eat. I’m volunteering.”

  She glided around him. “I’m happy to see the essentials bag worked in some way.”

  His smile dropped. “I’m not here because of you.”

  Pleased that she’d broken through his smugness, she smiled. “Good, because I don’t have time to hold your hand.”

  “You wish you could hold my hand.” His cocky grin was back in place.

  “Not even a little bit,” she shot right back.

  Jane appeared, her short black hair doing a funky swoop up off her forehead. “Oh, good, you’re both here. Clover, meet Dustin Colt, shortstop for the Redrocks. Dustin, this is Clover.” Jane practically burst out of her skin with excitement.

  Clover gave her a tight smile and a small nod to acknowledge the introduction.

  “The Redrocks have organized a community outreach program, and Dustin specifically asked to work here.”

  “I’ll bet he did.” Clover shot Dustin a smug look of her own. Didn’t come here because of her—ha! He was so busted.

  He lifted one eyebrow in response, like a smolder. She’d known few men who could pull off an effective smolder—most of them looked like they’d stepped in doggie doo doo. Not Dustin. He was all bedroom eyes and scrumptiousness.

  Jane sighed like a schoolgirl.

  Clover ripped her eyes off of him. They resisted, but she insisted.

  “Will you give him a tour while I sign for the deliveries?” asked Jane.

  Clover would rather run her hand down a cheese grater, but this was Jane asking. Jane was the best. “Sure.”

  “Great! I’ll see you both in the kitchen in a few minutes.” Jane hurried to open the door for the delivery guy.

  “Well, looks like I’m stuck with you.” Clover headed to the kitchen to unload her arms. She didn’t bother to check if Dustin followed her. He did. She could feel him right on her heels. Personal space. Sheesh
. Shoving the swinging door open with her hip, she asked, “Can you make a PB&J?”

  Dustin set his bags on the stainless steel prep area. “I’m not an idiot.”

  “You’re a baller.”

  He lowered his eyebrows. “So?”

  She prepared herself to deliver one of the zingers she’d come up with after leaving the club. “So everyone knows professional ballplayers are little boys who don’t want to grow up.” Boom!

  He stared at her, a loaf of bread in his hands and his eyes full of hurt. The pain was so easy to read in his green pools of deliciousness that Clover immediately empathized—feeling the barb of her own insult. Her lack of kindness ate at her like a gremlin in her belly.

  Jane burst through the door. “How’s it going in here?”

  “Wonderful,” Clover muttered at the same time Dustin cursed, “Brilliant.”

  “O-kay.”

  “Not much time for a tour.” But enough time to say something stupid. Clover unpacked as quickly as she could. If she was going to have sandwiches put together and bagged, she’d have to hurry.

  “Well, this is the kitchen, and you saw the shelves out front where we have canned and boxed goods for our patrons. There’s a limit on what each person can take a day to ensure each person who comes in gets something. We eat on the tables to the left of the shelves.” Dustin nodded while Jane spoke.

  Clover snuck a peek at him out of the corner of her eye. All traces of hurt were gone and Dustin was Mr. Business. Mr. Hot Guacamole Business. He shouldn’t look that good in the middle of the day. Didn’t ballplayers have to practice or something?

  Jane pointed to the swinging door. “Your photographer is out there getting some shots of the place. She wants to start at the front of the store and then maybe get some action shots in the kitchen.”