Caught Looking (Dating Mr. Baseball Book 2)

by Lucy McConnell

  Jane had put pork roasts in the slow cookers that morning, and the smell was incredible—light spice and a little sweet. Clover took a deep breath. She was in charge of the coleslaw and slicing buns. They wouldn’t have leftovers tonight, not when it smelled so good.

  She washed her hands and put on an apron before retrieving the cabbage. She’d thinly sliced one head and was starting on a second when Dustin came through the swinging door. He filled the whole doorway with his muscles and his presence.

  Clover jerked her chin in greeting. She had a large knife in her hand and needed to concentrate. Just because he’d been nice to Damarius in front of the camera didn’t mean he was a nice guy.

  He leaned against the doorjamb, all chill. Acting like he was eye candy. Okay, he might be easy on the eyes, but the fact that he knew he was handsome negated any yumminess he possessed.

  Whatever.

  Seeing Damarius must have softened her up, because she was having all sorts of softening in her knees when she looked at Dustin. That just wouldn’t do.

  “Is recess over already?” She sent him a verbal jab, hoping to keep him away from her. Many times on the streets, a first attack had spared her from pain. Though what type of pain she was trying to save herself from with Dustin, she wasn’t quite sure. His green eyes had a way of seeing right through her bluster, which made her feel vulnerable. She detested vulnerability and became even more agitated.

  He took an apron off the hook by the door. The darn thing looked fantastic on him. “The bell rang.” He washed his hands and sidled up next to her. She caught the clean smell of him. His skin gave off a slight musk, tickled her senses, and filled her brain with his scent.

  “You’d better skedaddle on back to class, Peter Pan.”

  “You’re funny.” He scooped up handfuls of the chopped cabbage and dropped it into the giant stainless steel bowl in front of her. His arm brushed hers, and their hips bumped.

  Clover gritted her teeth against the thrills shooting through her belly. “I’m a regular Tina Fey.”

  “I like Tina Fey.” He continued to work alongside her. Right alongside her.

  Clover shifted her weight so there was space between them. He was making her think more about him than about what they were doing. “You probably know Tina Fey.”

  He smiled, and she was dazzled. “Never met her.”

  “That’s a shame.” She searched his green eyes, sensing there was more to him than she could find in that one brief moment.

  He tickled her side, and she jumped. “My agent might be able to set something up, though.”

  There he went, throwing his fame in her face like it grew on the field and simply needed to be scooped up. She turned away from him, still shaken by the current that launched through her at his touch. “You should get on that.” She tossed her hand towards the door. “Go make a phone call or something, big shot.”

  He turned to face her and leaned his hip against the counter. “I think I’ll stick around.”

  “And watch me do all the work.” She chopped mercilessly at the cabbage.

  “If you insist.”

  “You’re such a child.”

  “You’re bossy.”

  She blinked. “You’re pretentious.”

  “You’re a snob,” he shot back.

  She set the knife down and turned to face him. “I’m too poor to be a snob.”

  “It’s all in the attitude.”

  Her frustration grew. She turned back and scooped up the last of the cabbage. “I don’t have an attitude.”

  “You’re oozing with it.”

  “You’re oozing with … pheromones.”

  His eyebrows shot up, and her face burned red.

  She hadn’t meant to say that! “It’s annoying.”

  A small smile appeared on his lips, and Clover noticed how the lower lip was fuller than the upper lip. She briefly wondered how that bottom lip would feel against hers. Her eyes jumped from his lips to his eyes and she found a hint of mischief there. “On my gosh! You’re arguing with me on purpose.”

  “Does that make you angry?” He brushed the back of his fingers across her flaming cheek.

  She should have jerked away, but the caress was soft and tender, something she hadn’t experienced often in her life. Desire and a need for stolen kisses and whispered promises sprang to life. “You … you …”

  The swinging door bounced open. “Hey, Dustin, can we get a shot of you in front of the building?” Jane pulled up short. Her attention tiptoed back and forth between the two of them standing so close.

  “You bet.” Dustin peeled himself away from her, Clover feeling every millimeter of space. He disappeared through the door, still wearing the apron.

  Jane lifted both her hands, silently asking what was going.

  Clover picked up the butcher knife and pointed it at the door. “He came in here to pick a fight with me.” She closed her eyes, willing her face to cool off. “There is something wrong with that man.”

  “From where I was standing, it looked like there was something right with him, too.” Jane winked and hurried after Dustin.

  Clover reached for the carrots, ready to chop them into tiny bits. She replayed the last fifteen minutes in her head, pausing at the moment when Dustin’s fingers had touched her face. Time slowed, stopped, and then spun in giddy circles. It was a good thing Dustin was all about money and fame—otherwise, she might let herself like him.

  Chapter Eight

  Dustin stared down the pitcher, watching his right hand, checking the grip on the ball before he put it in his glove. Somewhere inside, instinct kicked in, and Dustin read high fastball in C-Dawg’s posture.

  He loaded his bat and tightened his core muscles, ready to turn on that ball and send it flying.

  Somewhere, in the back of his head, came the thought that a major league fastball moved faster than the eye could see. That’s why so many guys struck out looking—they couldn’t see the ball change directions as it came toward them. He’d studied pitching with a passion his whole life. He’d lived for YouTube videos that explained the physics behind ball movement. He’d watched interviews with pitching coaches and lapped up every drop of knowledge—anything that would give him an edge as a pitcher in high school. When he got to college, it was evident that he couldn’t throw like the other guys, so he switched to shortstop—his lightning-fast reflexes quickly earning the attention of major league scouts.

  But at this moment, he saw the ball leave C-Dawg’s fingers, saw him prostrate his ring finger and put a little spin on the ball. He pulled his arms across his body, and at the last second, he pushed his wrists forward, sending the barrel over the edge of the plate.

  POP!

  Dustin’s hands vibrated the most beautiful music a batter can hear: the song sung by a home run ball as it came off the end of a Louisville Slugger. He stared after the ball, watching it go, go, go right over the stands, landing somewhere in a field of cactus and sagebrush.

  With his arms over his head in victory, Dustin hopped and skipped to first base before breaking into a jog to tap second and third. The dugout emptied as he ran, his teammates clapping and waving him home.

  When he stomped on home plate, they tackled him, laughing, whooping, and yanking on his shirt.

  He couldn’t quit smiling.

  He rode the team wave back into the dugout and then was forced out to wave his hat to the crowd. “Go on! It’s your first home run,” said Brayden with a shove.

  Dustin knew no one expected him to hit a home run—he was batting ninth, for goodness’ sakes. He’d make all the major sports shows tonight. They’d joke about him batting ninth and pulling that one out of his back pocket, projecting it as a lucky hit. He didn’t care. He waved his hat and grinned like a fool.

  Later that night, after the hordes of reporters finally left him alone and he had a chance to sit down, Coach Santacruiz straddled the bench. His scruffy cheek poked out with a wad of sunflower seeds. He used to chew tobacc
o—old-school-like—but he lost two teeth and decided to quit. He said his face didn’t know what to do when it didn’t have a chunk of something in there. Made him think better.

  “You’re dialed in.” Coach tapped his temple.

  “I am.”

  “Is it the girl?” He tipped his head forward.

  A grin stole across Dustin’s face as he thought about how easily he’d gotten under Clover’s skin. Their back-and-forth, the name-calling. And how she’d flushed at his touch. He’d liked that part most. “It’s not like you’re thinking.” Or like I’m thinking. Clover didn’t want to have anything to do with him and his pheromones. He bit back a chuckle. He’d have to tease her about that one.

  “Whatever it is, don’t change a thing.”

  Dustin nodded. “Don’t plan to.”

  “All righty, then.” Coach groaned at his feet. He spit the shells in a garbage can as he walked by and was already reaching into his back pocket for the bag, ready to refill his cheek.

  Dustin stared at the doors where the coach had disappeared. Today was his last day volunteering at The Pantry. He needed a new excuse to see Clover. He was finally playing ball like he was meant to play, and he wasn’t about to give that up. If arguing with a feisty woman in an apron made that happen, then he’d have to argue with her again.

  Chapter Nine

  Clover stapled the hotel’s evening receipts together and placed them in the manager’s inbox. Friday nights were always busy in St. George, but with the Phillies in town, they were booked out. Most of their guests were at the game, so she turned it on in the lobby to give her and Maddie warning before they returned and flooded the hotel with requests for replacement key cards and extra pillows and towels.

  Dustin hadn’t come into The Pantry that day—which was a relief as much as it was a disappointment. She’d watched the game. He had a couple of great plays, one of them a dive to his belly to catch a ball and get the out. And then there was that home run. Clover had done a double fist pump before she remembered that she was mad at the guy. Baseball was seeping into her bones, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about falling for the sport when inevitable heartache would be involved.

  Tonight, she had the sound off but found herself staring at the screen more often than not.

  Maddie had started as a maid and occasionally took a front desk shift. She was studying hotel management, so when she was hired, she told them to train her for all positions. One day she’d own her own hotel.

  However, she had to start at the bottom, so Maddie took the night shifts with Clover until a daytime position opened up. What would have been torture for an employee with a family was a great time for the women to catch up on their friendship. They worked well and always put their conversations lower on the priority list than helping guests so the work got done.

  Clover didn’t mind the night shift. She’d always been a night owl. It probably came from sleeping in shelters, where her mom would tell her to stick close and not disappear in the night. She’d never slept well until the general rustling had settled. Even then, if someone got up to go to the bathroom, her eyes popped open and her breathing became harsh and loud in her own ears.

  With the lull in activity, Clover was filling Maddie in on what had happened with Dustin at The Pantry. “It was like he enjoyed making me angry.” She grabbed a container of disinfectant wipes and started moving things on the desk so she could clean it off.

  “Sweetie, it couldn’t have been that bad.”

  “It was. I swear.” She held up a hand as if she were being put under oath. “He called me a snob and bossy and other things I can’t remember, and he smiled the whole time. It was like talking to a seven-year-old.”

  “Really? How old is he, really?”

  “Thirty-two,” Clover answered. She scrubbed at a sticky spot, thinking about the spark of mischief in Dustin’s eye and how she’d like to get into mischief with him. She yanked her thoughts away from that and found Maddie looking at her with raised eyebrows. “What?”

  “You know.”

  She did. But she wasn’t going to admit behaving like a stalker fan who had Googled his stats. “I blame his bad behavior on his bank account. No one can make that much money and remain unaffected.”

  “I’d like to be affected by a couple hundred thousand a year,” Maddie quipped. “I can’t even imagine having money like that.”

  “Most people can’t imagine playing a game for a living, either.”

  “It can’t be all kicking daisies. I mean, look at those guys.” Maddie tossed her head toward the screen. “They look like they work hard.”

  Clover didn’t have to look at the television to know what kind of muscles being a major league ballplayer created. Those muscles had brushed up against her less than twenty-four hours ago, and was still reeling from the sensations Dustin created.

  Maddie wasn’t done pleading Dustin’s case. “How many games do they play a year?”

  Irked that her best friend was defending the very guy they were supposed to be roasting right now, Clover replied, “How would I know?”

  “I heard baseball players have the longest season out of all professional ballplayers.” She shrugged. “For guys who play a game for a living, they take it seriously.” She picked up a stack of towels with a green stripe down the middle. “I’m taking these to the pool. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “’Kay.” Clover waited for Maddie to disappear down the hall before dropping into her chair and attacking the keyboard. “How many games does an MLB team have a year,” she muttered as she typed into the search bar.

  A list of sites appeared. She clicked on the first link, desperate to complete her search before Maddie returned. One hundred and eighty games with three months off between seasons, and pitchers report for spring training early.

  She paused to listen for Maddie. When she didn’t hear footsteps on the tiled hallway, she clicked on the link at the bottom of the article about a day in the life of a professional ballplayer. They reported for a night game before noon. She ticked off the hours on her fingers, figuring the players were lucky to get eight hours of sleep. The general pregame workout included batting practice, watching film, workouts, and going over stats.

  “Huh,” she said.

  Playing baseball wasn’t a job. It was life. For nine months out of the year, assuming the team didn’t make it to the playoffs, Dustin was at the mercy of the team’s schedule. He moved around as much as Clover and her mom had when Clover was growing up. She smoothed down her hair. She’d called Dustin a Peter Pan, but he was more like a gypsy.

  For some reason, she liked him all the more for that.

  She clicked off the website and cleaned with a vengeance. It didn’t matter if she liked him. She’d never see the guy again unless she was watching him on television. In the same moment she had that thought, the camera zoomed in on the dugout, and Dustin smiled like he was smiling right at her.

  She shook off the fanciful thoughts and got back to work.

  Chapter Ten

  Dustin unlatched his watch. He only wore the thing to church, so it still looked brand new. Not that he avoided church—his game schedule made it difficult to get his butt in a pew on a regular basis. If he was out of town on a Sunday, he’d listen to a Christian rock station on IHeartRadio and bring a bit of Jesus into his week.

  He made it to the early service and had the pleasure of sitting next to his mom and dad. They liked to have church over by ten so they could get home and prepare a big family dinner. The church wasn’t anything fancy, just an off-white stucco building with a dark wooden cross over the door. If he had to give a comparison, he’d say it looked like a Spanish mission on the outside.

  The inside was worn wooden floors and nicked and scratched wooden pews. The same pews that supported wedding guests, believers in Christ, searchers for truth, mourning funeral guests, and the occasional lost sheep. Long, skinny windows punctuated the walls, allowing natural light to cut through the oth
erwise dim interior.

  Dustin missed a lot of those family dinners, too, and Mom liked to poke him about it now and then. She let him off the hook this week because he’d hit a home run and family had called from all over the US to congratulate her. She was perched like a robin over a nest of eggs in the pew, with Dustin’s brother and his family sitting in front of them. Mom looked pretty in her dress with the big colorful flowers all over it, and he told her as much and kissed her cheek in hello.

  “Ah, it’s so good to see my boy. Your Uncle Steven sends his love and asked if he could have the home run ball.”

  Dustin chuckled. “Sorry, I hit it into the sagebrush. It’s gone.”

  She tsked. “It’s just as well. He’d probably sell it on eBay.” She patted his leg. “Now, there are several young ladies here who wouldn’t mind an introduction to my famous, single son.”

  Dustin leaned back, grateful for the sturdy seat. His mother knew how to set him off his game. “Mom. Not today. I came to hear a sermon, not get set up on a blind date. Give me a break—please.”

  “If I can find you a beautiful woman and get you off the ball field, I can die at peace,” she’d said while patting his leg.

  The familiar tension built behind Dustin’s left eye. “I’m not leaving baseball, Mom.”

  “Not yet—every player retires eventually. I want you to do it while you’re still young enough to give me grandbabies.”

  “What? Four isn’t enough?” He motioned to his nieces and nephews poking one another in front of them.

  “I could never have enough.” She used the weekly announcement sheet to fan herself.

  Dustin withdrew himself from the conversation. There was no point in fighting a battle he wasn’t going to win. His parents saw baseball the same way Clover saw baseball. The knowledge hit him like a revelation. No wonder Clover calling him Peter Pan bothered him so much. His parents had been telling him to grow up for a long time.