Back in the Game

by Lori Wilde

  “I assumed you were familiar with that brand of female attention. Courted it, in fact.” Her voice was soft, but strong, the rich velvet of Southern drawl back-loaded with Texas grit.

  God, he could listen to her talk all day. “Yeah, well, I was feeling pretty exposed all alone in here with those piranhas.”

  “Poor baby. It must be so hard being you.”

  “And then there you were.” He deepened his smile, stepped closer. This time she didn’t back up, but she had that I-wanna-bolt look in her eyes, “My salvation.”

  She sniffed. “Kissing me was the only solution you could come up with?”

  “Not the only one, but the most pleasant.”

  “For the record, I did not enjoy it,” she said. Her nose twitched. Bunny rabbit.

  He chuckled. “Liar. You loved letting those snooty witches think you were my girlfriend. And you liked kissing me.”

  She tossed her head, simultaneously fiery and fearful. If she were a weather report it would read sunny with a chance of hurricane. “My enjoyment is neither here nor there.”

  “But you liked it.” Yeah, he was being smug, but he was one-hundred-percent certain she’d been as into the kiss as he had.

  “I like French fries drenched in ketchup, that doesn’t mean they’re good for me.”

  He lowered his voice, and his eyelids. “Do you always do what’s good for you, Breezy?”

  “Breezy?” The scowl dug into her forehead creased into the Panama Canal. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “I figured a cool nickname might loosen you up.” Yeah, he was baiting her, but what fun.

  “I need neither a nickname, nor loosening up, but thank you for being so concerned about my stiffness.”

  He couldn’t resist sidling closer. “Sweetheart, you are tighter than a rusty door hinge. I can fix that right up for you.”

  “Back off, buddy.” She struck a pugilist stance, fear deepening in her eyes, and held up a clenched fist.

  He stopped, confused. Talk about mixed messages. This woman was full of them. “Isn’t that why you came up here wearing cheetah print?”

  She gasped, looked horrified. “No!”

  “The scarf isn’t an invitation to—”

  “Absolutely not!”

  Canting his head, he scratched his temple. “Okay. Then why did you come here?”

  “To apply for the job as your ghostwriter.”

  That was the last thing he’d expected her to say. She looked as if she was barely out of high school. “Really?”

  “In hindsight this was a terrible idea. Forget you ever saw me.”

  That would mean forgetting he kissed her, and there was no way he was going to forget that. “No, let’s go ahead with an interview.”

  “I changed my mind.” She backpedaled toward the door. “I don’t want the job. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Wait.” He sprang to grab for her shoulder, feeling crazy desperate to detain her and properly apologize for the gaffe of assuming she’d come here for a hookup. But she was moving so fast that he caught hold of the cheetah scarf fluttering over her shoulder instead.

  The scarf was the softest damn material he’d ever touched in his life.

  She spun back toward him, panic flaring her green eyes. “Let go!”

  But he’d already raised his palms, and stepped off. “It’s okay. It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

  She pitched him a look that said, You dumbass. “I didn’t think you were going to harm me.”

  “What is it then?”

  She glanced down, and they both stared at a fat chocolate stain on her blouse right between her breasts. “I didn’t want you to see what a big klutz I am.”

  “What happened?” He softened his voice, making sure she understood he was not a threat.

  She sighed, gazed mournfully at the ceiling. “Dairy Queen dipped cone.”

  “Hey.” He snapped his fingers. “I love those things.”

  “Really?” A timid smile tipped the corners of her mouth. “Me too. Aren’t they the best?”

  They grinned at each other, and then she glanced away, crossing her arms over her chest, and shifting from foot to foot.

  He searched for something to say to take the awkwardness out of the room. “What’s that scarf made out of, by the way?”

  She eyed him as if he was a stranger who’d come knocking on her front door at three in the morning with a flat tire and a dead cell battery story, asking to use her phone. “Does it feel soft to you?”

  “It doesn’t feel soft to you?”

  “Yes, it feels soft to me, but everyone else says it’s rough and scratchy.”

  “It’s the softest material I’ve ever touched,” he said.

  “I know, right?” But her skin took on a greenish hue as if she might throw up, and she whispered something strange. “One soft touch identifies the other.”

  “What?”

  The greenish hue paled into sickly yellow. “Nothing.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Her lips barely parted, and she blew out a thin, reedy breath as the color slowly returned to her face. “I . . . I just can’t believe you feel it too, and no one else does.”

  “In sync.” He winked, trying to make her feel more at ease. “Obviously, we’re much more kinesthetic than most people.”

  “No.” Rapidly, she batted her head back and forth.

  For some bizarro reason her shake of denial sent a knot of dread bouncing around his insides like a pinball careening off frantic flippers before the feeling finally landed, and lodged, behind his kneecaps. “You make it sound like you’d rather poke your eye out with a bamboo skewer than have something in common with me.”

  “It’s not that—”

  “What is it?”

  “Something ridiculous.” She let her head fall back, rolled it from side to side as if to ease knotted neck muscles. “Forget I said anything.”

  “C’mon.” He wanted to lean in closer, but something told him that wasn’t a smart move. “You can tell me. What’s bothering you?”

  She paused a moment, eyeing him up and down, her gaze lingering too long on his six-pack. He sucked his belly button to his spine, wanting to look his best for her.

  “You’re nicer than I expected,” she mused.

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I said, you’re overwhelming.”

  “And you have gorgeous eyes,” he blurted, realizing as he said it that it sounded like a cheesy come-on. “Why don’t you wear contacts?”

  Her nose crinkled in that adorable way that made the knot between his kneecaps pulse. “I’m guessing you didn’t get the memo.”

  “What memo?”

  “Guys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.”

  “You don’t want guys making passes at you?”

  “I don’t want cocky ballplayers who think they rule the world making passes at me.”

  There was that dry wit again, sharp and clean. He wanted to provoke her some more just to see what sassy thing she’d say next. “I’m not making a pass at you. I just mentioned that you have pretty eyes. You’re supposed to say thank you when someone pays you a compliment.”

  Her face flushed, and she looked sheepish as if she’d said something irretrievably stupid, and mumbled, “Thank you.”

  To lighten things up, he asked, “Where are you from?”

  “Stardust. I run a bookstore, Bound to Please.”

  “We have a bookstore in Stardust?”

  “The bookstore is housed on the second floor of my parents’ antique shop, Timeless Treasures.”

  “I’ve heard of that. The antique store has a restaurant inside of it. A date took me there once. The food was good, but kinda girly.”

  “That’s because the Honeysuckle Café is a tearoom. Light fare for the ladies who lunch.”

  “Oh.�
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  “When you went to the tearoom did you notice the big staircase archway made out of old books?”

  “What can I say? That was way back in high school, and reading is not my thing.” He lowered his voice. “And confession time, I was too busy staring at my date’s butt to notice.”

  She flung him a look that suggested he was about as enlightened as gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. “Uh-huh.”

  “Hey,” he said, feeling compelled to apologize for not being an avid reader, but reluctant to tell her he was dyslexic. “I don’t have time to read. Baseball takes one-hundred-percent commitment.”

  “So skirt chasing doesn’t detract from your dedication to baseball?”

  “An athlete has to keep his body in peak physical condition. Food, exercise, sex . . .”

  She put her hands over her ears. “Ugh. Sorry I asked.”

  “What?” he asked. She was so much fun to tease. “You don’t like sex?”

  “I don’t like talking about other peoples’ sex lives.”

  He studied her for a long moment, and got the same impression that hit him when he first laid eyes on her at the estate sale. This one hasn’t been off the bench.

  She squirmed. “What?”

  “You haven’t had much sex.”

  She bristled, drawing herself up into that indignant Jane Austen impersonation again. “That is none of your business.”

  “Contrary to what I just told the redhead who left here, I’m guessing that blow jobs are not your specialty.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Her face blanched. She put her hands on her hips again, dropped them, and then brought them back up. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

  “Except that you are having this conversation with me.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Then why are you still here, Breezy?”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “You’re not really Breezy, are you? In fact, your body language is pretty stiff. Maybe I should call you Stiffy instead.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Stiffy.” He tapped his chin as if he was seriously considering it. “Hmm. I sorta like it.”

  “I’m on my way out the door,” she said.

  “But you’re not moving.”

  “That’s because there’s a dog sitting on my shoes.”

  Rowdy glanced down. Sure enough, during their conversation, Nolan Ryan had loped over and plunked down on her feet.

  “That’s Nolan Ryan,” he said. “He only sits on your feet if he likes you.”

  “Is that right?” Breeanne bent to scratch the bloodhound’s head, muddy blond hair falling over her face. Nolan Ryan sighed blissfully and stretched out, fully anchoring her to the floor. “I like him too. I love animals.”

  “So do I. Wow, more things we have in common.”

  “Don’t act like it’s a big deal. Lots of people love animals.”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “No,” she said.

  “How much do you know about baseball?”

  Her shoulders lifted, and her face brightened like she’d just gotten a rave compliment. “My great-aunt was Polly Whitcomb.”

  “As in the Polly Whitcomb who played professional women’s baseball during World War II?”

  “You’ve heard of her?”

  “I know everything there is to know about baseball.”

  “That’s cocky, and I imagine inaccurate. No one can know everything there is to know about baseball.”

  He gave her a lopsided grin that usually stopped women in their tracks. “What can I say? When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.”

  She snorted. “Everything, huh?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What are Ty Cobb’s stats?”

  “Seriously? You’re gonna pitch me a home run?”

  “You’re right. That is way too easy.” She pressed three fingers against her chin, screwed her mouth to one side in thought. “What was the least amount of people who ever attended an MLB game?”

  “Marlins and the Reds, 2011. Three hundred and forty-seven people—give or take since there was some dispute on the actual headcount—in the stands because of Hurricane Irene.”

  She looked suitably impressed, but damn, he was impressed too. How did she know that?

  “What’s the life span of an MLB baseball?” she asked.

  “Woman, you keep tossing me hanging breaking balls I’m gonna keep lobbing them in the stands. I’m a freaking pitcher. That question doesn’t deserve an answer.”

  “Just checking to see if you were awake.” She grinned a had-you-going-there-for-a-moment grin, and darn if her eyes didn’t sparkle like polished jade in direct sunlight.

  “You came here to interview for the job of my ghostwriter, right? You’re the one who should be answering the questions so I can tell if you’re qualified.”

  “Bring it.” She wriggled three fingers in a come-on gesture.

  “What was Sandy Koufax’s nickname?” he asked.

  “Left Arm of God.”

  “How did Jimmy Piersall celebrate his one hundredth home run?”

  “Ran all the bases backward.”

  “Don Baylor played in three straight World Series, what team was he with?”

  “Trick question. He played for three different teams, the Red Sox, Twins, and Athletics.”

  “Smart woman.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “I also know all your stats,” she said, and rattled them off.

  Damn, but he was impressed. Where had she come from? “What’s your background?”

  “I published a book about great-aunt Polly with a small regional press and self-published a book on the history of baseball in Texas after my publisher went under. Plus a lot of my dad’s family on his mother’s side—my dad, uncles, cousins, his older brother—played minor league ball. I grew up with three sisters, and I was the only one who would watch baseball with Dad. We bonded over the sport.”

  Ah, a daddy’s girl. Normally, he avoided relationships with women who were close to their fathers because they were more likely to believe in white picket fence fantasies and he was not a commitment-oriented guy, but this was a business relationship, not an intimate one.

  “Who is your dad’s family?” he said. “I might know them.”

  She waved a hand. “They’re mostly from Kansas, and we’re talking Class A short season, small potatoes stuff. Great-Aunt Polly was the real star of the Whitcomb clan.”

  “I gotta read your book.”

  “You don’t read, remember.”

  “I’ll read about baseball.” And anything you write. That jolted him. He liked her. A lot. More than he’d liked anyone in a long time.

  “Good for you.”

  Rowdy eyed her up and down. He wanted to give her the job. Not just because she knew his stats. Not just because she came from a baseball family. Not just because he liked her. Not just because she was so easy to talk to.

  Although those were all valid reasons enough.

  No, the main reason he wanted to offer the job to her was because being near her made him feel good. And this was the first time in a very long time that he felt good about himself. She made him feel alive again, like second chances were possible. As if he was a sleepwalking Rip Van Winkle, and she’d awakened him from a twenty-year nap.

  And boy did he need that right now.

  His agent, and Heath Rankin, would probably disagree with his choice of ghostwriter. They would argue she was too young or didn’t have strong enough publishing credentials. But she had something none of the other applicants had.

  Passionate innocence.

  Once upon a time, he’d been like that, deeply passionate about baseball without the jadedness of experience. He wanted to feel open and optimistic again. She could do that for him.

  Yeah? More likely, she would end up tainted from listening to his confessions. All right. Decision made. He needed someone fearless in the heat of battle, because after all
that’s what this book was about—an all-out war with Dugan Potts.

  He opened his mouth to tell her he needed a writer with more experience, but instead of saying that he said, “The job is yours.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The other sports are just sports. Baseball is a love.

  —BRYANT GUMBEL

  “What?” Stunned, Breeanne stared at him. She wasn’t sure she’d heard Rowdy correctly, and she needed to hear it again before she totally unleashed an internal Snoopy dance.

  He looked as surprised to have offered her the position as she was. She was certain she’d blown her chances, and for a second there, she thought he might say, Not really. Psych!

  But then he cleared his throat, and met her eyes. “You’re my ghostwriter if you want the job.”

  “Ra-ra-really?” Stop stuttering and tell him yes, thank you.

  “You’ve written two books. Your great-aunt is Polly Whitcomb. You know baseball. My dog likes you.” He shrugged “I like you.”

  He liked her? Rowdy Blanton liked her? Oh gosh, oh wow, oh holy cow, she felt like Sally Fields when she won an Academy Award for Places in the Heart. He liked her. He really liked her.

  “What more could I ask for?”

  She glanced down a moment to reorient herself, before raising her eyes to meet his gaze again. “Um . . . someone with solider writing credentials.”

  “Are you trying to talk yourself out of a job?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then say yes.”

  “I would, except . . .”

  “Except what?”

  “If I work for you there have got to be some rules.” Why couldn’t she just say yes? Why was she—the one who did not rock boats—tipping this particular canoe when saying yes would give her everything she ever wanted?

  One eyebrow crept up his forehead, and his upper lip twitched. “Such as?”

  She had to be clear. This was a job. This wasn’t a hookup.

  Why can’t it be a hookup? asked the part of her that wanted to Snoopy break-dance? It could be a hookup. What was wrong with a hookup?

  Because hooking up with him was beyond insane. She wasn’t the kind of woman who did casual hookups. Heck, she’d never had any hookup, casual or otherwise. She was quiet, and circumspect. She didn’t step outside her comfort zone. Well, that is until today.