by Devney Perry
And there he goes, surprising me again.
“Who knew the man who’s got a wicked arm and swagger for days also has such a huge heart?” I murmur, more to myself than to him, but I am thoroughly impressed. Not just because he has a charity, because a lot of players pay it forward somehow, but after watching him—his interaction with the organizers, the kids, the good mood it put him in—it is obvious this is more than just a tax write-off to him.
I love that his cheeks flush some and hate that he’s embarrassed at all by it.
“I meant that as a compliment, Easton. It’s nice to see someone paying the community back, and in such an important way. Don’t ever be embarrassed by it. Please.”
“Your turn,” he says after a beat, effectively shifting the focus back on me. “Spill it.”
I suck in a breath and debate how to be honest with him while keeping my promise to my father. “I have an uncle who is pretty sick. It’s just hitting me harder than usual today.”
“Scout.” The way he says my name—apology laced with compassion—causes a lump to form in my throat. “I thought I was being so smart, tricking you into telling me something, and now I feel like a complete asshole. I’m sorry. The only thing I can say is I hope he gets better soon.”
I don’t know why I chuckle, but I do. The tone of it is anxious and sarcastic, and I know it’s because I’m afraid if I say the words out loud, they’ll come true. “Yeah, well, thank you, but he’s not going to get better.” I focus on shredding my cocktail napkin—anything to avoid seeing the sympathy in his eyes. I can’t handle sympathy right now. I can deal with anger. I can handle disbelief. But I absolutely cannot deal with sympathy.
Sympathy will break me, when I can’t break.
It will make me confess the secret I’ve been keeping. The one that’s been eating me whole—bit by bit, day by day—because I’d give anything to talk about my dad’s diagnosis. It would be so much easier if someone else knew so I could let all this bundled emotion out instead of letting it implode.
But I can’t tell Easton. I promised my dad I wouldn’t, so I sit in the booth across from him, staring at where I’m pushing the tiny pieces of shredded napkin around with my finger instead of looking at him.
Somehow, though, he senses that I need a connection, a something, and he reaches across the table and links his fingers through mine. I look down at our hands entwined; I study the scars on his from a lifetime of playing, and hold on to the little bit of comfort he has no idea how much I need.
“Thank you,” I say after a moment to regain my composure. A huge part of me likes this—our fingers linked—but knows it’s a bad idea all around. And yet, when I lean back in the booth, try to create an opportunity for him to withdraw his hand, he doesn’t.
“I used to play ball,” I say, feeling the need to reciprocate with something else about me, considering I wasn’t completely honest with my first confession. Anything to change the topic and relieve the depressed atmosphere I unexpectedly created.
“You did?” he asks with a tone so full of warmth that it pulls on me to look up to him. There’s a surprised gratitude in his eyes that tells me he wasn’t expecting me to let him in any more than I did, and for that look alone, I’m glad I did.
“Yep. So, I may not have played in the majors, but I won a few collegiate championships.”
“You’re fucking with me now.”
I laugh. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Because you’re completely unpredictable. First a stripper and now a ball player.”
“Very funny.” I roll my eyes as he narrows his in thought.
“Let me guess . . . you were a second baseman.”
“Uh. Please,” I say in mock offense because I know he won’t guess in a million years what position I played.
“C’mon. With that compact little body of yours, I bet you would’ve been a kick-ass second baseman.”
“I like to get a little more action than second base,” I say, fully knowing the innuendo that goes with it, but with the first drink down, I’m feeling a bit more daring than I normally would.
His eyes hold mine for a prolonged moment, and I know he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead he begins to name every position on the field while I reject them until there are only two left.
“What’s left?” he asks, knowing damn well the answer.
“Pitcher and catcher.”
“No fucking way,” he murmurs.
“Yep.” I quirk an eyebrow, and the smug smile on my lips tells him I’m enjoying the fact he’s underestimated me.
“And twice in a matter of minutes you make me feel like a complete heel.” He releases my fingers and drops his head into his hands, his laugh ringing out as he scrubs them through his hair. The simple mannerism makes me smile, even more so when he looks at me again, eyes intense, smile bewildered. “Seriously?”
“If I was gonna play, I wanted to play the best position on the field. The one that holds all the control.”
“Control freak.”
“Ditto.” I murmur back, my smile soft, the alcohol warming me from the inside out.
“Incredible.” His voice is part awe, part surprise, and it makes every part of me stand tall with pride.
“My dad used to say the best place in the park to sit was behind home plate. And so when I was about ten, I figured if I was going to play, I wanted to make sure I had the best seat in the house.”
I can hear my dad’s voice saying it now, the memory bittersweet.
“And my dad told me to play first base instead,” he says with a shake of his head, “because catching caused too much wear and tear on your body and could shorten your career.”
“So you’ve always rebelled against him, then?”
His laughter is quick and his smile arrogant. “That noticeable, huh?”
“There was just a touch of tension in the locker room.”
“A touch? Was that all?”
Relieved he can laugh now at what upset him earlier, I put my thumb and index finger half an inch apart. “Just a smidgen.”
The soft smile on his lips does nothing to ease the conflict in his eyes as he lowers his gaze to watch the condensation run down the side of his beer bottle. He collects his thoughts before he looks back up at me to explain. “He means well. He’s just very particular and extremely determined that I live up to the Wylder name. He doesn’t want me to disgrace the legacy he left behind, especially since I play for the club he spent his entire career playing for.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.” I can’t imagine.
“I’m sure the situation you’re in is no different, living up to the legendary Doc Dalton.”
I twist my lips and consider his statement. “Pressure, yes. But it’s something I want to do, love to do . . . to make him proud.” But I get the feeling that while Easton feels similarly about his situation, at least I had the choice whether I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps. For some reason, I don’t think he did.
“Every kid wants to make their parents proud,” he muses as he angles his head to the side. “But every parent holds a different standard for what exactly it is that will achieve that.”
And that comment confirms my assumption that Easton feels like he’s never been good enough to live up to his father, the legend. My heart hurts for him, working as hard as he does, playing a game he is more than gifted at, but living a life to earn someone’s approval.
“True. That must be hard for you.”
He shrugs again. Averts his eyes. Takes a swig of his beer. “When I’m playing good, it’s not.” He laughs, and I can tell he’s uneasy with the topic of conversation.
“Tell me something else about yourself,” I say, more than curious to find another piece to complete this puzzle of a man.
“You sure are full of questions,” he teases.
“Please,” I say drolly. “I’m sure you’d prefer to talk baseball or stats or something scintillating like that
.”
“Scintillating?” He laughs.
“It’s a good word.”
“It is,” he says with a nod, “but I don’t talk stats.”
What? “I thought all players liked to talk about the game.”
“I’m not all players, though.”
“So it seems.”
“First off, I’m the player.” He quirks an eyebrow, and all I can do is smile at the reference.
“And second?”
“Second,” he mimics, “I may be wrong, but I think it takes a helluva lot more to impress you than a list of above-par stats.”
“True.” I draw the word out while my mind is a flurry of thoughts. Is he flirting with me? He wants to impress me? Or am I reading into the comment when he means nothing by it?
“Stats are boring. They’re my work. And while most days I live and breathe baseball, on and off the field, they’re the last thing that comes to mind when I’m in the company of a beautiful woman.”
That’s twice. He is flirting with me.
“What does come to mind, then?”
Oh, crap. I’m flirting right back.
He flashes me a megawatt smile that lightens his dark features and brightens his eyes. And if I doubted whether we should continue this exchange or not, that smile right there pulls me in hook, line, and sinker.
“Right here? Right now?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Our eyes lock as we gauge each other and try to figure out the next step in this unfamiliar dance we’re moving to.
“Dance with me.”
I stifle a laugh. Is he reading my mind now?
But my laugh is short-lived when he rises from the booth and extends his hand to me. He can’t be serious.
“No way!” I laugh, batting his hand away. “I’m not letting the King of Pranks make a fool of me.”
“I do love a good prank but dancing with me isn’t one of them.” He puts his hand out for me to take again.
“I don’t know how to dance, let alone to country music.”
“Neither do I. We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” he asks, that boyish smile on his lips winning me over. “A pair of Texans who can’t dance to country music.”
“We should be ashamed of ourselves and hide in this dark corner here.”
His laugh tells me he’s not buying it. “No time like the present to learn.”
“We’ll be the only ones on the dance floor.” I scramble to think of any other excuse to avoid this situation—not avoiding the limelight part of it but the dancing body-to-body with Easton part—because he’s already lowered my defenses, and dancing with him might be too temptingly disastrous for me—in more ways than one. “Everyone will be staring at us.”
“I live my life under the lights, baby,” he teases as he grabs the hand I’ve refused him. “You think these dim bar lights are going to intimidate me?”
“People are going to stare.”
He pulls me to my feet.
“Good.”
“Good? We’re so out of place in here.”
“I’ve never cared what people think of me, and I sure as hell am not going to start now. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with getting a little attention now and again.”
He tugs on my arm for me to follow.
“Ah, you can’t handle being out of the limelight now, can you?” I tease.
“I can handle it just fine. And it’s not me people are going to be looking at, it’s you.”
“Me?” I say, but the word comes out in a whoosh of air when he stops and turns without warning, causing me to bump solidly against his chest.
“Yes. You.” His smile is a juxtaposition of shy and suggestive, and it tugs on so many things inside of me. Want. Need. Denial. Desire.
We’re standing in the middle of the empty dance floor, and all I can think about when he looks down at me is that I need to remember to breathe.
Because chatting at a table is fine. Stretching his shoulder on the field, I can handle. But this, face-to-face on a dance floor with nothing between us, only serves to reinforce my epiphany in the truck earlier—I really like him.
And as if the universe is trying to cheer this mistake on, the music suddenly becomes louder and the lights become dimmer, prompting Easton to slide one hand against my lower back and lift my hand with his other.
Breathe, Scout.
And then he begins to move.
“Relax,” he murmurs against my ear as he guides us in a mismatched array of steps that make no sense and perfect sense all at the same time. But it’s not like I can concentrate on the movement with the heat of his body against mine, familiar and so very different.
It’s his tutelage I’m under now. It’s not me working him or stretching him. It’s him guiding me. Commanding me. And the ripple of his muscles beneath his shirt is not for me to study this time around, but rather to feel. To react to. To want.
I’m normally one to avoid the spotlight, but Easton has just thrust me right into it. Attention shifts. Eyes observe. And there’s something about knowing we’re being watched that magnifies everything about the moment.
More specifically, everything about Easton.
The scent of his shampoo. The strength in his hand as it holds mine and the heat of his other splayed across my lower back. The vibration of his voice against my hair as he hums along with the Luke Bryan tune. The rhythm of his hips as they move against mine.
“You lied to me, Scout.”
The heat of his breath against the side of my face.
“About what?”
The sensitivity of my nipples as they rub ever so gently against the firmness of his chest.
“You damn well do know how to dance.”
I chuckle in response but don’t look up to meet his eyes because I don’t want him to stop whatever it is we’re doing. There’s something intimate about the moment that has me wanting to breathe him in a little more before it’s lost.
His reaction to my laughter is to press his hand against my back and pull me closer. “I was always taught lying comes with punishment.” His voice has a sing-song quality to it that only serves to draw me deeper under whatever spell he seems to be casting on my impenetrable shell.
“Punishment?” Somewhere deep down, the word awakens the parts of me curious about but inexperienced in anything of the nature, and I’m suddenly nervous.
And excited.
“Mm-hmm.” His voice sounds as seductive as his body feels against mine. “Something that causes you pain.”
I gulp over thoughts as my insides begin to heat up, and I’m well aware of the attention still turned our way.
And before I can take my next breath, Easton spins me out with a laugh until our arms are fully extended, fingertips barely still grasping each other, before pulling me back so I land solidly with a thud against his chest.
“See?” he says, prompting me to look up at him, the one thing I was telling myself not to do. And now that I have, I’m fully aware that our lips are only inches apart.
“See?” I laugh, trying to comprehend what I’m supposed to see when my body is still reeling from the feeling of our bodies colliding into each other and the mortification of being twirled in a public display.
“Being the center of attention.” His voice is barely a whisper, but I hear every word. “Dancing with me isn’t too painful of a punishment now, is it?”
Normally I would laugh at him—at his version of a punishment—but all I can think of is how much I want him to kiss me right now. With his lips right there. And our bodies like this.
Breathe, Scout.
“You’ve got a heavy hand there, Mr. Wylder.” My head is so scrambled I’m not even sure how I manage to sound so witty.
And breathless.
It’s in that moment that I realize we’ve stopped moving completely. Our feet. Our bodies. We’re standing alone in the middle of the dance floor in a crowded bar, staring at each other.
“Excuse me?” At a woman’s
voice to our left, we shock apart like two kids getting caught for the second time today. “May I cut in?”
I look over at the attractive—and much older—bottled redhead beside us, whose smile is as evocative as the clothes she’s wearing, and then back to Easton, a man no stranger to women hitting on him, I’m sure. His smile is fixed and eyes wide as he tries to figure out what to do.
“Of course. He’s all yours,” I say as I step back, despite every part of my body wanting to move closer. He sputters a protest, but his manners get the best of him when the woman, who must be at least thirty years his senior, has absolutely no qualms about stepping into where my shoes just were.
I twist my lips to fight my smile as he sends me a visual SOS when the woman begins to lead him around the dance floor. He’s all smiles to her while shooting playful I’m-gonna-kill-you daggers across the room at me.
And as I sip my fresh drink, sent compliments of Easton’s dance partner, for the first time in forever, I realize what jealousy over a man feels like.
Scout
“She so wanted you.” My laugh is louder than normal, a bit giggly, and I don’t care because I’m a little tipsy and a lot relaxed, and I can’t remember what it feels like to be relaxed.
“Some wingman you are. Throwing me to the wolves so you can go drink all the alcohol, which could have helped to put me out of my misery.”
“She was sweet, though,” I explain.
“Of course you thought that. You were getting buzzed on the drinks she sent your way, while I was busy moving her hands off my ass. And I won’t even get into her thoughts about the team’s chances this year, or how much she kept asking if it’s true that son is like father.”
“If it’s true that son is like father?” I look at him, wide-eyed, and cover my mouth with my hand.
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“Are you telling me she’s slept with your dad?”
“I have no clue, and I don’t want to know,” he says dryly, mock shivering.
I stifle a laugh. “And to think you were so generous with your time for her.”
