by Laura Simcox
“I did.” She looked at Brett from the corner of her eye, but he was staring straight ahead. “Since you’re a baseball fanatic, I’d like to know what you think about a player named Joe Knox.”
“Do you really mean that you have no idea who he is?”
“I have some idea,” Georgia responded.
Patrick chuckled. “He’s a very exciting player to watch. Joe Knox Jr.—JJ is his nickname—was Rookie of the Year a couple of years ago and has the second-best batting average in the National League. Great player and probably a future Hall-of-Famer.”
Georgia raised her eyebrows. If Joe Knox was that important, it meant that Brett was more than likely suffering from a case of Little Brother-itis. And it was probably a fairly bad case since he’d been demoted last season. No wonder he didn’t want to be interviewed, but she still had to drag the story out of him. Carefully. “That makes sense.”
“What does, hon?” Patrick asked.
“Your explanation. Thanks for the info.”
“Sure. Do me a favor. Call your mother and let her know you’re okay.”
Of course, Georgia was okay—she had guards 24/7—but she knew that wasn’t what her dad meant. “I will.” Georgia paused and glanced at Brett again, who gave her an easy smile. “Um, better go. Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome, and I’ll give you a piece of advice from the late, great Yogi Berra.”
Yogi who? “Sure, Dad.”
“You can observe a lot by watching.” He chuckled. “Love you.”
“That’s a good one. Love you, too, Dad.” Georgia hung up and made a mental note to Google Yogi, though she bet she wouldn’t find him with Boo-Boo Bear. She looked out the window as downtown Memphis came into view, some of the buildings tall and new, others short and worn with age. As the SUV turned onto Second Avenue, she spotted a Starbucks on the corner. It would be so nice to hole up there with her laptop and do research. Last night she’d been so tired, she’d flopped onto the hotel bed and flipped channels until she fell asleep.
“Nice chat with POTUS?” Brett asked casually.
Georgia turned to him, her gaze trailing over his lean jaw. He looked back, a hint of a smile curving his mouth. The mirrored lenses of his sunglasses reflected her own expression, which looked way too eager. Suddenly, she wished for a pair of sunglasses of her own. “Talking to my dad is always nice, and he answered my question.”
“With a source like that, you shouldn’t have any problem writing your stories.” Brett took off his sunglasses and pointed toward the windshield. “Stadium. You ready to watch some baseball?”
“Sounds great,” Georgia managed to say, holding back a wince. She shouldn’t have called her dad just to show off. To Brett, it probably looked as if she were throwing around her fame, assuming that he would buckle and give her the interview she wanted—on her terms, not his. Which was exactly what she had been doing, right? Dammit. “I’ll stay out of your way while you’re practicing.”
“Probably a good idea. Getting hit by a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball isn’t exactly fun.”
“I would imagine not,” she murmured—except she already felt that way, metaphorically, at least. All she had to do was meet Brett’s intense gaze and it was as if she’d been knocked sideways. But maybe she’d better get used to it. Maybe if she looked at him more, not less, she would become accustomed to his sex appeal—form an immunity to it.
She peeked at him. He winked.
Her eyes wide, Georgia turned back toward the window and began to hum under her breath.
Chapter Four
IT HAD BEEN almost twenty-four hours since Georgia had walked into his life, and Brett still hadn’t gotten over the shock of it. He was having trouble focusing on anything except her. Now, behind home plate—the one place where he always felt complete confidence—he was a complete mess. And she was watching the team practice. His shit was no more together today than it had been in the press box yesterday.
The press box was a big room, but he’d felt hemmed in—Secret Service agents at the door and the girl of his fantasies right in front of him. Smiling at him. After he’d turned her down, he’d left the ballpark, his mind a blank—not able to play even a word of the conversation with her over in his head. He’d driven his beloved Jeep around aimlessly and then wandered through the grocery store like an idiot. He’d ended up at his apartment with a family-sized bag of Cheetos and a two-liter of Mountain Dew. They’d reminded him of childhood, which should have been comforting—centering—but that’s not how they’d made him feel.
Looking at the neon-colored junk sitting on his expensive kitchen counter had only brought back feelings of anxiety and embarrassment because when he was a kid, that’s what his mom had frequently fed him for breakfast. He wasn’t going to consume that crap now that he’d left his childhood behind, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to turn back into the cringing kid who was mortified by his mom—chain-smoking Margot Knox—who laughed too loud and wore tight tank tops.
He’d made peace with who his mom was, and he’d made a complete one-eighty from the child he used to be. Case in point? Yesterday, he hadn’t even broken a sweat when Ship had called him and demanded that he return to the ballpark. And when he’d returned, he’d stood there, hiding his anger, listening to the man rant about the media clause in Brett’s contract. He’d even calmly agreed to go see Georgia at the station today. But nothing could have prepared him for sitting in the backseat of a Secret Service vehicle, right next to her, while she chatted away on her phone with her dad. The president of the United States. Brett hadn’t experienced many WTF moments in his life, but that one had topped them all.
While she’d talked to her dad, apprehension had crowded the already nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach, and Brett hadn’t known what to say. His own father—a firefighter in California—had died on the job before Brett was born. His mother had moved to Memphis, two small boys in tow, and he’d grown up fatherless, surrounded by adults who couldn’t read past a sixth-grade level.
He and Joe had used talent and hard work to rise, but he didn’t want a pat on the back for it, as if he were somehow a better player just for overcoming his background. He’d left the past in the past, and it didn’t need to be dug up like river-bottom mud and slung all over the Memphis viewing area. For the second time. Joe might not have cared when he’d been interviewed two years ago, but Brett did care. What could be worse? The girl of his dreams was the person who wanted to retread the story, but he’d be damned if he let Georgia do that, no matter how much he admired her.
And damn, how he admired her—every bit of her. He’d spent a whole lot of today’s practice admiring her to the point of distraction, and even though he was squatting behind home plate, he knew exactly where she was—sitting in the dugout, laughing it up with Drew and Juan.
He frowned and punched his catcher’s mitt. “Come on, Hooker. Throw me something I can catch,” he called.
On the pitcher’s mound, Booker threw his arms wide. “I could’ve been throwing you a beach ball, and you wouldn’t have been able to catch it. What’s your problem?”
Brett glared at him, even though he knew Booker couldn’t see his face behind the catcher’s mask. Booker knew damn well why Brett was distracted. “Pitch,” he commanded.
“I better go easy on you.” With a grin, Booker lobbed a slow ball at him, just as Georgia let out a peal of laughter. Brett’s gaze snapped to the dugout. Was she laughing at him? No—she was laughing with Juan, who was patting her arm. Brett growled, turning his head just in time to reach for the ball sailing toward him. It bounced off the edge of his mitt and rolled between his legs. A groan, followed by a “whoop-whoop” went up from the dugout.
Brett yanked off his mask and scrambled for the ball, anger welling in his throat. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. If Georgia hadn’t been there, he would’ve shouted the word. Repeatedly. This was ridiculous—the fifth pitch he’d fumbled in less than twenty minutes. He migh
t choke when he was up to bat sometimes, but he could always rely on his performance at the plate. Well, he had been able to—until Georgia came along.
Now what was he supposed to do? The more agitated he got, the more mistakes he made. Right now he was two seconds away from throwing his mitt in the dirt and stomping off the field. The only thing preventing him from doing it was that she was watching. Wasn’t she? He glanced at the dugout again.
Next to the players in their sweaty uniforms, she looked completely out of place in her airy light-blue dress. So far, he hadn’t gotten the feeling that the guys had exposed Brett’s monster crush on her, but then again, he’d threatened to kick their asses so hard their noses would bleed if they did. With a humorless smile, Brett picked up his catcher’s mask and retrieved the ball. He threw it back to Booker, who was grinning at him, the asshole.
“Booker, you’re throwing like a girl,” Monty called from the dugout. “Pitch a few more, and then we’d better let a lady show you how it’s done.” There was a collective groan from the players and Brett glanced over. Monty stood on the edge of the field, his arms folded over his large gut. Georgia rose and walked out of the dugout. She stopped next to Monty, shaking her head, though she was smiling.
“Yeah. I’ll show you, Booker,” she chimed in, though her posture was stiff and she clutched the press credentials hanging around her neck. The breeze sent her dress fluttering around her knees, and she lowered a hand to still the fabric. Brett forced himself to focus and gave Booker a hand signal. Nodding, Booker spat on the pitcher’s mound and threw a sharp, hard curveball. It landed with a thunk in Brett’s mitt. The next pitch was even harder, and Brett knew that Booker was showing off.
“Save it for the game, Hooker,” he called.
Nodding again, Booker squinted and fired one off. It went wild, and Brett sprang up, threw off his mask and ran after it. He stretched out his glove and caught the ball just before it bounced into the dugout, but not before he kicked up a lot of dust—all over Georgia’s shoes.
“Damn, Knox,” Juan said from the dugout. “You wearing a blindfold today or something?”
Brett glared at him. “You want to come check?”
“Nope.” Juan folded his arms and leaned back on the bench.
“I’ll check,” Georgia volunteered. She peered into his eyes, a little smile lifting the corners of her lips. “None visible.”
As Brett took in her teasing smile, his body relaxed a bit. His anger went from full boil to a simmer. When she grinned, that simmer morphed into something else altogether. His heart, which had been pounding already, sped up even more. “Sorry about dusting up your shoes.”
She shrugged a shoulder. “Oops.”
“Oops,” he echoed, a smile tugging at his lips.
After a moment, she sucked in a breath and looked away. Holding onto the railing, she kicked off her high heels. “I wasn’t going to pitch with them on, anyway.”
Brett stared down at her toes—ringed in dust and painted a soft pink. Little sparkly accents on the polish winked back in the strong sunlight. He had a sudden urge to take her feet in his hands and gently wipe away the dirt. Swallowing, he gripped the edge of the rail with his free hand. “Let’s see what you’ve got. All right, Monty?”
“Yep,” Monty answered.
This was the moment, then—the part of today’s practice when Brett showed Georgia how to pitch. It should have been Booker, but Ship had insisted it be Brett, to make up for being rude enough to turn down her interview request. She wasn’t supposed to know that, though. According to Ship, Brett was just supposed to welcome her to the Redbirds with open arms. He forced a grin at Monty.
Monty grinned too, first at Brett and then at Georgia. “Give yourself a minute to relax,” he told her, “and don’t worry about learning everything at once, okay?”
“Okay.” She pulled the ball from Brett’s mitt, and when she met his gaze, her lips parted slightly. “I might screw this all up,” she whispered.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on your form,” he whispered back.
Her mouth opened farther. “You’ll—oh.” She closed her eyes. “Right. You do that.” As she walked away, he saw her trace her lower lip with her tongue. Oh God, he was in trouble.
He trained his eyes on his teammates, who were sitting rapt with attention, staring right back at him. “Don’t fuck me over,” he said to them in a low voice.
Several of the guys shrugged. Juan gave him an innocent look, and Drew shook his head just as Booker trotted toward the rail. “Any of you idiots have your asses kicked up to your nose yet?” Booker asked loudly. Brett jerked around and gave him a death stare.
“Easy, Knox,” Monty said in a calm voice. “Focus.”
Brett let out a whoosh of air and retrieved his mask. “I know, Coach.” He turned around and walked to the plate, forcing himself not to watch as Georgia jogged out to the pitcher’s mound because he knew his teammates would be watching him watch her. Brett’s performance at today’s practice was probably the best entertainment they’d had in a long time, but it was all he could do to maintain his cool.
When he squatted behind home plate, that cool nearly vanished, because Georgia stood on the mound, her feet slightly apart, her arms raised as she twisted her soft-looking hair on top of her head. Her breasts pushed against the thin fabric of her dress, and, when she lowered her arms, her hair tumbled back down around her shoulders. Holy shit, she was killing him.
“Somebody get her a cap!” yelled Monty. Brett glanced back toward the dugout, where the guys now all stood in a motionless line, leaning on the rail, staring at Georgia.
Inexplicable jealousy surged through Brett, tightening his throat. He swallowed it down as Drew sprang into action and loped toward the mound, an extra cap in hand. Georgia settled it onto her head and pulled her hair through the opening in the back. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached for her press credentials and slipped them down the front of her dress before picking up the ball. “Here we go,” she called out and promptly executed an awkward, slow windup, stumbling to the side as she threw the ball. It landed on the dirt in front of her and then rolled a few feet. “Or not,” she said.
The guys laughed and yelled encouragement. Juan ran out on the field, grabbed the ball, and handed it to her. Brett, idiot that he was, didn’t do anything except pound his fist in his mitt and adjust his squat.
Georgia wound up again, and, this time, just as she let go of the ball, her dress flew up over her raised thigh. She shrieked and grabbed at the fabric, looking toward the dugout, where, wisely, the guys had no comment—except Booker. “Aim for Knox’s big head,” he yelled through cupped hands.
With a smile, Georgia retrieved the ball from where it had landed nearby and held it in both hands. She stared at Brett. He stared back. There was no windup this time, just a loud grunt from her cute lips as she threw the ball—over the back of her head.
Brett stood up and jogged out to her. He tipped back his mask. “Need some help?”
She sighed, her breasts rising and falling. He trained his eyes on her face.
“Want some pointers?”
She adjusted her cap and glanced away, her gaze trailing over his chest. And lower. “You asked the same question twice, but you do realize that want and need are two different things, right?” she muttered, circling her bare toe in the dirt.
“Not in this case.” While her head was bent, he gazed at her greedily—at the sprinkling of freckles over her nose, the wisps of hair floating around her delicate cheekbones. He looked at her mouth, parted with exertion and then glanced at the round, full curve of her breasts. When she glanced up, she met his eyes and went still.
Her expression had shifted from frustration to something else entirely—something that made his heart stop. There was pure lust in her eyes. It was only for a second and was quickly replaced by a brief, friendly smile, but it was unmistakable. He’d seen that look on women’s faces plenty of times before, and he knew
what it meant. With very little effort, he could charm them right into his bed. But she wasn’t just some chick at a bar—she was Georgia Fulton. And she wanted him. His heart raced.
She blew hair out of her eyes. “Well, no matter whether I need it or want it, you’d better go ahead and show me.”
“Show you?”
“How to throw the ball well enough that it crosses home plate. I’m determined not to embarrass myself Friday night.”
“Not a problem,” Brett said. He cleared his throat and stepped around her, searching the grass for the ball. It was five feet away, and, mechanically, he picked it up and walked back to her. “Okay, watch. Plant your feet and use the momentum of your body to follow through.” He went into an easy windup and mimicked throwing the ball.
“That’s what I was doing,” she protested. “Didn’t I look just like that?”
No, she’d looked like a drunk flamingo, but Brett didn’t have the heart to correct her. “You know, it’s okay to throw it underhanded,” he said. “Lots of ceremonial pitches are done that way.”
“Screw that! Let me try again.”
Chuckling, Brett handed her the ball. “All one motion. See the ball crossing the plate before you even wind up.” He stepped back—way back—and watched her hungrily from behind as she positioned her feet. The sun shone right through her thin dress, and he allowed himself to ogle the shadowy curves of her thighs and hips.
“You watching?” she called.
“No!” Brett paused. “I mean, yeah. Go ahead.”
With a nod, Georgia raised one leg, lunged forward and threw. This time the ball went straight but didn’t quite make it to the plate before falling into the grass. The guys in the dugout cheered, but Georgia blew out a disgusted breath and went to retrieve the ball. It occurred to Brett that he probably ought to get the ball for her, or at least get back behind home plate, but he couldn’t seem to make his feet move in that direction. Instead, he walked back to the mound.
“Your form looked pretty good that time,” he commented.
