Sliding Home

by Carly Keene

  Sliding Home

  Bringing the Heat Book 1

  Carly Keene

  Thistle Knoll Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 Carly Keene

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by millieg0414 at Fiverr.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  Olivia

  I don’t even know why I bid on this contract.

  I mean, yeah, my brand-new little catering company really needed the job, both for the cash and for building my reputation. Tastewise is my baby and I’ve poured everything into it, from my culinary school experience to my years working a taco truck in the park, from my spare cash to my spare hours. I work hard, and I’m proud of it.

  But due to some delays with my Small Business Loan, I didn’t get up and rolling on time to get my name out for the graduation season, or the spring and summer wedding seasons—all my potential clients had booked their caterers by late March. I bid too low for one contract, and they didn’t take the bid seriously. I bid too high for the next one, and didn’t get the contract.

  So I did something rash. I put in a bid to cater players’ game-day meals and food for the executive suites for our local minor league baseball team, the Rivertown Rowdies.

  Thing is, I didn’t really understand how much the schedule would change every week. Just for example, the Rowdies are playing five home games this week: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I had this charmingly naïve idea that all the weekend games would be in the daytime, and I might be free to pick up an emergency wedding gig here and there.

  Nope.

  They’re all night games except Sunday. That’s really on me, because I didn’t research well enough to know what I was getting into. And I didn’t research well because I was rushed and unprepared and desperate. Which I can only partly blame the SBL for, because I should have known bureaucratic red tape would get in the way, and I was working every hour I could scrounge doing restaurant prep-chef work, trying to make some bank before I quit getting a paycheck signed by somebody else.

  So, again, kinda my fault but not really. But kinda.

  The schedule is inconvenient. The menus are not that interesting. The executive suite gets things like crab cakes and pulled pork and fresh veggies with dip, plus desserts like mango cheesecake; the players get wrap sandwiches and plain fresh fruit and crunchy stuff like pretzel sticks. I set out cupcakes for them after the game starts.

  And one of the two owner guys never talks to my face. He talks to my boobs like they contain microphones and he could order up a milkshake if he just aimed his face right. Not that it’s never happened to me before, but it’s never comfortable. Guys like that, in the era of #metoo? Complete entitled assholes, and short-sighted into the bargain.

  Plus, it’s baseball. I’m allowed to watch the games, not that I really care that much about baseball anymore.

  So all in all, I’m pretty sure I’m never gonna bid on this contract again. Like ever. In my life.

  In the meantime, I cash my checks and count my blessings. I don’t think about my dad.

  This Thursday evening after I set up the executive suite, I am exhausted. I have a Red Hat Society lunch to cater tomorrow as well as the Friday night game, and I’ve got to get everything up and running early tomorrow, and I haven’t even put out the player meals yet. As I’m turning the corner into the meal hall just off the locker room, carrying a tray of southwest chicken wraps, I nearly run smack into a player.

  At least, I assume it’s a player, given that my nose is practically smooshed into a chest hard as wood under a red-and-black Rowdies jersey. “Ow.”

  “You okay?” The voice is deep and amused.

  “Yeah,” I say, rebalancing the tray. “Can’t say the same for your dinner.” Some of the wraps have unrolled, spilling shredded cheddar and grilled chicken across the tray. Damn.

  “It’s okay,” the guy says. “Even if it’s a little messy, it’s still miles ahead of the PB&Js and bagged chips a lot of teams provide. And the grapes are good, too.”

  I can’t help smiling, because I do pride myself on knowing how to choose produce.

  “So thanks for providing these delicious sandwiches,” the guy says, and finally I look up at him. I nearly gasp, because this guy is sexy. Like, hella sexy. Tall, a little older than the average player, with tiny lines at the corners of his mouth. Brown hair cut short. Eyes the color of melted chocolate. A little beard stubble. And a chest, as I say, hard as wood. “Hey, I’m Justin Maddox and I keep seeing you everywhere.”

  It takes me a good ten seconds to find words that aren’t You, me, horizontal surface, now. Because I don’t do that. Even if for the first time in my life, I kinda want to. “Um. Hi. I’m Olivia Wilson. From Tastewise.”

  I stick out my hand. He takes it. And holds it. All kinds of quivers and shivers and shakes and tremors assault me, and I just hope he can’t feel them through my fingers the way I feel them through my ladyparts.

  This is so not me.

  “Nice to meet you, Olivia.”

  I manage an inarticulate hmm. The warmth of his fingers is distracting.

  “We all appreciate the food, Olivia. You do a good job.” He smiles. “You ever stay for the games?”

  I shake my head, and finally, enough air gets into my lungs. “I’m pretty busy. So—Justin—what do you play?” Not that I care; I’m just being nice.

  “Third base,” he says. I blink hard: he’s kind of a big guy for third. I’d have thought first base, or designated hitter. Or catcher. He must notice my surprise, because he makes a self-deprecating face. “I’m not the fastest trey in the league, but I can still make the throw.” The long one to first, he must mean. Reflexively, I check out his muscled biceps and forearms, and the shiver in my ladyparts gets worse.

  What is wrong with me?

  I pull my hand out of his, embarrassed at my body’s reaction. “So nice to meet you. I need to get the rest of the food in here, so, um, have a great game! Thanks!”

  And I practically run past him, trying to cover my bizarre feelings with busyness. I fix the sandwiches on the tray, go get the cupcakes, arrange paper plates and napkins. I ignore the male bodies in the room, and then I escape to the freight elevator, to go monitor the executive suite and keep that food fresh.

  But my blood continues to rush around my veins like a NASCAR driver trying to make up lost laps. And my panties get damp, inside my black catering uniform.

  I try my best to keep from remembering Justin Maddox’s hand holding mine.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Justin

  It’s only June, and damn, but it feels like it’s already been a long season. Minor leagues play games from April through August, and playoffs into September. We’re not even halfway through.

  Maybe it just feels long because this might be my last one. Baseball players have a short playing life—maybe not as short as football players, but the truth is that you lose some zip as you get older. I’m thirty. I ain’t got the zip I had at nineteen.

  And I don’t have the hope I had then, either. I did make it all the way up to Triple-A ball when I was 26. An injury sent me back to single-A, and I’ve been bouncing around the Appalachian League ever since. I told myself in March: this is it. This is my last season. If I don’t get called up, I’m done.

  I should have a plan for that, but I don’t. I’m still batting well. I still
Tabasco my throws to first, and I’ve got a shot.

  I’ve also got the hots for the caterer.

  I see her all the time outside the ballpark. She must live in a neighborhood near my apartment, because I see her riding her bike on the Greenway pretty frequently. I saw her once at the farmers’ market, sniffing fruit with her eyes closed, and at the DMV getting her driver’s license renewed. I don’t think she’s ever really seen me, though. She’s focused full-speed-ahead. I have to admire that.

  Besides, she is a beautiful curvy woman. (Okay, so maybe I noticed that first.) And yeah, okay, I used to spend time with the baseball groupies, back when I was young and stupid and all I wanted was a hot, no-strings lay. I’ve been done with that shit for at least five years now, but I’ve never found a woman who felt like she would fit me, fit my life, be mine and let me be hers.

  Even though I run into this woman all the time, this is the first time I’ve ever literally run into her. Even with her hands full of a platter of sandwiches, what I notice most is that she’s soft, all the way down where our bodies touch. I can smell her hair: vanilla and something flowery.

  Up close I’m captivated by her eyes. They’re light brown, almost golden, like toffee. And her hair’s up in its usual caterer bun, but I know it’s golden brown too, with blonder streaks in it. She has a sweet, kissable mouth and freckles across her nose, and she feels nice mashed up against my chest. I’m caveman enough that my dick jumps inside my uniform pants, all that softness pressed up against me.

  After I manage to let her go, which isn’t easy, I introduce myself. Turns out her name is Olivia. She doesn’t take her hand out of mine until it’s pretty obvious I’m into her, and then she gets all flustered and red-cheeked, and rushes off to the executive suite.

  She says she doesn’t watch the games, but in my mind, I’m playing for her, and my game goes well. I get a single down the middle in the 5th inning, and I field well with no errors. I get on base in the 9th with a walk, with us down by two, and I make my aging knees carry me around the bases as the heart of the batting order comes up and keeps getting hits. I score with an RBI, bringing my season total to 21. Nice.

  I take a chance and glance up toward the executive suite, hoping to see a rounded, curvy someone in a black chef jacket peeking out the corner of the window. No such luck.

  After the game I hang around a little longer than usual, avoiding the crowd of guys heading out to Shenanigans for a drink and a late dinner. I ice my knees, and I wait. Coach comes by, tells me I’m looking good. I wait a little longer, but still no Olivia.

  I get dressed in jeans and a black shirt, and snag one more chocolate cupcake from the diminished pile. Then there she is with her utility cart, throwing away leftover food and gathering her serving platters, yawning.

  “Hey,” I say, and sling my bag over my shoulder. “Need a hand?”

  “Oh, no, I got it,” she says, her cheeks going red again.

  “No, seriously,” I offer. “I can push the cart for you. I do have muscles.” Okay, that was cheesy. I’m not above being cheesy.

  She flashes a surprised grin at me. “I have half a mind to just let you. Then you’d know what you let yourself in for.”

  “Well, try me.”

  She nods. “All right then.”

  I help her clean up. We take the cart up to the suite in the freight elevator, and I find a place to park it, out of the way, while she goes in and gathers up her catering equipment. Apparently the fancy guys get fancy food, heated in chafing dishes.

  “Why don’t you watch the games much?” I ask.

  She shrugs and turns away from me. “Just not my thing.”

  There’s something in her voice that says she’s holding back, that I’m not getting the whole story here. Plenty of girls aren’t that interested in sports. Which is fine, I don’t have problems with people not liking what I like. But there’s something else going on with Olivia.

  “Can I help you at all?”

  She hands me a platter with the devastated remains of cheesecake brownies on it. “Can you throw these away, please?”

  “Shame you can’t save ‘em,” I say, dismayed. They smell like heaven.

  “Well, eat them. Or take home whatever you want. I just can’t serve them again; food service has rules about that.”

  I grab the heavy-duty foil packet and wrap up several brownies. “How’d you get into food service anyway?”

  Olivia laughs. “I like to make people happy with my food. And I did get tired of working in restaurants. You never have your weekends or nights free.” She shrugs. “Of course, I didn’t think about that when I took this contract.”

  It’s past ten p.m., but I guess restaurant people don’t get home until much later.

  “Looks like you could use an assistant,” I observe.

  “I should make enough money to pay an assistant,” she says ruefully. “I’m a start-up. That’s a goal for next year.”

  We talk more in the freight elevator, taking her utility cart down to the main level and then out to her beat-up catering van with Tastewise painted on the side. “I love to cook,” I blurt out. It’s true—although my repertoire is pretty limited to omelets and stuff you can cook on a grill. But it makes me happy. I used to do this with my dad, after my mom died. We’d be outside cooking on the grill in any weather, because Dad couldn’t manage baking to save his life.

  It’s okay.

  For the first time, I get a full-on smile from Olivia, one that shows off the deep dimple in her round cheek. “Yeah, me too.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Olivia

  Last night was the first time I’d talked to any of the players, after pulling a complete blinders-on act. I think about the heat in Justin Maddox’s eyes and shiver at the remembered effect on my body. I watched part of the game last night, and it was exciting, watching him and the second baseman pull a perfect double play and get two guys from the other team out at once. I watched the strength in his back and his long legs, and I thought naughty thoughts.

  I shake it off and make chicken salad royale for the Red Hat ladies, with tarragon and halved red grapes and chopped pecans, and Greek yogurt subbing in for half the mayonnaise. I slice the croissants and I make a truly artistic fresh-fruit platter, as well as a platter of raspberry-almond macarons. Nobody’s going to fault me on my presentation, anyway.

  Later, I get the other tub of fresh-made chicken salad out and make sandwiches for the baseball players with it, on whole-wheat bread this time. But Justin isn’t playing in this game; instead, there’s a skinny teenager with long legs at third base. I pack up on my own; I head home on my own.

  It’s a beautiful Friday night, and I look up at the indigo sky, wishing I could share it with someone.

  Justin, my ladyparts whisper.

  Shut up, I whisper back. Men are unreliable. Look at my dad, if you want an example.

  I sigh, take a shower and wash the smell of crab cakes out of my hair, and tumble into bed alone.

  On Saturday, I have some free time in the morning before I have to go set up for the night game. It’s cool now, but by 9 a.m. it’ll be a misery of heat. I grab my helmet and unlock my bicycle from the rack in front of my apartment, and I head for the Rivertown Greenway. It’s a beautiful space that winds along the river, and on this sunny summer day, it’s pretty busy with joggers and old ladies walking together, families with strollers, other cyclists, you name it. The skate park echoes with shouts and laughter. The ball fields close to the hospital are lively with kids in rec-league t-shirts and their parents cheering.

  It’s everything I love about Rivertown.

  On my way back past the ball fields, I’m streaming with sweat from the humidity. I stop by the fields and get off the path, wheeling my bike over to where I can see kids in orange shirts on the bench and kids in lime green out in the field.

  Up close, they’re little girls with wildly colored knee socks. There’s a short ponytailed redhead in a catcher’s mask and che
st protector, hopping up from her knee-down stance to leap for a pop-up and fist-pumping when she catches it for the out. “Good job, Lil 3!” the pitcher shouts, one brown hand to her mouth and her puffball pigtails sticking out from under her cap.

  “Bang another strike in here, Keesha!” the redhead yells back, waving her catcher’s mitt. “You got this!”

  Keesha throws three strikes in a row, and the lime-green team leaves the field for the benches, gathering up in a clunch around their coach, slinging arms of different colors around each other.

  I remember the feel of my hair in braids under a ball cap and infield dirt on my shorts. My eyes sting with the bittersweet feeling of days I can never get back.

  “I thought you didn’t like baseball,” a deep voice says behind me.

  I whirl. It’s Justin Maddox, sweaty and barechested and desirable. He’s been out running. Other than the sweat, he looks unfazed by the exercise, whereas I know my face is a splotchy red.

  Oh dear Lord he’s gorgeous. My nipples tighten under my sports bra, and heat builds in my belly.

  “I don’t,” I say flatly. “Not anymore. Anyway, this is softball. Different game.”

  “Not so different,” he says back. “Bats. Mitts. Three strikes, you’re out.” He looks me over. “Did you play?”

  I shrug. “Used to.”

  “Why did you quit?”

  “Got too old. I should probably go. My heart rate’s dropped already.”

  “I like to watch the kids play,” he says, coming a little closer. I can smell his skin and something else, maybe deodorant. He smells good. “Makes me remember I’m lucky to play a game as a job.”

  “What do you do when you’re not playing?” I ask.

  “Athletic trainer.” He smiles. “This is the first time I’ve seen you out riding when you actually stopped. What made you stop today?”