Flight Risk (Antiques in Flight) (30 page)

“What the hell is going on?” Callie demanded through gritted teeth.

“I’ve been thinking. A lot these past few days. I got to thinking that we might as well go ahead and get married.”

Callie reached out for something to hold on to for balance. All this hallucinating was about to make her faint. Except there was nothing to hold, until Trevor took her hand.

“If we get married, we’ll have kids. If we have kids, one, if not all of them, are going to inherit the psychotic part of your brain that thinks riding around in a tiny contraption thousands of feet above the ground is a good idea. So, you’re not selling the Stearman.”

“I’m not?”

“Er, okay, let me rephrase. It wouldn’t be the best idea for you to sell the Stearman. It means a lot to you and it would be nice if it was around for those inevitably crazy children.” He flashed his best charming smile. “Please.”

Shelby scurried up to him and dropped a velvet box in Trevor’s hand. Callie blinked a few times, gave in and sank onto the grass, letting Trevor’s hand slip through her fingers. “This is a dream, right? I’m losing my mind.”

He crouched next to her and opened the box to a simple silver band dotted with white sparkling gems. “Afraid not.”

“Okay.” Callie took a deep breath, let it out. “This isn’t too fast?”

“I’ve known you my whole life. I wouldn’t say it’s too fast.”

“Okay.” The word kept repeating in her head and she tried to focus over all the feelings roaring through her mind.

“Going to let me put it on?” He just kept
smiling
like this was the most normal thing to be doing.

“Okay.” He took her hand in his and slid the silver band onto her finger. She stared down on it, tried to come up with a joke so she didn’t give in to the impulse to cry. “Not much of a rock, is it?”

Trevor chuckled. “Figured that wasn’t your style.”

“No. No, it isn’t.” Finally she managed the courage to look up at Trevor. He looked so sure, that stupid cocky grin on his face. If he was sure, maybe she could be too.

She reached up and touched his face. “Getting married as in wedding, white dress, tux, the whole bit?”

“Kind of what I had in mind. And then, the best part.”

“What’s that?”

“The rest of our lives, together.” He pulled her onto her feet, and then into the circle of his arms. “I love you.”

She leaned against his warm strength, felt it melt away much of the panic. And the panic that was left was manageable. “I love you.”

No matter what happened, she’d believe in this amazing promise.

About the Author

Nicole Helm grew up with her nose in a book and a dream of becoming a writer. Luckily, after a few failed career choices, a husband, and two kids, she gets to pursue that dream. There is nothing Nicole enjoys more than writing about strong women and the handsome men who win their hearts.

Nicole lives in Missouri with her husband and two sons, and writes her novels one baby's nap at a time. She's slightly (okay, totally) addicted to Twitter (@nicolethelm), loves watching the St. Louis Cardinals, and, much to her husband's dismay, just about any reality competition show.

You can contact her via email:
[email protected]
or visit her website:
nicolehelm.wordpress.com

She’d be the perfect catch if he could take his eye off the ball.

Pitch Perfect

© 2013 Sierra Dean

Boys of Summer, Book 1

Emmy Kasper knows exactly how lucky she is. In a sport with few opportunities for women at the pro level, she’s just landed her dream job as head athletic trainer for the San Francisco Felons baseball team. Screwing up is not an option.

She’s lost in thought as she pedals to the spring training facility, her mind abuzz with excitement as she rounds a corner—and plows head-on into two runners. The end of her career dances before her eyes when she realizes she’s almost run over the star pitcher.

As Tucker Lloyd watches the flustered Emmy escape with his bandana tied around her skinned knee, the view is a pleasant change from worrying about his flagging fastball. At thirty-six, the tail end of his career is glimmering on the horizon. If he can’t pull something extraordinary out of his ball cap, the new crop of rookies could make this season his last.

The last thing either of them needs is a distraction.

The last thing either of them expects is love.

Warning: Contains a down-on-his-luck pitcher, a good-girl athletic therapist, chemistry that’s out of the park and sexy times that’ll make them round all the bases.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Pitch Perfect:

Emmy Kasper had been thinking about her luck when she managed to drive her bike headfirst into a batch of the bad kind.

She’d been so busy musing about her new job she’d sort of neglected to think about the important things in the present, like watching the road for joggers. When the two men stepped out in front of her, she was struck by a moment of absolute stupidity.

Oh, there are people in the road. What should I do?

A second later, her brain caught up.
Oh shit, there are people in the road and I’m about to fucking hit them.

She shrieked, because screaming like a girl seemed to be the only thing she could think of to warn them. It worked, because two heads pivoted towards her as she finally remembered how the handbrakes on her bike functioned and squeezed down on them for all they were worth.

The world went upside down suddenly, and she was vaulted from her bike seat ass over handlebars and landed in a heap directly in between the two men she’d narrowly avoided maiming. Adding insult to injury, her bike decided to keep rolling forward and only stopped when it slammed into her. Pain formed an ache at the center of her back, but it was the giant smear of blood on her knee that really caught her attention. The line of blood on the pavement didn’t look so good either.

In spite of all evidence she was the only one who’d been hurt, she awkwardly blurted out, “Are you guys okay?”

“Aside from almost being killed?” This from the shorter, slightly chubbier of the two.

“We’re fine, are you okay?”

When Emmy finally focused on the taller of the two, her heart caught in her throat, and it wasn’t because he was gorgeous. Which he was. Staggeringly so. No, she kind of wanted to curl up and die because of
who
he was.

“Oh, Christ. You’re Tucker Lloyd.”

“Guilty.” He crouched beside her and reached his hand out to her. She was so awestruck by his long, beautiful fingers she didn’t realize what he was doing until he’d already rolled up her ripped pant leg. Emmy let out a shuddering breath and gasped when his fingers brushed against her knee.

“Ow.”

“Sorry.”

The jolt of pain brought Emmy back to her senses. She appreciated Tucker’s immediate attention to her injury, but she should have been able to take care of it herself. And not in the
I’m a tough, modern girl, I can handle myself
kind of way. In the
I’m an athletic trainer, and dealing with this is my job
kind of way.

She tried to pull away, but his fingers tensed. The feel of his calloused skin, hot against her—thankfully shaved—knee made her shudder involuntarily. He gave a brief, concerned smile as one might to an injured animal that was ready to bolt.

“Let me look at it,” he instructed. His voice was soft, but she could tell he meant business.

She started to argue since she was perfectly capable of fixing her own oozing road rash, thank you very much, but when he pushed the hem of her pants higher, Emmy relaxed into his touch and sat on the hard ground staring at him. Her back and bloody knee throbbed in time with her fluttering pulse.

Tucker removed the bandana he wore over his dark brown hair and gave her another tentative smile.

“Oh, um, you really don’t need to do that,” she insisted. In her medically trained mind, Emmy thought,
Oh yeah, awesome plan, clean my wound with a sweaty bandana.
She placed her fingers on his wrist in an attempt to stay his hand. It was nice to have a smoking-hot MVP pitcher attending to her, but he was the MVP pitcher
she
would soon be attending to. Professionally. How could he respect her as his therapist if he thought she didn’t know how to look after a little scrape?

“It’s okay, I know what I’m doing,” Tucker insisted, his gaze meeting hers, and up close she got a chance to marvel at his famous eyes.

A lot of baseball players had pretty eyes. Sometimes it was all you could make out of a man with the brim of his cap pulled low and a serious scowl on his face. Tucker’s eyes were famous because of how unusual they were, though.

He had heterochromia—a mouthful to say, but a glory to behold. One eye was a warm melted-chocolate brown. The other was so blue it put the spring sky to shame. He was a bit of a freak, but in a good way.

Staring at his eyes made her forget whatever argument she’d been about to make, and she pulled her hand away from his wrist.

Oh, what the hell? He’s just trying to help.
She made a mental note to douse her knee in rubbing alcohol when she got home.

Besides, his touch
was
distracting her from the pain, and that was something she wouldn’t have been able to do on her own.

She looked from Tucker to his friend, and knowing who the pitcher was, the realization of his sidekick’s identity sank in. Alex Ross. She’d almost run over the star pitcher and the team’s only reliable catcher, all in one fell swoop.

For someone who’d been hired to keep the players of the San Francisco Felons in good working order, Emmy was doing a hell of a job.

She’d joined the Felons club over the winter as their new head athletic trainer. The competition had been fierce—every trainer worth their salt wanted to have an MLB team on their resume—but she’d been the only candidate who needed more than mere skills. She was a woman seeking access into the almost totally male-dominated world of professional baseball, and she’d known from the outset getting her dream job wouldn’t be easy.

But she’d fought for it, clawing her way up the ladder from intern to the head of the athletic department at her alma mater. She had her master’s degree while many of the men in her profession made do with their bachelor’s degrees and prominent internships. More than anything, though, she had a passion for baseball, and it had shown when she’d gone through her interviews.

It wasn’t only about a good job. Emmy had wanted to be an integral part of the team. She wanted to matter to the clubhouse. Even if she couldn’t play the game herself, she wanted to do her part to lead a team to victory.

She’d never been a cheerleader, or a baseball groupie. Emmy was a true lover of the game, and she’d laid her desires on the table during her interview. She must have seemed crazy to the managers, but something about it stuck out because they offered her the job later that same day, and a week later she was moving from snowy Chicago to Northern California.

And now—on her first day at spring training—she’d almost taken two key players in the Felons lineup off their roster.

“I’m
so
sorry,” she said, directing her comment to Alex since Tucker was focused on her leg, and she didn’t think she could watch him work without cringing over his improper medical hygiene.

“It’s nothing to get bent out of shape over,” Alex said, then laughed like he’d made a joke only he understood. Normally it would drive Emmy crazy when a guy thought of himself as hilarious, but Alex somehow managed to make his boorish behavior charming in a ridiculous sort of way.

It also kept her mind off the fact that Tucker had wrapped his bandana around her knee, until he secured it snugly and the extra pressure brought her attention reeling back to the pain. “
Oh.
Ow. Owowowowow.”

“That’s going to swell something nasty. You’re going to want to—”

“Ice it. I know.” She could let him be the knight in shining armor if he wanted to, but she wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t know how to look after her knee.

“You a doctor or something?” Alex asked, his tone teasing.

“Or something.” In spite of the fact they would be meeting her officially in a few short hours at the team’s first practice, this wasn’t how she’d imagined introducing herself. And she couldn’t bring herself to tell
the
Tucker Lloyd she was his new athletic trainer after he’d gone to all the effort of wrapping her up. Especially not when he was kneeling by her side, giving her such a sweet, concerned look.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem. You think you can stand up?” He offered her his hand.

Emmy was struck dumb momentarily when she met his eyes. She shifted her gaze, staring at his hand like she didn’t understand what its purpose was. “Stand up?” She must have still been woozy from the fall.

“Like, on your feet?” Alex suggested. “Did you sustain any head injuries we didn’t see?”

“No,” she said with forced certainty and took Tucker’s hand, letting him draw her up to a standing position. The front of their bodies brushed against each other, making her cheeks flush. His chest was hard and toned and felt warm through the threadbare material of his shirt.