Various States of Undress (14 page)

“You ready?” she asked him.

“Uh-huh.” He straightened up, but, with only fifteen seconds to go, he put his fingers between his lips and gave a sharp whistle. When the room went quiet again, he grinned at his teammates. “Hey, dumbasses!” What do you call a baseball player with four balls?” The guys stared at him in anticipation.

“What?” Juan asked.

“Hell if I know, but he's happy just to be able to walk.” Booker turned his grin on Georgia, and the room erupted in laughter.

After a beat, she gave in and chuckled, envisioning a wide-eyed guy duck-walking from home plate to first base. It was stupid. Juvenile. And totally hilarious. Her giggles turned into a belly laugh just as the calm voice in her ear announced, “We're live.”

Oh shit
. Georgia turned to the camera and cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, Memphis. This is Georgia Fulton reporting lively—err—live from the
lively
Redbirds clubhouse. I hope you're ready to hear about baseball because I'm ready for a great discussion with these guys today.”

As she paused to take a breath, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and glanced over to find Brett three feet away, staring at her. He gave her a wink.

Anxiety shot straight through her. “First on my list is veteran pitcher Booker Graham. Booker, what's your opinion about the strain travel takes on the family life of ball players?” She held the microphone out.

Booker's eyes widened. “Uh . . . it's not great, I guess?”

“Could you elaborate?”

“Nope. I'm not married.” He gave a thumbs-up to the camera, and the players laughed again. Georgia laughed along with them because she had to, but the sound coming out of her mouth was an unnatural, robotic staccato. Not good.

“Thanks, Booker,” she said quickly. “Next we'll talk to Drew Pennington. Drew, could you tell me about the pressure of being the youngest player on arguably one of the most valuable triple-A clubs in the United States?”

She held out the microphone again, only realizing after the fact that Drew was nowhere nearby. Careful to keep the smile on her face, she let her gaze sweep across the line of players. Drew was shouldering his way through them, and he loped forward. In his haste to get through, he tripped a little and reached out to wrap his hands around the extended mic.

“Hey, there. I'd like to give a shout out to my hometown of Scranton, Pennsylvania. Whassup, Scranton?” He took a gulping breath and continued. “To answer your question, yes, I am a rookie.” He paused. “Thank you.”

Two seconds later, he backed up and left her standing there, the mic dangling from her fingers. Quickly, she righted it and smiled for the camera again. But before she could say another word, a hand touched her shoulder lightly and a familiar low voice whispered in her free ear. “Keep it simple, sugar.” She sucked in a silent breath and nodded.

“Thank you, Drew. Um, next I'll be speaking with star catcher, Brett Knox.” She paused for a moment. The question she'd planned to ask him about growing up in the shadow of AutoZone Park suddenly seemed like a bad idea. He might've ditched the interview earlier because he was still afraid to talk with her, so if she asked him something that personal on live TV, what would he say? Maybe nothing.

Keep it simple
. That meant ridiculous, rhetorical questions, didn't it? The kind Olympic athletes were asked, like—hey, how does it feel to have a gold medal? Duh.

Georgia almost rolled her eyes, but the field producer caught her eye, and made circular motions in the air with his hands. Keep it moving. Right.

She nodded again. “So Brett, how
amazing
does it feel to hit a home run?”

“Pretty amazing, Georgia,” he answered. “There's nothing like it. I'd have to say the best part is hearing the fans go crazy. I love running those bases because I get to look up in the stands and share the excitement with all the loyal people who truly love the great game of baseball.”

She stared into his twinkling eyes, a smile frozen on her face.

What a bullshit answer. What a
great
answer, though. “That has to be wonderful, I would imagine.”

“It is.” He looked at the camera. “I'm hoping to do it today, so y'all watching out there, keep your eyes open and stay tuned. The Redbirds are about to play ball.”

“Yes, you took the words right out of my mouth, Brett.” Georgia smiled into the camera, noting the producer signaling for her to wrap it up. It was over already? Strange. The last few minutes had seemed like an eternity.

“This is Georgia Fulton, reporting live from the Redbirds clubhouse.” She paused, detesting having to add the tagline, but Joan had insisted. “WHAP news. We're Memphis to the bone.”

The players, all at once, let out a long howl, and Georgia nearly jumped out of her skin. In front of her, Wagner grinned, and so did the field producer. A few seconds later, the light went off on the camera, and Georgia turned to the team with wide eyes. “What the hell was that for?”

They cracked up. “You don't know?” Juan asked. “We do it every time we get interviewed. Memphis to the bone—we're barking like dogs.”

“Fans love it,” Booker added.

Next to her, Brett shifted, his chest brushing her shoulder. “It's true.”

She turned slowly and looked at him. “Where were you this morning?” she asked in a low voice.

“I'll tell you, but not here. Let me make a phone call. Don't leave, okay?” He touched her arm briefly and threaded his way through the guys, who were busy horsing around.

Georgia joined Courtney near the doorway. “I need to hang around.”

“Okay. Do you know how long?”

“Not long.” Georgia doubted that Brett had a lot to say, but whatever it was, she was entitled to hear it.

A few minutes later, Georgia was telling the WHAP crew good-bye when Brett reappeared. “We're going to the luxury box up on three,” he informed her. “It's the only one not booked today.”

Immediately, Courtney spoke into her wrist mic, and, not long after that, Georgia walked up the stairs beside Brett—Ernie leading the way and Courtney behind. When she stepped into the hallway at the top of the steps, the door to the press box was open, and noise hummed from inside. It occurred to her that she hadn't seen the inside of it since the first time she'd been to the park. The day that she'd met Brett—and she'd predicted that she was headed straight into a hot mess.

She glanced at Brett, who gave her a winning smile, and, with a barely contained sigh, she waited as Ernie opened the door to the luxury box to scope out the room. Her heart sped up when Ernie returned, and a moment later she ducked inside with Brett, leaving Courtney and Ernie standing on the other side, their arms folded, their expressions serious.

Georgia glanced at the comfy-looking couch and armchairs and then across the room at the sliding glass doors, which offered a panoramic view of the field. She walked over to the doors and looked down at the seats below. The stadium was filling with people, and the jumbotron played highlights from previous Redbirds games. The words “Knox the Fox” splashed across the screen, followed by footage of Brett making a spectacular play at home plate.

“There you are,” Georgia said.

“Yeah,” he responded. But that was it.

Georgia turned and gazed at him, her arms crossed over her middle. “What did you want to tell me, Brett?”

“There's a lot I should say.” He took his ball cap off, ran his hand through his thick hair, and tossed the cap onto a chair. “A lot I've been meaning to say, but—”

“But you're not going to.” She turned back to the glass doors. “I still have to write my story, you know. My entire internship depends on it.”

Brett didn't respond, but a moment later she felt him standing close behind her. He took her shoulders gently and turned her around. “Georgia. I'm sorry I didn't show up this morning. I have no excuse other than my own . . . worries. I played like shit in Omaha, and it's because I couldn't concentrate.”

“Why?” She gazed into his warm brown eyes, willing herself not to get lost.

“Among other things, you,” he answered.

“Why?” she repeated, knowing it was a leading question.

Brett's hands trailed down her arms, and he cupped her elbows with his long fingers. “I can't stop thinking about you. Haven't been able to stop for months.”

“Months?” She let the word roll around in her mind.
Months
. But that would mean . . . what? He'd admired her from afar or something? Ridiculous.

“I see from your frown that I've officially freaked you out,” he said dryly.

She shook her head. “You've never seen me when I'm officially freaking out. This isn't it.”

“Okay.” Brett let go of her elbows but didn't move away. “I never intended to tell you that I was your—” He paused. “Not sure how to put this without sounding like a creeper. Uh, that I was your biggest fan? Secret admirer? Yeah, both of those things. I wasn't going to bring it up because I never imagined that you and I would . . .”

“Kiss?” She blurted the word before she could stop.

He stared down at her, his smile growing bigger, and she began to melt. “I was going to say ‘meet.' But ‘kiss' is good. Was that an invitation?”

She laughed. “You can't stop being a player for more than thirty seconds, can you? And I'm not talking about baseball.”

“I wasn't being a player just now.” He angled his head and gazed at her. “I'm not playing you, Georgia.”

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe all of it—that he'd admired her from afar for months, which seemed too good to be true. That type of thing only happened to real celebrities—of the Hollywood variety—not Georgia. Real stars were involved with gorgeous pro athletes all the time, but she'd never made it past asshole college athletes. Not that she'd ever tried. There was a huge gap in plausibility, and she didn't see how she fit into it at all.

“There's no reason for me to lie,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “I've liked you ever since that fundraiser for your dad. I saw you in that ballroom at the Peabody, and I . . . I couldn't look away. You were so pretty, and then I looked you up online.” He grimaced. “Okay, that sounded creepy, but I did. When I found out how smart you were, that did it for me.” He paused. “I never expected to actually meet you, and, when the other guys figured out that I had a celebrity crush, they gave me absolute hell. Now that you're here, it's worse. I threatened to kick their asses if they said anything.”

Georgia looked away from him, her eyes wide and her face growing hot. She remembered the Peabody too—but she'd been looking at all of the players—no,
judging
the players by their looks. It had never occurred to her that one of them would be looking back. Or that she'd had a secret admirer as amazing as Brett.

“Did the guys say anything to you?” he asked.

“They didn't say a word. This is a bit of a shock, I have to admit.”

“Well, admitting it doesn't come easy to me, but I figured I oughta tell you.” He rubbed his forehead.

“Thanks.” She melted a little bit more.

“Do you believe me?”

She looked into his eyes, and something incredible happened. Her heart told her logical brain to shut up. Told her to act on the exhilarating, unfamiliar feelings spreading through her middle.

“I don't know who you thought I was at the fundraiser, Brett, or who you think I am now, but the real me was, until recently, restrained. Clear-headed.” She glanced away from him. “And then I met you.”

He took her hand. “The real you is a hell of a lot more interesting than what I'd imagined. Funnier. Smarter. And more gorgeous.”

Her face flooded with heat at his words. “Thank you. The real you is a hell of a lot funnier and smarter than I'd given you credit for too.”

“What about gorgeous?”

Her smile got bigger. “No. That's pretty much the same as the day I met you.”

“Ouch.” He chuckled and pretended to pull away, but she held fast. In fact, she found herself leading him toward the sofa. When she pushed him down onto the cushions, he raised his eyebrows, and a thrill went straight up her spine. Encouraged, she settled close to him and curled her fingers over his broad shoulders.

“You see, I kind of have this thing for athletes.” She let her fingers drift down, resting them on his chest.

“All athletes?”

“Pretty much any guy in tight uniform pants, yeah. Especially the ones who are charming. But I don't actually give them the time of day.” She pulled him closer until her mouth was inches from his. Was she really doing this? Seducing him?

He sucked in a breath. “Really.”

“Yeah.” She let her fingers drift across the Redbirds logo on his chest. “Unless, of course, I become so enamored that I can't think straight.”

Brett's arm came around her. “What are you thinking now?” he whispered against her mouth.

His scent, his warmth, flooded her senses. “I have no idea,” she said.

He kissed her. The touch of his lips was so light, so gentle that it was all she could do not to beg for more. “Georgia, I'm for real, and I want you so bad, I can't even . . .” He turned his head, his breath hot against the side of her neck.

The desire that had been building since the moment she met him spilled over, and suddenly she was hot everywhere. Her breasts ached. Her thighs trembled. Her hands fisted the front of his jersey. “I'm for real too,” she said in a raspy voice she didn't recognize. “I believe you.”

With a groan, Brett took her mouth in a scorching kiss and pressed her down flat, her back against the sofa cushions. His hands were everywhere, brushing over her hips, sliding up her ribcage, palming her breasts. His caresses weren't desperate—instead, they were deliberately seductive, like his lips had been the first time he'd kissed her.