Various States of Undress (9 page)

He was definitely not an asshole. He was dreamy. That thought made her stomach jump again before Monty offered her a glove and ball. She took them and trotted out to the pitcher's mound as the cheers swelled with the crowd's anticipation. She shrugged her shoulders against the stiff, snowy-white Redbirds home jersey, shoved the brand-new baseball glove onto her right hand, and squeezed the baseball in her left.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, she focused on home plate and Brett, who gave her a brilliant smile before pushing his catcher's mask in place. He squatted. As she positioned herself in the gathering dusk, flashes of light from cell phone cameras winked all around her. Tamping down a fresh wave of nerves, she wound up, careful to control her force, like Brett had taught her. “Don't throw as hard as you can—throw deliberately,” he'd said. So she did that now, letting go of the ball in one smooth motion.

Grimacing, she watched the ball go high, way higher than a pitch ought to be, and Brett sprang up, leaning forward to catch it, but she was glad that he had. It wouldn't have made it across the plate otherwise. As the crowd went wild, a sigh burst out her lips, and she waved at them. A few seconds later, Brett was in front of her, holding out the ball. Her first instinct was to hug him—after feeling his arms around her so briefly yesterday, she hadn't thought of much else—but she didn't. She just grimaced again. “So . . . that's over.”

“Did you have fun?” He handed her the ball.

“Honestly? If I weren't so hard on myself, I'll bet I would have.” She smiled at him, and, when he raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief, a giggle slipped out. “Okay, yes. In very recent retrospect, it was fun.”

“You did great.”

“Thanks. I kind of feel like if I don't sit down soon, though, I'm going to collapse.”

“We can't have that,” Brett commented in his slow drawl. “Just play along for a minute and I'll have you outta here.” Slipping the catcher's mitt from his hand, he extended his fingers. “Shake. The crowd expects it.”

Fumbling, she wedged the ball back into her glove and took his hand. It was warm, and when he squeezed her palm with his thumb, she looked up into his eyes and immediately became lost. The crowd seemed to retreat, the noise became a dull roar, and she stood there, her tennis shoes planted on the mound, her gaze locked with his.

After a moment—probably too long of a moment—he cracked a smile. “Okay now. Hold up the ball, wave it around some, and let's get out of here.”

She released his hand and did as instructed. The crowd roared back to life, and Brett chuckled. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“You're gonna go sign that ball to put in a charity auction, and I'm gonna get back behind home plate,” he said, touching her back and gently propelling her forward.

“You are?” she asked stupidly.

“Yep. Away team always bats first.” As he walked beside her, he waved to the crowd. Mechanically, she did the same.

“Right.” She knew that. She had a lot of baseball facts crammed into her brain now, but it was hard to think straight. All she could think about was that, in roughly thirty seconds, they would part ways for a few days because the Redbirds would be traveling. Once the team returned, she would come back to the ballpark, attempt to do her first set of live pregame interviews, and then sit in the stands and watch him play.

But she wanted . . . she wanted an excuse to spend more time with Brett, aside from watching him play ball. She'd held back on badgering him for an interview, choosing to play it cool, because she realized the more she asked, the more he would dig his heels in. And the further he dug in, the longer it would take.

But maybe . . . maybe if they spent a little bit of time together, she could get him to open up. Also, she still believed that if she could just get used to Brett, the insane attraction she felt would die off—and she would be free to do her damn job without worrying that she was going to melt on the spot every time she saw him.

Maybe she should mention something to him—a get-together of sorts. Not really work, not really play. What was
that
, though? A nondate? Friends hanging out? They weren't actually friends. He'd said that she could interview him after the game tonight, but her intuition told her he wasn't ready for that. He wouldn't open up and give her what she needed.

She pressed her lips together. Okay. He could give her what she
wanted
—but she couldn't go there, either.

As they reached the edge of the tunnel, Jim walked forward, murmuring into his wrist. He held out an arm for Georgia, and she knew exactly what that meant. She was about to be whisked away. Impulsively, she stopped a few yards inside the tunnel and turned to Brett. “Meet me after the fireworks.”

He frowned and leaned close. “The crowd's too loud. What?”

Georgia went on her tiptoes and grabbed his solid shoulder. “Meet me after the fireworks,” she repeated near his ear, not daring to look at him. He didn't respond, so she was forced to look, and the wary, uncomfortable expression on his face made her want to sink right through the bright green grass on the infield.

Oh, damn. What was she supposed to say now? If she told him she didn't want to meet him for business, he would automatically think she was chasing him for pleasure. He was that cocky. But if the word “interview” crossed her lips, he would probably put her off.

“Um . . .” she said, painfully aware that—more than likely—her face was frozen with a constipated look. Lovely.

He raised his eyebrows and, with a ghost of a smile, leaned close again. “Sure, sugar. When and where?”

“My apartment,” she said. “That way my agents won't have to scope out somewhere else,” she added quickly and then turned into a complete dummy. “Though it's not very comfortable. Well, the complex is—I'm in one of the new buildings, near the pool. But my apartment is naked. The store I ordered my furniture from royally screwed up the delivery, and I only have a single barstool and a bed.”

Brett's eyebrows went up another notch. “I don't think I'll touch that comment.”

“Please don't,” she answered.

He chuckled. “Your agents are chomping at the bit over there, the cameras are all still trained on you, and I kind of need to go back to work. See ya later tonight?”

She nodded, feeling for all the world like an athlete groupie. Maybe she ought to just go plunk herself down with the teenagers in tiny tank tops who sat along the first base line, flaunting themselves for the players. When Brett had been signing autographs for kids earlier, those same girls had been right in the middle of the crowd, blatantly ogling him like starving vampires.

Georgia shuddered. Okay, she'd made a fool of herself, but she hadn't been that obvious about her attraction to him. “Have a great game. See you.” With a flutter of her fingers in his general direction, she walked toward the end of the tunnel, where Ernie and Stan were gesturing toward her.

An hour and a half later, after signing the ball, sitting through two innings of the game, and posing for some photos before leaving the ballpark, Georgia stood in front of the bathroom mirror in her apartment, debating whether or not mascara was in order. She'd never been skilled at applying makeup, and she'd already put on blush, bronzer, and some cherry lipstick. It was a bit more dramatic than the makeup she usually wore, which consisted of, well, pink lip gloss. Shrugging, she coated her lashes with mascara and then turned around, bowed her head, and ran her fingers through her curls. When she flipped her head back up, she looked in the mirror again, this time with neutral eyes.

A psycho clown looked back at her, blinking as if she was not quite certain why the circus had left her behind. “Oh damn. What was I thinking?” Grabbing a washcloth, she ran it under the tap and began wiping at her eyes. There was a knock on the front door. “Damn!” she repeated, scrubbing her cheeks. “Just a second!”

Courtney had said she'd be by for a final check before retiring for the night in the agents' apartment next door. Before Brett came over. Courtney was awesome, but she tended to do everything fast—she talked fast, she walked fast, and she knocked fast. With a shuddering sigh, Georgia dumped the stained cloth into the tub, hoping that she'd removed the worst of the makeup. She yanked the shower curtain closed and walked to the door just as the knocking started again. “Ugh. Hang on. I can't move at warp speed.”

“No problem,” Brett said from the other side. His voice was laced with laughter, and Georgia's mouth fell open. What was he doing here so soon? The game couldn't be over yet, right?

“Um . . . I need to . . . unlock the door.”

“Take your time. I got all night.” Brett's voice was muffled, but the easy, almost lazy, tone made her smile in pleasure despite the fact that she felt . . . How did she feel, exactly? She didn't want to know. She didn't want him to know either, so, without freaking out about her face one more second, she unlocked the door and opened it. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Brett held a bottle of wine in front of him, and, in the dim glow of the porch light, she could see that his hair was damp. His white T-shirt fit him like a second skin, but, mercifully, his athletic pants were loose and comfy looking. She didn't think she could have maintained any sense of calm if he'd been wearing tight Levis. “I'm early, I know,” he said.

“Why?” She paused. “I mean, how?”

He shrugged. “Home plate ump made a bad call. I got pissed off, and he booted me.”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah, well, I needed to cool off. Monty told me to hit the showers and then the bricks.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but I had a right to argue. Full count and ump said I checked my swing. Of course that left two RBIs stranded on the field.”

“Really,” Georgia repeated. She folded her arms over her scoop-neck T-shirt but then immediately let her hands drop to her sides. Displaying her cleavage? Not wise.

“Yeah. You have any idea what I just said?”

Georgia narrowed her eyes slightly. “You have any idea how fast I do research? You were up to bat, had received five pitches—three balls and two strikes. On the final pitch, you swung your bat, the umpire called it a strike, and you were out. There were two players on base and two outs, so the inning was over.”

“That's almost right. I didn't swing, though.” Brett grinned. “Can I come in? Unless you're gonna yell at me like the ump did.”

“Of course not,” she said brightly, stepping back from the door. She walked into the open kitchen and leaned against the counter, slipping her hands into the pockets of her jeans shorts.

He followed her in. “Looks like you got a lot of sun today.”

“I do?” Turning away, she rubbed at her hot cheeks and then glanced down at her palms, hoping they hadn't come away coated with Sizzle Me Pink blush. They were clean. “Well, I was at the stadium a long time today.”

“I know the feeling.” Brett set the wine down on the small kitchen island and wandered into her living room. “Nice place.”

“Empty place.” She laughed. “But thanks. I lived in one just like this at college. My agents seemed to think I'd blend in better in a complex with a lot students.”

“Aren't student apartments supposed to be kind of bare?” he joked.

She glanced at the wide empty stretch of hardwood floor and at the thick drapes covering the windows. Her TV hung on one wall, dwarfed by the high tray ceiling. A fan whirred at the center of the ceiling, slightly off balance. “Not to this extreme. The furniture store promised they'd deliver tomorrow. They said there were so many apartment complexes near University of Memphis that they got confused.”

“Likely excuse. What kind of business screws over a daughter of the president?” Brett ambled over to the single barstool by the island and lowered himself onto it.

“Oh, for security reasons, the store doesn't know who I am,” she said. “But it's some place called Buddy Mambo's.”

Brett groaned. “Buddy Mambo—the furniture king of Memphis? He's a local joke.”

“What do you mean?”

“His furniture is cheap crap.”

“Well, it looked good online, and I'm not exactly rich,” she said.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to imply that you have bad taste or . . . sorry.” Brett gave her a smile.

“That's okay. So why is Buddy Mambo a local joke?”

“He's got these TV commercials that are just ridiculous. Wears a stupid plastic crown and carries a scepter. And he sings his own jingle—really badly.”

“Let's hear it.” Georgia grinned and leaned on the counter.

“You'll wish you hadn't asked,” he said, but he sat up straight and cleared his throat. “I'm Buddy the king, I am. I am . . . Buddy the king, I am,” he sang in an exaggerated twang. “Couches and curios, bunk beds and beanbag chairs . . . we've got it all for youuuu!” Brett let out a self-conscious laugh and continued in a rapid voice. “Stop by today for a royal furniture deal at any of our five Memphis locations. Buddy Mambo is responsible for the content of this ad.”

“Wow.” Georgia burst out laughing.

“I know. But I can't believe you haven't seen it. WHAP plays those commercials all the time.”

She shook her head. “I've been on the job for only four days, and not very much of that has been at the station. I've yet to meet Billy Schmidt, the sports anchor. But I'm not sure it matters because as soon as I finish this assignment, I'm going to be put on an investigative story.”

“What's it about?”

“A disadvantaged neighborhood.”

“Which neighborhood?” he asked casually.

“I have no idea. But until then, baseball is . . .” She trailed off. “Sorry. I promised myself that I wasn't going to talk about work.”

“I don't mind talking baseball. For instance, I thought your first pitch tonight was a real stinger.”