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  “Central Texas,” she said. “And five brothers. Sounds completely different from my life.”

  And that was all it took. They were back to talking. He told her about his rough and tumble days as a kid. He and his brothers sounded more like puppies than human boys. Puppies that managed to get themselves in a lot of trouble—on railroad tracks as they challenged each other to cross trestles, in dry gulches as the season’s first rain swept through, in a hundred and one small ways that added up to heaven for some very bad boys.

  In exchange, she told him about her own childhood. About living in the African villages where her mother and father worked. About coming home to North Carolina and scandalizing her aunt by eating with her fingers from would-be communal cooking pots, about walking barefoot through the neighborhood as if Minnie couldn’t afford to keep shoes on her feet.

  Somewhere along the way, the restaurateur brought out heaping platters of food. Tyler’s steak was as rare as he’d ordered, and the accompanying baked potato looked like it was half the size of Idaho. Her own meal was good, the vegetables simple, but served with ample amounts of sweet butter. Someone had thoughtfully sliced a tomato beside her asparagus, adding a few simply carved rounds of cucumber and radish too.

  But she could have been eating sawdust, for all she cared. The conversation was infinitely more interesting than the food. The conversation, and the surprising way her insides melted every time Tyler fixed her with his gaze.

  It wasn’t just the frank sexual interest she saw there. She knew that reaction. She’d seen it plenty of times before, from the night she’d been christened Bluebell, to boys she’d dated in college, to the handful of men she’d seen since coming back to North Carolina.

  No, Tyler looked at her like he cared, like he was listening to every word she said, like he was memorizing them. There was an intensity about him, a jagged energy that sparked through everything he did. Sitting beside him, she felt like she was standing on a flat plain just as a thunderstorm swirled over the horizon. The short hairs on her arms stood at attention. There was excitement hovering just beyond her grasp. Excitement and just a bit of danger, too.

  The proprietor returned when their plates were empty, apologetic for the interruption. “Pie?” he asked.

  Tyler quirked a question toward her with his eyebrows. She nodded and proposed, “Peach? To share?”

  “Peach it is,” he said to the waiter.

  “With ice cream!” she chimed in, too comfortable to worry about all the proper ways a girl was supposed to behave, all the limitations she was supposed to put on her own appetite.

  “Is there any other way?” Artie asked, winking.

  The slice of pie turned out to be large enough for the two of them plus half a dozen friends, if they chose to invite any. There weren’t any other diners to recruit, though. Somehow, the restaurant had emptied out while they sat there. With a shock, Emily realized it was well after ten o’clock.

  Tyler laughed at her surprise. “That’s what happens when you don’t start dinner till nearly eight. Perils of being a ballplayer.”

  “Tell me about that. What other ‘perils’ do you face?”

  “Oh, the trauma,” he moaned, but he laughed. “Long plane trips. Lonely hotel rooms. Lousy restaurant food—not like this—and no one to share it with.”

  “Sounds terrible,” she said wryly.

  “But I get to play ball for a living so I won’t complain.”

  She laughed. In fact, she realized she’d been laughing all evening. Her cheeks ached from smiling so much. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had amused her like that, had let her relax and just enjoy his company.

  “We should let these people go home,” Tyler said, nodding toward the door to their now-private dining room. He was right. The staff must be waiting for them to clear out.

  As if by magic, Artie reappeared, seeming to produce the bill from thin air. Emily reached for her purse, only to be stopped by Tyler’s amused smile. “Don’t even pretend you don’t understand an invitation when you hear one. I asked you to dinner. I certainly don’t expect you to pay.”

  When a man asks you to dinner, he has one thing on his mind.

  That was Aunt Minnie’s voice. That was the rule Emily had heard from the first time she came home begging to go out on a date with a high-school classmate. Dinner, a movie, a trip to the mall… According to Minnie, men offered their wallets for one thing, and one thing only.

  And watching the casual way that Tyler signed the credit card receipt, not even bothering to read the bill, to make sure it was correct, Emily had to say she wasn’t concerned about her aunt’s acerbic observation. Tyler might have one thing on his mind, but that thing was absolutely front and center in Emily’s mind as well.

  Tyler held her chair as she rose from the table. He slipped easy fingertips under her elbow, gently guiding her through the restaurant, out the door, to his car, which sat alone in the parking lot. He stood closer than he needed to as he opened her door, and she felt the heat of his body as she eased past him to take her seat.

  Her lips tingled in anticipation of the kiss he would give her when they arrived at her house. Her lips hadn’t tingled since… Ever.

  And for the first time since meeting Tyler Brock, she imagined telling him her secret, telling him she was a virgin.

  Oh, she wouldn’t do it. She knew that. She’d made the mistake of telling another man, a guy she’d trusted, her One False Love, as she’d taken to calling him in her most sardonic moments. One False Love was a guy she’d dated for almost six months. She knew she’d never loved him, but she’d begun to think she wasn’t ever going to love anyone. Not like that. She’d been ready to use her One False Love to just get past the whole virginity thing and join the not-so-secret society of women.

  But when she told him, he freaked out. He remembered a business meeting, something he needed to be up for early the next morning. It was like he thought she was putting the weight of the world on one roll in the hay, like she was trying to sleep with him, marry him, and rope him into fathering a dozen children, all in one night.

  He broke up with her by text the next day. One False Love. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again. Not ever.

  The street was quiet when Tyler braked to a stop in front of Minnie’s mansion. Emily suspected crickets were chirping, but she couldn’t hear them over the pounding of her heart as she got out of the car. She did feel the breeze teasing at her dress, sparking little shivers down the inside of her legs.

  Or maybe that wasn’t the breeze. Maybe it was the man beside her making the sparks fly as he walked her to the front door.

  He stopped on the top step. If he’d had a cap, she was pretty sure he’d be crushing it in his hands, turning it over and over as he scuffed his toe against the porch. “Thank you,” he said. “I had a lovely evening.”

  How formal. How sweet. How very not the image she had in her mind of the man in front of her. Because she definitely wasn’t thinking about sweet at the moment. She was thinking about how that stubble of beard would feel against her lips. She was thinking about how rough his hands would feel as he unbuttoned the top of her dress. She was thinking about how his erection would feel through his trousers as he leaned into her, as he pinned her against the door with the full weight of his body.

  And then she wasn’t thinking at all.

  Her hand found his, like it had a mind of its own. Her fingers laced between his and she flexed her wrist, pulling him toward her.

  His lips were warmer than she’d imagined. Smoother. He tilted his mouth to a better angle, and she felt his free hand at the back of her head, cradling her, tangling in her hair to keep her exactly where he wanted her.

  The velvet touch of his tongue made her tremble, and her fingers tightened around his. He laughed, amusement curving his lips even as she opened her mouth to his.

  She’d been kissed before, countless times. But she’d never been kissed like this. She’d never been kissed
by a man who seemed to be memorizing her, who seemed to be reading her every response, absorbing her, reflecting her back to herself.

  This kiss was infinitely more than lips on lips, tongue against tongue. This kiss was a full-body experience. He pulled her against his chest; she felt his heart beating through his shirt. His hips rested against hers; he was obviously not ashamed of his full response to her, of the hardness that pressed against the cotton of her skirt. He’d moved deliberately, with full awareness of his body. Of hers.

  She suspected Tyler Brock was a man who did everything for a reason.

  And that realization sent her crashing out of the heady embrace, out of the magic of his kiss. Because if he did everything for a reason, then he’d gotten into that bar fight for a reason. He’d been responsible when he folded his hand into a fist and smashed it into the jaw of an innocent guy who was just having a couple of drinks with a friend.

  He’d pleaded guilty. He’d been sentenced to community service. The community service that she was responsible for monitoring, that she had to certify to a court.

  And that was why she had to force herself to take a step away.

  She felt the door behind her. Solid. Strangely cold in the July night.

  His palm was warm against her jaw. “What’s wrong, Em?” he asked, his fingers fluttering against the pulse point beneath her ear. His voice pulled the taffy of her insides.

  She turned her head to the side. “This was a bad idea. My fault, but a bad idea. I need to fill out a report to the court. I need to testify when you’ve worked your hours.”

  She saw him consider arguing, his face tightening in protest.

  But he respected her more than that. He collected himself quickly. He stepped back and let the breeze slice between them. He ran a hand through his hair, looking like a chastised little boy, like the Texas youth who had scrambled from one wrongdoing to another.

  She forced herself to think like a social worker. To think like someone with an obligation to a court of law. “What time will you get here tomorrow?”

  He shook his head. “I’m flying out to Chicago in the morning. We have ten days on the road.”

  Ten days. That sounded like forever.

  She locked her knees and stood straight. Ten days was exactly the break they needed. Ten days would remind both of them what they had to do together, what they had to accomplish. “I shouldn’t keep you, then. You’ll have to get up early, to get to the airport.”

  She wanted him to correct her, to say he wasn’t in any rush. He had plenty of time before he had to meet up with the team.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned on his heel, walking down the steps like a man on a mission.

  “Hey,” she called out. Only the fact that he froze let her know he was as unsteady as she was. “Thanks for dinner.”

  He shook his head. “You’re welcome.” And he hurried to the car before either of them could say something else they’d regret.

  He didn’t start the engine, though, until she took her key from her purse. He waited for her to fit the metal into the finicky lock. He watched as she pulled the door to her, turning with the well-practiced twist that released the tumblers. She felt his eyes as she extracted the key, as she opened the door, as she crossed over the threshold and into the cool darkness of the deserted house.

  Only after she closed the door did he key the ignition. The low rumble sounded unhappy, dissatisfied. Or maybe that was only the vibration in her thighs, reporting back to her that she’d made a foolish mistake.

  She slid down the length of the door until she sat on the floor, her head leaning back against the wood. Staring into the living room, she was haunted by the gaping space that had once held Aunt Minnie’s shelves, the woodwork that Tyler had ripped out that very morning.

  She knew she’d done the right thing, sending him home. She’d been the grown-up. The responsible one. Just as she always was.

  Then why did it feel like something inside of her was breaking?

  CHAPTER 4

  On Thursday evening, the Rockets played in Chicago, losing a heartbreaker in the bottom of the ninth. Emily thought about calling Tyler to offer her condolences, but she wasn’t sure exactly what she’d say. And she wasn’t sure exactly how he’d answer. But she stayed awake until three in the morning, planning all the conversations they could have had.

  On Friday night, the game went into extra innings. When the marathon ended with another Chicago win at one in the morning, Emily could barely keep her eyes open, much less sound witty and entertaining over the phone. If, that was, she even called Tyler. Which she knew she shouldn’t do. Couldn’t do. Wouldn’t do.

  On Saturday afternoon, Chicago swept the series, vanquishing the Rockets in a devastating game that barely lasted two hours. Emily watched as the camera panned over the ballplayers’ faces. It lingered on Tyler, who had failed to even get on base. His shoulders slumped as he dragged himself off-screen, into the clubhouse, she assumed. She wanted to call, but she couldn’t imagine what she could say that would make a difference.

  As part of their grueling schedule, the team had the nationally televised Sunday night game, against St. Louis. Emily told herself she couldn’t watch. She felt like she’d been the source of all the team’s bad luck. They’d certainly begun to slump the instant she started scrutinizing their games.

  But she couldn’t help herself. She turned on the TV, keeping it as background noise while she worked on the Minerva House website. And somehow, the Rockets’ luck turned. The team seemed to have been refreshed by its flight from the Windy City. The players were energetic, enthusiastic, and they won by an easy five runs.

  Before she had a chance to talk herself out of it, she picked up her phone and dashed off a text to Tyler. “Great Game! Hope the rest of the road trip goes as well!” She added her name and hit Send, then told herself to get back to work. It wasn’t like the guy was standing by, waiting for her message. It wasn’t like he was going to text her back from the locker room.

  Her phone rang.

  Her pulse soared when she saw the call was from Tyler. With the second ring, she asked herself what she was doing. She was the one who’d sent him packing the week before. She was the one who had promised to be mature about this whole thing, to be the adult. With the third ring, she thought about burying the phone beneath the couch cushions, drowning out the ringtone so she could pretend she’d never heard the call.

  She answered before the fourth ring. “Hey,” she said.

  “Emily?” He sounded surprised. There was a lot of noise behind him, the shouts of men, the bustle, she assumed, of the locker room after the game.

  “Um, yeah.” She squinched up her eyes, regretting her impetuous text now more than ever.

  “How did you get this number?” His voice had turned hard. Angry.

  “From the paperwork,” she said. “The forms you filled out with the court.”

  “Dammit,” he muttered. “Just a second.” As she winced at his exasperation, the chaos around him dropped out. He must have found some private office, closed some door. “Sorry,” he said. “I really hate texting. I figured I’d return your call instead.”

  “I just wanted to congratulate you on a great game,” she said. “I won’t keep you.”

  “I don’t mind being kept.” Did he have any idea what that little growl did to her? His tone—forget about his words!—tightened every muscle in her belly. She ran her fingers through her hair, grateful he couldn’t see the flush that heated her cheeks. “Where are you?” he asked. “What are you doing?”

  She was sitting at her desk, blinking at a computer screen, wearing a ragged T-shirt and faded pajama bottoms. “I’m upstairs. In bed,” she said, surprising herself with the lie.

  “I haven’t been upstairs.”

  Well, what had she expected? Of course there was a teasing note in his voice. She’d practically announced she was wearing her best lingerie, sprawled across a dozen pillows, licking her lips as
she prepared to tell him all the wicked things she’d do with him if he were there.

  Which he wasn’t. And which she couldn’t do, even if he were.

  She sat straight in her chair and cleared her throat. “You should get back to the team,” she said. “I shouldn’t have called.”

  “You didn’t,” he reminded her, with enough insinuation that she caught her breath.

  But she shook her head. “Nothing’s changed since Wednesday. This is still a bad idea.”

  “Don’t I get a vote on that?”

  “Maybe later. After you’re through with your service.”

  “There are all sorts of services I can provide.”

  God. With that tone thrumming through her, she had no problem imagining exactly what he meant. “Tyler…” she breathed. And then, because she knew she was right: “Please.”

  He waited for nearly a minute, the silence stretching between them until it was a tangible thing. And then he said, “All right, beautiful. Have it your way. Goodnight.”

  She swallowed hard, trying to wash away the sparkle of excitement his whisper raised down his spine. “Goodnight,” she said. And she hung up the phone before she could change her mind, before she could undo all her hard work with a single flirtatious phrase.

  But that didn’t keep her from replaying the entire conversation in her head, over and over and over again. Beautiful. No one had ever called her that. Not like Tyler had. Not like Tyler meant. The word tickled inside her, making her smile, even as she told herself she was being ridiculous. She fell asleep wishing she’d made a very different decision.

  * * *

  He was slipping into the rhythms of the new team. He was starting to understand the unspoken language of the club—when Coach was swallowing anger, when he was merely being quiet. Tyler’d already figured out the bonds between most of the guys—who was always up for a few hands of poker to unwind after the game, who was going to order the first round of drinks in the hotel bar, who was going to slip away early, shrugging and saying he had to call his wife, talk to his kids.