Two of his favorite things in a woman.
Danny handed her a glove, turning her to face River, and Pace straightened. No.
Oh no.
Oh shit. “No!” he yelled just as River let one fly, low and screwball as usual.
And hard, very hard.
Pace ran toward them but not fast enough, and Holly caught the ball.
With her forehead.
Chapter 5
People ask me what I do in winter when there’s no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.
—Rogers Hornsby
Holly flew backward and hit the ground hard enough to rattle every thought right out of her head. “Fother mucker,” she muttered, lying still on the prickly crabgrass, listening to the creek beat up the rocks as she took mental stock.
Arms? Still in place.
Legs? Also still in place.
Her head? Not quite sure-
“Did we kill her?” came a horrified whisper.
“Back up, guys.” This was Pace’s low, calm voice. “Give her some room to breathe.”
“Are you sure she’s breathing? Pace, give her CPR!” Chipper said urgently. “Hurry!”
Holly had the strongest urge to keep still just to see if he’d really do it, but her body wouldn’t play along, because what if there were ants on the grass? Plus she could feel her hair was a complete mess again, and worse, it was entirely possible that her skirt had flown up. She opened her eyes and locked gazes with Pace, his dark with all sorts of things, with concern leading the pack. His hair was wind-blown and tousled, and he was frowning, and . . . and she had to admit, he sure was something to look at, even with all that bad attitude.
“Anyone have a sweatshirt?” he asked over his shoulder.
When everyone just shook their heads, he unbuttoned his shirt and, oh good Lord, shrugged out of it, bunching it up to slip beneath her head like a pillow.
Don’t look at him, she told herself. Don’t look—
She looked.
Sweet Jesus.
Smooth tanned skin. Hard sinew. And those shoulders were broad enough to block the sun from piercing her eyes. And then there were those six-pack abs . . .
“CPR?” he asked politely with a hint of irony, the lean, carved lines of his face making him look incredibly tough, and incredibly handsome.
Yes, please, she thought. “Don’t even think about it.”
“You about done napping then?”
“Ha.” What was it about his voice? And those eyes . . . Now that she was lying still and he was staring at her, she could see they weren’t filled with just that sharp edge and a good amount of trouble, but something else, too. Something dark and soulful, something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but whatever it was, it mesmerized.
“You have a good goose egg going,” he murmured.
“Your head hurt?”
Yeah, now that he mentioned it. As she sat up, he slipped his arms around her to help. Arms that were warm and hard as they tightened on her to hold her still.
Against him.
Oh boy. His chest was smooth and warm and hard as stone, and she wanted to both touch and nibble.
And lick. Could she pretty please lick?
“Holly?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you all right?”
She could hear genuine worry in his voice. Interesting. As was her body’s reaction, which was an urge to curl in and cuddle.
Cuddle.
She never cuddled.
She was too busy to cuddle. “Yes. I’m fine.” She struggled to get up, but again he held her still.
“Give yourself a minute.” He was also irritated, which was really unfair, because she’d almost had that ball.
Okay, she hadn’t almost had that ball. “I’m really okay.”
“Good.” He leaned in very close. “Fother mucker?”
“There are kids present.” Embarrassment blocked her throat until he ran a surprisingly gently finger over her forehead. “Ouch!”
He frowned, and she said, “I’m okay.”
“Tell me what your name is and why you’re such a pest, and maybe we’ll agree that you’re okay.”
She lifted a hand to his face. “Did you know when you’re irritated, you have a very slight Southern accent? Actually, it’s more of a drawl. Texas?”
His gaze narrowed. “Your name,” he said tightly.
“Holly, and I’m just doing my job.”
“Not playing ball like that, you’re not.” But he let her slide out of his arms. “A reporter writing on the sport should be able to play it.”
She rolled her eyes, decided it was a gift that she even could, and got shakily to her feet. Ignoring the throbbing ache between her eyes, she smiled into River’s terrified gaze. The poor kid was pale, and looking like he’d just killed a puppy. “I’m okay, River, I promise.”
“I’m sorry I threw so hard. I mean, who knew I even could? And you took it right dead center, too.” Giving her an instant replay, he poked himself between the eyes. “Bull’s-eye. And then you went flying backward like you’d been shot, and hit the ground solid.”
Yeah, she remembered that part all too well. “In my research about baseball players, I’ve learned they have faster reflexes than the norm.”
“If that’s the case, I don’t think you’re a baseball player,” Chipper said solemnly.
She sighed. “I think you’re right. Well, I hope I was at least entertaining.” She rubbed her temples and wished she hadn’t been in such a hurry to get up, because her legs felt wobbly.
Danny handed her a glove, turning her to face River, and Pace straightened. No.
Oh no.
Oh shit. “No!” he yelled just as River let one fly, low and screwball as usual.
And hard, very hard.
Pace ran toward them but not fast enough, and Holly caught the ball.
With her forehead.
Chapter 5
People ask me what I do in winter when there’s no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.
—Rogers Hornsby
Holly flew backward and hit the ground hard enough to rattle every thought right out of her head. “Fother mucker,” she muttered, lying still on the prickly crabgrass, listening to the creek beat up the rocks as she took mental stock.
Arms? Still in place.
Legs? Also still in place.
Her head? Not quite sure-
“Did we kill her?” came a horrified whisper.
“Back up, guys.” This was Pace’s low, calm voice. “Give her some room to breathe.”
“Are you sure she’s breathing? Pace, give her CPR!” Chipper said urgently. “Hurry!”
Holly had the strongest urge to keep still just to see if he’d really do it, but her body wouldn’t play along, because what if there were ants on the grass? Plus she could feel her hair was a complete mess again, and worse, it was entirely possible that her skirt had flown up. She opened her eyes and locked gazes with Pace, his dark with all sorts of things, with concern leading the pack. His hair was wind-blown and tousled, and he was frowning, and . . . and she had to admit, he sure was something to look at, even with all that bad attitude.
“Anyone have a sweatshirt?” he asked over his shoulder.
When everyone just shook their heads, he unbuttoned his shirt and, oh good Lord, shrugged out of it, bunching it up to slip beneath her head like a pillow.
Don’t look at him, she told herself. Don’t look—
She looked.
Sweet Jesus.
Smooth tanned skin. Hard sinew. And those shoulders were broad enough to block the sun from piercing her eyes. And then there were those six-pack abs . . .
“CPR?” he asked politely with a hint of irony, the lean, carved lines of his face making him look incredibly tough, and incredibly handsome.
Yes, please, she thought. “Don’t even think about it.”
“You about done napping then?”
“Ha.” What was it about his voice? And those eyes . . . Now that she was lying still and he was staring at her, she could see they weren’t filled with just that sharp edge and a good amount of trouble, but something else, too. Something dark and soulful, something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but whatever it was, it mesmerized.
“You have a good goose egg going,” he murmured.
“Your head hurt?”
Yeah, now that he mentioned it. As she sat up, he slipped his arms around her to help. Arms that were warm and hard as they tightened on her to hold her still.
Against him.
Oh boy. His chest was smooth and warm and hard as stone, and she wanted to both touch and nibble.
And lick. Could she pretty please lick?
“Holly?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you all right?”
She could hear genuine worry in his voice. Interesting. As was her body’s reaction, which was an urge to curl in and cuddle.
Cuddle.
She never cuddled.
She was too busy to cuddle. “Yes. I’m fine.” She struggled to get up, but again he held her still.
“Give yourself a minute.” He was also irritated, which was really unfair, because she’d almost had that ball.
Okay, she hadn’t almost had that ball. “I’m really okay.”
“Good.” He leaned in very close. “Fother mucker?”
“There are kids present.” Embarrassment blocked her throat until he ran a surprisingly gently finger over her forehead. “Ouch!”
He frowned, and she said, “I’m okay.”
“Tell me what your name is and why you’re such a pest, and maybe we’ll agree that you’re okay.”
She lifted a hand to his face. “Did you know when you’re irritated, you have a very slight Southern accent? Actually, it’s more of a drawl. Texas?”
His gaze narrowed. “Your name,” he said tightly.
“Holly, and I’m just doing my job.”
“Not playing ball like that, you’re not.” But he let her slide out of his arms. “A reporter writing on the sport should be able to play it.”
She rolled her eyes, decided it was a gift that she even could, and got shakily to her feet. Ignoring the throbbing ache between her eyes, she smiled into River’s terrified gaze. The poor kid was pale, and looking like he’d just killed a puppy. “I’m okay, River, I promise.”
“I’m sorry I threw so hard. I mean, who knew I even could? And you took it right dead center, too.” Giving her an instant replay, he poked himself between the eyes. “Bull’s-eye. And then you went flying backward like you’d been shot, and hit the ground solid.”
Yeah, she remembered that part all too well. “In my research about baseball players, I’ve learned they have faster reflexes than the norm.”
“If that’s the case, I don’t think you’re a baseball player,” Chipper said solemnly.
She sighed. “I think you’re right. Well, I hope I was at least entertaining.” She rubbed her temples and wished she hadn’t been in such a hurry to get up, because her legs felt wobbly.
