“No, thank you,” she said primly.
“Whatever.” He guzzled the whole thing down and caught her glimpsing him out of the corner of her eye. It was a hot day, and the girl was bound to be thirsty. He unzipped the side pocket and pulled out his stuff until he found another bottle to hand to her. “Just in case.”
She took it, but her focus was on the contents of his bag. It was the usual gym bag assortment—car keys, towel, fresh shirt—but she smirked when she spotted his book. The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, by Edmund Morris. It’d won a Pulitzer. Not exactly smirkworthy. He raised his brows, giving her a challenging look. “What?”
“I didn’t know Neanderthals could read.”
He looked down, tucking everything back in the bag, feeling suddenly tired. She really refused to see him.
Fine, then. If Laura thought he was nothing more than an oversexed, sports-playing, joke-cracking townie, then that was how he’d show himself to her. She wanted Neanderthal; he’d give her Neanderthal.
He raised his eyes to hers, raking her body with a slow, sizzling look. “I’ve got a brain, darlin’. I just prefer to use my body.”
She gaped, and for a satisfying moment, her shocked eyes remained locked with his. He was the first to look away, making like he was watching their teammates up at bat. He shifted, making sure his thigh brushed against hers, even though he kept his eyes glued to home plate.
He felt her tense and fidget in a way that told him she was mustering a response. Finally she found her voice and whispered angrily, “You can do whatever you want with your body. I’m sure you’re as much of a womanizer as you’ve always been. Just keep away from me.”
“Womanizer?” he exclaimed, unthinking. It was the last word he’d use to describe himself.
But then he thought about how he must seem. He flirted, sure. And he dated. He was easy and fun, and women always liked that. So what if he was a ladies’ man—it wasn’t that he didn’t respect them. Quite the opposite.
His problem was, he was holding out for the full package, waiting for The One. He wanted true love, a wife to grow old with, a bunch of kids, and the white picket fence, too. But guys didn’t go around bragging about stuff like that. And so he bided his time, flirting and having fun.
“I’m no womanizer,” he grumbled, unable to muster a more clever response than that.
He wondered what it was Laura wanted out of life—aside from him and Fairview disappearing off the face of the earth.
Fairview. They were a wily bunch. Secretly, he’d done as she’d asked and triple-checked their paperwork—not that he’d give Laura the satisfaction of telling her as much. He’d reviewed their permits, combed through the building plans. It was all clear. They had a green light to begin work. It was time to break ground.
So why was he still delaying? He’d been postponing, finding little things to hold them up, telling Hunter and the suits how their fixtures were back-ordered, how his subs were tied up till next week. All true, of course. Only normally, Eddie would’ve kicked some ass and gotten the fixtures elsewhere or told his subcontractors it was now or never. Workers, sadly, were easy to find in this economy.
But he was up against it now. There was no more delaying. Come Monday, it’d be time to get going. He hated the thought that he wouldn’t just be building a second story onto the old rancher—he’d be building a wedge that would permanently separate him from Laura.
Billy was up at bat, and Eddie made himself focus. The sheriff was obviously close to the Bailey family—being engaged to the youngest daughter had a way of doing that—and he found himself oddly competitive, oddly jealous.
Preston hit a grounder in the gap to right and ran to first. Nice and solid. Eddie flexed his hands, scrutinizing every move the pitcher made. He wanted to do better than nice and solid.
Meantime, it was Laura’s turn. “You’re up.”
“Me?” Suddenly, she looked stricken.
He’d never seen her appear anything but confident and on top of her world. “Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing? The Laura Bailey, nervous?”
But she didn’t laugh. Instead, she just looked ill. “I haven’t batted since eighth-grade gym class.”
She really was having trouble. Without thinking, he put a hand on her knee. “Hey, it’s just a game, okay? Nothing to make yourself sick over.”
“Easy for you to say. Can’t you…what is it…pinch-hit for me?”
“That’s not how we play.” He nudged her. “Just give it a shot. This can’t be your first real softball game.” He peered at her, and when she didn’t respond, he exclaimed, “It is. City girl’s never played ball before.”
“Shut up.” She stood abruptly, and damn if he hadn’t spotted a flash of genuine hurt in her eyes.
He stood and, with a hand on her lower back, led her to the plate. “C’mon. I’ll help you. It’s easy. Just gotta keep your eye on the ball.”
They reached the plate, and she hesitated, like she was unsure she even knew where to stand.
“You really don’t know how to do this, do you?” He guided her shoulders, and her feet followed. “That’s it. Now bend your knees.”