about things other girls couldn’t care less about like the multiple grips of a baseball and the new line of bats that come out every year. I wear baggy clothes most of the time and own three pieces of makeup: foundation, blush, and mascara. I’m not a girly girl, never have been and in the long run, I think it’s hurt me. Even though baseball is my life, there’s a small part of me deep down that wishes to be treated like a girl—asked out on a date, offered to hold someone’s hand—rather than tossed a beer followed up by a burp.
I so want a guy to want to hold my hand . . .
Honestly, I wish a guy would look at me the way my dad looks at my mom, like she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
I’m still waiting for that guy to come around.
Not that I’m looking for that connection from the man standing in front of me, because if there’s one thing I’m certain of, Carson Stone will never look at me like that.
Chapter Eight
CARSON
“Are we good?” Milly asks, snapping me out of my perusal.
I’m here to help fix my swing and instead of doing that, I’m checking out the fullness in Milly’s lips and the freckles that dot her face, wondering if any guy has ever traced them before.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I need to snap the fuck out of it.
Yeah, okay, so Milly is pretty . . . unique actually . . . the kind of beauty you don’t see very often. Naturally beautiful with a smile that captures my attention whenever it appears, but she is also naturally awkward. I like awkward at times. I can get along with awkward. That doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is her godforsaken fisherman’s hat. That thing needs to go, because it’s a fucking detriment to her and to society.
What’s also a detriment? I don’t think she realizes how pretty she is. She obscures it, wearing bulky clothing that hides the curvy frame of her body that I catch glimpses of anytime the wind picks up. And she hides beneath the floppiness of a hat. I don’t mind a casual look on a girl, I appreciate it actually, makes them more cuddleable, but Milly is drowning in her clothes. She keeps mentioning her brothers, and I’m pretty sure she took their hand-me-downs.
But what does it matter? I’m not here to get romantically involved with Milly, even though, hell, hearing her talk about baseball with such in-depth knowledge is a huge turn-on, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to make a move on her. Knowing her, she’d shove a cinnamon bun in my face the minute I start to tell her she’s pretty.
I’m here to fix my swing, that’s it.
No perusing.
No move making.
Hands to myself at all times.
“Yeah, we’re good as long as you accept my apologies, because there were multiple in there.”
Getting a wicked gleam in her eyes, she says, “Did you actually apologize?”
“Jesus.” I drag my hand over my face. “Not this again.”
“Well . . .” She crosses her arms over her chest.
Studying her I say, “I have a feeling you had your brothers wrapped around your pinky.”
“Pretty much.”
Chuckling, I pick up my bat and rest it on my shoulder, gripping the end of it tightly. “Milly, I’m sorry for being a dick to you multiple times. In the dining hall, the weight room, and on the field. I should have never questioned your talents. Now please, will you help me?”
“Wow, that was better than I expected. And you’re forgiven.” She walks off toward the dugout.
“Where are you going? Is our session already done? Eyesight and that’s it?” I call out. “I can’t take these sessions in small doses. I need the whole download, Milly. I don’t have much time.”
“Cool your jets,” she calls out, her back toward me. She snags her phone from her backpack and comes back to where I’m standing. Phone close to her chest, she says, “Okay, so I’m about to show you something, but you can’t judge me or get freaked out.”
“What a way to start a sentence. I’m not scared at all,” I say sarcastically.
“I’m serious. This is really creepy, and I apologize in advance, but it’s the only way I know how to show you your challenge.”
“Uh . . . okay. Do you have videos of me or something on your phone?” I laugh, but when she bites her bottom lip . . . “Wait,