Sorceress, Interrupted - By A. J. Menden Page 0,31
“It’s just that, for all of those outfits you usually wear, you don’t realize how damn sexy it is when you’re not trying to be. Right now, you’re the hottest I’ve ever seen you.”
I’m not the type to blush, not at all, but coming from him, the compliment felt genuinely sincere. He’d never done it before, and I didn’t know how to react. A half smile curved my mouth. “Who knew Soccer Mom was your particular kind of kink?”
“This isn’t Soccer Mom, sweetheart—unless soccer moms have gotten way hotter since I was a kid. No, it’s not the outfit. It’s that you’re not trying so hard.” His eyes met mine directly and something passed between us.
I looked away quickly, toward the crowd of spectators down the field, and noticed we were still getting looks, parents likely trying to figure out who we were and what our deal was. One glanced at a passing patrol car and pulled out her phone. Before Cyrus could react, I threw my arms around him. “I missed you, too, baby,” I said a little louder, even though I was pretty sure no one was close enough to hear.
“And now you’ve spoiled it,” Cyrus said, trying to slip out of my grasp.
“You idiot, I’m trying to cover for you,” I said. “You’ve got everyone on this field ready to dial 9-1-1 on their portable phones, lurking all the way over here. I’m trying to make you look more normal and less like a pedophile.”
“It’s cell phone, Fantazia, not portable phone,” he said. “And thanks so much for saying I look like a pedophile.” But he glanced over at the people watching us and stopped trying to fight me off. When he put his arms around me, I could smell the leather of his jacket and the scent of him underneath. It was very male and took me back to a time when I was much younger. Back then, delicate good looks weren’t what women wanted in a man, but a strong arm to wield a sword. His arms felt very strong at that moment. They felt right. That slight air of menace that surrounded him, more like a warrior taking in his surroundings, was working for him.
He slipped his hands into the back pockets of my jeans and squeezed my butt. The directness of it took away all the bizarre and misplaced romance of the moment.
“What the hell was that?”
He smiled. “I’m a method actor, sweetheart.”
“Whatever.” I took a moment to remind myself who I was with, and to get my bad-girl attitude back on. “They’re not looking anymore, so you can stop method acting and just tell me what the hell it is you’re doing here besides scaring the civilians.”
He moved away from me with a frown on his face. “I should ask you the same thing. What the hell are you doing here when I specifically told you I needed to be alone?”
“Stalking you, obviously,” I retorted. “Usually my prey doesn’t go hang out at a softball game. So now I’m asking you again, nicely, what the heck are you doing here? And if you don’t tell me, I may go poking magically into that pea brain of yours to find out.”
Loudspeakers blared. “Now up to bat, number thirty-four, Sabrina Johnson.”
“Ramsey,” Cyrus muttered, and turned to watch a young blonde-haired girl, probably about ten years old or so, pick up the bat and swing it once, pull at the brim of her helmet and then frown in concentration.
“Oh, no.” All the pieces fell into place and I actually felt a burning in the pit of my stomach. I sighed. “Why are you doing this to yourself, Cyrus?”
“It’s not hurting anyone,” he said. His eyes were glued to her.
“Only yourself.”
“So what?” He winced as the umpire called strike one. “It’s okay, let the first one go. Keep your eye on the ball.”
“So, why torture yourself? Why come here?”
She swung and missed again. He wasn’t listening to me. “You don’t have to swing randomly, Sabrina, let the ball come to you. Wait for the right moment . . .” He held his breath as the pitcher wound up.
This time, the girl’s bat connected. The far spectators cheered and clapped as she rounded the bases. The game was over; her hit had won it.
“That’s my girl!”
There was no mistaking the look of pride on Cyrus’s face. To be honest, watching him broke my heart, which I’d thought cold and dead after so many years of purposeful neglect.