Page 47 of The Devil In Denim
And now he’d moved beyond that and he was just having fun. He thumped the next ball with enthusiasm. Then heard the gate of the cage creak open behind him.
Someone slapped the button that killed the ball machine.
“Hey, I was on a streak,” he said, turning, expecting to see Lucas or Mal standing there. Or even Gardner, herding him to his next meeting.
Instead what he got was something that looked vaguely like Maggie Jameson but also bore a strong resemblance to a thunderstorm. The wind stirred her long dark hair around her shoulders like a black cloud and her eyes snapped sparks.
Gorgeous. “Hello,” he said cautiously. Gorgeous but pissed.
“Your swing stinks,” she snarled.
“I’m out of practice.”
“Not sure there’s enough practice in the world to fix that swing.”
“Hey, I had pretty good stats back in the day.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you were the king of Little League.”
He cocked his head at her, figuring it wasn’t the time to tell her the truth about his baseball history. “You want to tell me who put the bug up your butt? No, let me guess. You finally managed to pin down dear old dad.”
The dangerous glitter in her eyes intensified. “What makes you say that?”
“You look exactly like you did that night in the bar.”
“And how is that, exactly?”
“Thwarted and pissed off.” He held out the bat. “Why don’t you hit a few and tell me all about it?” She definitely looked like she wanted to hit something. He’d rather it was a baseball than him.
Her fingers curled around the bat. It was too big for her but that didn’t seem to bother her. Her hands flexed on the grip and, for a long second he thought he’d made a tactical error and just given her something bigger to hit him with.
But then she stomped up to the plate. He stepped out of the way.
“Turn the damn machine on,” she snarled.
He hit the switch and automatically crouched behind her, picking up the glove he’d brought with him out of habit.
The position put him pretty much eye level with what he had to admit was a world-class butt. She wore slim-fitting black trousers and high-heeled boots that only added to the length of leg on display.
Thwock.
He blinked, forcing himself to focus as Maggie connected with the ball. She was slightly off balance and the bat was awkward in her grip but the ball still shot back toward the machine like she’d fired it out of a gun. He blinked again.
Damn. She could hit.
So he needed to pay attention or, on the off chance that she missed one of those fine swings, he’d wear a ball in the face. Not much fun without a mask. Not much fun even with one.
He let her thump a few more balls, waiting until she hit one with a bit less fury.
“You want to tell me what happened?” he said in the silence that followed as the ball soared away from them.
“Not particularly.”
“But you did speak to your dad?”
“Yes.” Thwock.
“What did he say?”
