Page 24 of Off Limits: The Firsts

We drive in silence as Easton maneuvers through the streets of downtown Austin. He’s still pissed, that much I can tell, but it seems to lessen with each mile we put between us and the ball field.

Curiosity over the exchange between him and his father owns my thoughts. The picture-perfect father and son. Both uber-talented. Both a rarity in this game because they spent their careers playing for only one ball club. Both obscenely handsome.

But after the meeting in the locker room, I’m left to wonder how everyone else has failed to see what I glimpsed. The smooth and personable Cal Wylder is not so easy-going, and not so complimentary of his protégé of a son.

“Sorry about that,” Easton says after some time, his voice resigned.

“’Bout what?” I turn to look at him from my seat in the front of his truck, asking my question but not really meaning it.

“My old man can be . . . a little overbearing at times. I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”

“I’m good. My choice of career has taught me how to handle even the most overbearing of people.” I eye him up and down to let him know I’m including him in the generality. “Thanks, though.”

“I’ve noticed.” He chuckles with a glance my way before turning his attention back to the road, smile fading, and lips twisting as he loses himself back to his thoughts.

I use the time to study him. The line of his profile, the flex of his biceps as he turns the wheel, the pulse of the muscle in his jaw. He knows I’m watching, and yet he just carries on, checking his side mirror, his rearview mirror, and using his turn signals.

There are so many questions I want to ask him but don’t. About the relationship with his dad and the obvious tension between them. About whatever it was that happened between us on the field earlier. If I put a voice to my curiosity, I’m only inviting his questions about my personal life in return. And while we’ve developed a pseudo-friendship the past two weeks, there are secrets I need to keep.

So I bite my tongue and try to quiet my head so I can enjoy the comfortable silence we’ve slipped into. And no sooner than I do, it hits me: I like Easton. And not just that lusty kind of indifferent attraction I feel occasionally with players I’ve worked with. The kind where, hell yes, they’re hot and probably would be a willing candidate if I wanted a temporary good-time, but not good enough for me to cross that fine line of mixing my professional life with my personal life.

I’ve never crossed it. I have no intention to.

My studies, my softball team, graduating at the top of my class had always come first. Then I threw everything I had into working my way up the ranks to prove I’m worthy to help run Doc Dalton’s business. Sure he was my dad, but I wanted to earn the position. And thankfully I did, because there’s no way I could have known what the future would hold for us.

Did I have fun with men? Of course, but since I started working for my dad, no player has ever tempted me to cross that professional line like the mysterious and attractive man beside me does.

And that’s a major problem.

But then again, it’s not. I’m a big girl. I can handle my lusty urges. He’s charming and attractive and funny and so much more than I’d assumed. Even with all of that, I think I’ve barely caught a glimpse of the real him. I’m intrigued, to say the least.

Wait. The truck has stopped. And I’m still staring at Easton. And he’s staring back at me, smirk growing wider by the second as he waits for me to realize it.

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head with a laugh, embarrassed and flustered.

“Don’t be. I sure hope it’s me you’re thinking about that intensely.” His grin is lightning quick as I try not to die a thousand deaths.

“Of course I was. Just trying to think about what to do with you next,” I say with pursed lips and a shrug, and then realize that it sounds exactly like how I didn’t want it to sound. I stammer to correct myself. “I mean, your rehab. On the field. For training. About your arm.”

“Uh-huh.” I’m certain I turn every shade of pink, all the way to red, as he just stares, and that huge grin morphs into a lopsided smile.

“Where are we?” Smooth, Scout. Real smooth. You’re a master at changing the subject. To reinforce my attempt, I glance around to our surroundings. We’re on a residential street with a park on the passenger side and a row of houses on Easton’s side.

“Sorry to drag you along, but I have to do something real quick. I hope you don’t mind, but feel free to turn on the radio if you want. I’ll leave the keys here.”

“Okay. Sure.”

He turns to face me, hand pushing open the door, smile and sunglasses in place. “Hey, Scout?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Okay?” I draw the word out to let him know what he’s doing is pretty self-explanatory.

“That means you can carry on thinking about whatever you were thinking about me and not get embarrassed, since I won’t be sitting two feet from you.”

Dear God. “I was thinking of your arm. Your arm,” I emphasize.