Page 4 of Double Play

I don’t even try to disguise spreading my legs a little further, exaggerating the option for her to sneak all the peeks she’d like.

Maybe she needs a reminder of what my dick did for her. For us. A reminder of what we were like that weekend.

Insatiable. Starved. I haven’t had a weekend like that since.

India Baker was a once in a lifetime woman.

And I’d clearly missed my chance at bat with her, because the edge she’s giving me, seated in this dark room with an overly bright camera light aimed at me, seems to spotlight that I’ve struck out with her.

Any chance of being . . . friends even . . . is shut down.

Which is too bad because I’d been looking forward to reconnecting with her. To finally having something—someone possibly—just for me.

But the wall she’s put between us is thicker than the ivy in Chicago’s Anchor Field, and I have no idea what I’ve done to be benched by her.

two

. . .

[India]

My cold edge wasn’t personal. Or perhaps, maybe it was.

I couldn’t risk his recognition. Not the familiarity of one-time friends. Not the silly acknowledgement that I’d once given myself body and soul to the man for a reckless weekend that ended with foolish hopefulness.

Yep, even in my mid-twenties, I’d been a giddy girl, hooking up with my long-time crush—my older brother’s best friend.

Can you say romance trope gone wrong?

We didn’t have a falling out after that week as much as life seemed to crumble afterward.

We’d been a series of missed opportunities as heartbreaking as those long standing, championship-lacking teams in the big league.

I wasn’t one to hold grudges, though, and this moment wasn’t about him. Or us.

This was about me.

As a new field reporter for The Den, this opportunity was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to prove myself. I had a plan. A new path for my life that didn’t involve getting a job from my dad or being tied to a man who was a major benefactor to the professional baseball team I used to work for.

Talk about a double-edged sword. Or crossed baseball bats.

The thought has me glancing over Declan’s head to the banner behind him. The one with the logo for the Tennessee Terrors and their raccoon mascot, who is rather cute when he’s supposed to be frightening.

Instantly, my gaze drops back to Declan seated across from me.

Wylde Thing had developed quite a reputation after our winter holiday together. After he won Rookie of the Year and his career as a first baseman for Seattle took off.

It wasn’t like I’d been pining for the established professional athlete while I was still young and getting my feet wet in an industry dominated by men in the past. But I had mistakenly thought our week together that winter meant something more than the childish game of Truth or Dare where we upped the ante as adults by adding alcohol to the rules.

Truth: My memory never betrays me about the crazy intimacy and unparallel sexual experience that weekend.

Dare: Forcing my memory to forget it ever happened.

The real challenge is this interview, mandated by my new employer. And sitting across from Declan who has aged like wood-barrel whiskey. His amber-colored beard is fuller but barely masks his sharper jaw. Under the bright lights of the camera, white flecks, evidence of his forty-five years, sprinkle like dust in that Tennessee bourbon shade of facial hair like shaved ice amid the throat-burning alcohol. His blue eyes flare with questions and a glimmer of something I haven’t seen in years.

Desire.

I cross my legs a little tighter, hating how my body reacts to his visual perusal.