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But at least they hadn’t made her quit.
The clock struck four, the time he’d shown up on Wednesday. No Michael.
At four-thirty, the door swung open, but it was only a young mother with children coming to use the putt-putt course.
She had to do something to settle her nerves. She plugged her iPod into the sound system and scrolled through for her favorite musical.
The hands of the clock were creeping toward five, when her shift ended. Maybe her father’s phone call had worked. Besides, this wasn’t the only place around town with batting cages.
But then the doorknob creaked.
Her hand closed around the handle of a putter. If she screamed, would the woman with the preschoolers hear her?
The door swung open. Michael stood there.
But he didn’t come through the doorway. Just like the other day, she watched him sweep the corners with his eyes.
What was he looking for?
His gaze settled on the putter on the glass counter, then lifted to meet hers. “I was kind of kidding about you trying to kill me every time.”
She flushed and slid it into the holder.
He came all the way into the shop and put a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Can I get five tokens, or do you need to check with Daddy first?”
Her blush deepened. For some insane reason, she felt like she should apologize—when he was the one who should be avoiding her.
She fished the tokens from the drawer and slapped them onto the glass counter. She mustered the courage to meet his eyes, to let him know she wouldn’t let him screw with her. She tried to make her voice hard—and it ended up making her sound like a bitch. “Is that all?”
His eyes flashed with derision. “So brave.”
What a jerk. Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not the one tempting fate by coming here.”
He shoved the tokens into his pocket, and for the first time, he sounded resigned instead of antagonistic. “Aren’t you?”
Then he was through the door, and she was left there with the music in the air.
Emily almost went after him.
Are you crazy?
She didn’t understand how, with everything he was, he could stand there and make her feel like the bad guy. Of course she’d told her parents—he should be counting his lucky stars that her father hadn’t driven over there.
But even that thought made her blush. She was damn near eighteen years old.
He was right—she had gone crying to her parents.
She glanced at the clock. Her shift ended in four minutes.
At the stroke of five, she shoved through the back door of the office, stepping into the dense humidity. The air slid against her skin and welcomed her into the sunshine.
The batting cages were down the hill and beyond the putt-putt course. She could hear the crack of the bat from here, and once she passed the mini-golf windmill, she saw Michael in the fastball cage.
She stopped before he could notice her. A red tee shirt clung to his shoulders, reminding her of those matadors who swung a red cape to taunt a bull to fight to the death.
Reckless. That’s what this was.
Michael swung the bat, sending the ball into the nets. Even from here, Emily felt the speed of the ball flying through the air, knew exactly how much force it would take to make it change course.
