AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He made a circular motion with his hand. “Could you turn this down?”
“Oh ... sure.” She dashed for the stereo behind the counter and yanked her iPod cord free. The music died instantly.
When she straightened, Michael was at the counter. She could barely catch her breath.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said flatly. “I like Broadway musicals as much as the next guy.”
Her cheeks felt hotter—if that was possible. “Sorry. It’s been dead. I mean ...” She hesitated. “You need tokens?”
“I have some from the other day.”
“Oh. Okay.”
But he was still standing there, staring down at her. It took some effort to meet his eyes, but at least she could read the emotion there: surprise, and intrigue, and confusion.
“About Friday,” he said.
She wet her lips. “Friday?”
“I stayed up all night.” A self-deprecating shrug. “Most of the weekend, really.”
She frowned. “Okay ... ?”
“I was waiting.” He rested his forearms against the glass, and his voice dropped a notch. “I thought you’d turn me in.”
“For the parking lot?” She shrugged and picked at the disclaimers taped to the glass counter. “It’s not a big deal—”
“It is to me.”
Emily stopped fidgeting and looked at him.
“So,” he said, his voice softer and almost gentle, “thanks.”
She had no idea what to say to that.
And he didn’t wait. He picked up his bat and turned for the back door to the shop, stepping out into the humidity without a backwards glance.
Emily cheated the time clock out of fifteen minutes and strode down the hill to the batting cages. Michael was still there, in a royal blue tee shirt today, using the fastest machine they had.
She didn’t even hesitate this time, just walked up to the cage and hooked her fingers through the fence.
“It’s Monday,” she said.
He didn’t look. “No kidding.”
Crack.
“You said you only come on Wednesdays and Fridays.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe I didn’t want to miss the show.”
His voice wasn’t quite friendly—but it sure wasn’t hostile. She blushed again and wished her skin weren’t so fair. Maybe he’d attribute it to the heat.
Then he turned back to swing for the next ball.
There was something addictive about the sound of the machine, the regular crack of the bat, the motion of his body as he swung to hit.
Before she knew it, four pitches had gone by, and she realized she looked like a freak stalker.
