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Her jaw almost hit the ground. “You recognized the music?” And was that a . . . compliment?
He shrugged. “My dad got our mom tickets for her birthday last spring. We all had to go. Some crap about needing more culture.”
His dad got tickets to Wicked for their mom? She couldn’t remember the last time her father had given a present to her mom—much less included her and Tyler in on it.
“I think living in a city would make me stir-crazy,” said Michael.
She thought of his parents’ landscaping business and wondered if a guy like Michael would actually suffer in a city. “I guess we’re not fated to be together, then.”
She’d meant for it to come out flippant, full of sarcasm, but the words fell flat and honest. He looked over his shoulder. “I guess not.”
The machine buzzed, signaling the last pitch. Michael hit hard, sending the ball into flight before it hit the nets and dropped dead.
She expected him to feed it another token, but he stepped over to the fence and hooked his hand on a link exactly five inches to the left of hers.
Again, he was too close. Her heart kicked. She stared up at him and stopped breathing.
“Want to learn?” he said.
“Learn?” Her voice was squeaking.
He tapped the fence with the end of the bat. “How to hit.”
She couldn’t. She’d already spent too much time talking to him. This had danger written all over it.
But some part of her heart had already told her brain’s insistent thoughts to shove it.
Because she was already saying yes.
His brain kept asking him what the hell he was doing, but Michael ignored the doubts and led Emily to the slowest cage. All afternoon, her presence had been little flickers against his skin, not entirely unpleasant. From the moment he’d caught her in the office, blushing and stammering and fighting to turn down her music, he’d been fighting the urge to reach out and touch her, to see if those little flickers were a promise of something more.
She hadn’t reported him. That had to mean something.
Right?
Especially now, when she stood with him in the eight-foot-square cage, listening to him talk about things like stance and hand position and letting the ball come to her.
God, he needed to shut up. He felt giddy and nervous and it was a miracle he could even form a coherent sentence. He held out the bat. “Here. Let’s just try.”
She made no move to take it. “I’m probably going to give myself a concussion.”
“Come on. My brother could hit off this machine when he was eight.”
She made a face. “Now I feel better.” But she took the bat and attempted to hold it the way he’d shown her.
She looked ridiculous and adorable and he tried not to laugh.
Just as quickly, he choked it off.
What was he thinking?
Sharp words sat on his tongue, ready to drive her away. He could stop this now. They could go back to being mortal enemies. She’d let one mistake slide. That wasn’t the same as helping him. Or even accepting him.
She looked over at him, and he was sure she could read the doubts on his face.
Just like he could read the doubts on hers.
Michael jammed his hands into his pockets, feeling his shoulders tighten.
