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He picks up the bat again and takes another couple of swings—but carefully. I remember him mentioning an injury. “Is your shoulder OK?” I ask.
He nods. “This is nothing. The training I used to put it through…” he chuckles.
“It must have been hard.” I say, thinking of Millie and her recovery from pregnancy and birth. She struggled to even sit up at first. It was bewildering to feel alien in her body, unsure of what she could do without pain—and how long it would last. “Not being able to predict what your body can handle, when you’ve taken for granted what it can do.”
“That’s it,” Austin nods, still engaged. “I knew my stats inside and out: What I could bench, how many throws I could make without fatigue, my sprint times… Next thing I knew, I’m geriatric.”
“A decrepit old man,” I joke. “A craggy thirty-five. One jogging suit away from driving a golf cart around the Florida retirement communities.”
He laughs. “That sounds kind of nice. Good weather, leisure... I think I’d look stylish in sweats.”
“You sure you don’t want to pivot the spa brand?” I tease. “Those grey dollars have real power these days.”
He laughs, an irresistible sound, and dammit,
I can’t help but swoon. Because as much as I want to claim this little field trip was purely professional—to pump up my new boss before I find myself out of a job—I can’t deny the truth.
I wanted to make Austin smile. To get him to feel better, laughing and joking again.
To hang out, just the two of us.
Crapwaffle.
I try to pull it together. I’m supposed to be proving myself professionally, not developing a major crush on my boss.
“So how hard is this batting thing?” I blurt, needing to do something with my hands, before I do something I’ll regret. Like reach for him. “If… Say, for example… You have literally never swung a baseball bat in your life?”
He grins, crinkling at the eyes. “Never?” he teases. “Not even in school?”
“I’ve held one,” I offer cheerfully. “When I moved into my own place in the city, my dad gave me one to keep under my bed as protection.”
Austin looks alarmed. “Have you ever had to use it?”
“Nope,” I grin. “And I took self-defense classes anyway, remember? The bat does feel kind of badass, though. But mostly in a Beyoncé-from-her-Lemonadealbum way.”
He laughs. “Then let’s do this.” He directs me to take his place in the batting cage. “Just grab the bat and try to find a stance that feels natural.”
I walk to the plate and try to do what he says. Nothing about it feels natural. Squatting while holding a minor weapon?
“I’m just going start you off with two pitches,” Austin calls. “Choke up a little.”
“Do what?” I ask him, frowning. Did he just tell me tochoke? Onwhat?
The ball explodes out of the pitching machine and I swing. I hit only air, spinning around with the force of my attempt and nearly falling flat on my ass.
“On second thoughts, I’ll leave this to the professionals,” I say, about to set the bat down.
“Never took you for a quitter,” Austin teases. “Come on, let me show you how.”
He ducks under the netting and moves to stand behind me.
Oh.
I freeze, my pulse kicking as his arms come around me, and I take a breath of his scent, woodsy and masculine.
He smellsgood. And dammit, he feels even better, the heat of his body surrounding me, even though he’s barely touching.
“You’ve got to ease your stance, get nice and loose.” He shifts the bat in my hands and bounces on his heels, encouraging me to do the same.
