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With a sigh, she walked to her car. The exterior of the club was surprisingly deserted. The music from the band blasted noise into the night and then became muffled by the door shutting behind her.
“Amanda.”
Brad’s voice sounded from her left, startling her.
“Will you stop doing that!” she snapped.
“Stop what?”
Being so damn irresistible. Out loud, she said, “Stop sneaking up on me.”
He gave her a sexy, lopsided grin. “I’ll do my best.” He stepped forward, closing in on her.
Amanda angled her chin upward to see his face. “Aren’t you taller than most pitchers?”
“I am.”
“How tall?” she asked, going into her safe zone, her interview mode.
“Six-three.”
Interesting. “Is it hard to pitch to shorter players? I mean, how does height impact your play?”
“Uh-huh. We aren’t doing the interview in the parking lot,” he said. “Where’s your car?”
“At the side of the building.”
“Mine, too,” he said, pulling his keys from his pocket.
“You’re leaving?”
“Actually,” he said, “I thought we might conduct the interview at a coffee shop down the road.”
She wasn’t really surprised by his suggesting a more intimate setting. What did surprise her was his facade of innocence. As if they were really talking about an interview.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, shoving her purse up her shoulder and crossing her arms.
He held his hands out like an offering of sorts. His muscular forearms grabbed her gaze for some reason. They were strong. Sexy. She forced her attention to his face.
“It’s just coffee and the offer of a one-on-one interview,” he said.
When she didn’t immediately answer, he added, “The coffee shop is only two blocks away. It’s a busy place. As in lots of people besides you and me.”
“I want a real interview. No holding back.” If she was going to put herself in the line of more temptation, she wanted it to be for a justifiable reason.
“And you’ll get it,” he assured her quickly.
“Why should I believe that?” she asked, not sold yet. “You didn’t even answer my question a minute ago about pitching to shorter batters.”
“We’re in a parking lot.”
“Reporters corner you in all kinds of crazy places.”
A smile hinted on his lips. “You’re one tough cookie.” He rested his weight on his back foot and seemed to consider a minute. “I’ll give you a lead-in now.” He touched his necklace. “You were right. I hate taking it off. It does feel lucky.”
“Old news. I knew that, even if you didn’t admit it.”
“Okay, then. It was my father’s. He played for U.T. when he was in college, too, and he was my biggest fan, aside from my mom.”
“Was your biggest fan?” Amanda asked. “Where is he now?”
He hesitated, then his voice softened. “He died before I made it to U.T., let alone the pros.”
Stunned by his admission, Amanda blinked. “I’m sorry. I feel like a complete idiot for that last question.”
“It’s okay. I’d prefer you not print that.”
“I won’t print anything you tell me not to.” She did want him to trust her. She wanted all the players to trust her, but Brad more so than anyone.
“Fair enough,” he said. “So…yes to coffee?”
Torn, Amanda contemplated his offer. She wanted this interview, yet agreeing to it now went against her plan to put space between them until she had a strategy for dealing with him. It took her to a one-on-one setting with Brad when she wasn’t quite equipped for the potential intimacy.
Finally the lure of the interview and a great feature won the battle. “Fine. I’ll follow you.”
Satisfaction flared in Brad’s eyes, though his tone was unaffected. Monotone, even. “That works.”
Amanda pointed to her sad rental car. “This is me. The rental place didn’t take very good care of me.”
“I see that.” He eyed the car then indicated a black pickup. “That’s me.”
She couldn’t contain her surprise. “You drive that?”
He lifted one eyebrow. “You expected something else?”
“Ah, yeah. A Corvette. A Porsche. A typical jock kind of car. You left those at home tonight, I guess?”
“I outgrew the obsession with fancy cars several years ago,” he said, “About the time I outgrew groupies, by the way.”
“Point taken,” she said, recognizing the warning not to make assumptions about him.
“I do admit to owning a ’69 Mustang that is as sweet as they come.”
“Really?” she asked. “Funny. My dad does, too. Actually, he’s got a 1963 coupe and a 1967 turbo.”
“Sweet,” he said. “I’d love to get a look at those babies. Did he restore them?”
“Oh, yes. They were his pet projects.” Amanda didn’t know why she was telling him this. Her personal stuff was just that…personal. She motioned toward her car. “I’ll follow you.”
He hesitated a moment, as if reconsidering what he was going to say. “All right, then.”
Amanda got in and turned the ignition. The car didn’t start. In fact, it didn’t make a sound at all. She tried again. And again.
