by Carly Keene
Throwing Curves
Bringing the Heat Book 2
Carly Keene
Thistle Knoll Publishing
Copyright © 2020 Carly Keene
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: millieg0414 at Fiverr
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Note
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
EPILOGUE
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Note
There is (obviously) no such team as the Rivertown Rowdies, nor the Las Vegas Vandals. It would be fun if there were, though.
Attending a minor league baseball game, I believe, is one of the most fun things you can do with your clothes on.
CHAPTER ONE
Marisha
I do not need any more days like this one.
I keep trying to tell myself that it can’t be that bad. I’ve done eight million shoots for school athletes and rec league teams, and it’s been just fine. I’ve done head shots for business executives. I’ve taken pictures of a lot of people more important than the roster of the Rivertown Rowdies baseball team. I don’t even care about baseball.
So why has it got me shaken?
Well, number one: I wasn’t supposed to be taking these photos at all. My boss Dave was supposed to take these pictures. He does it every year, he’s used to it, he has a procedure that they expect. Dave was supposed to be back yesterday from his photographer conference, but he’s still out of town, due to mechanical issues with the plane in Denver. He’s texted me the sketchiest instructions for this shoot I’ve ever seen.
I’ve only been a staff photographer with Willow Photography Studios for three months. Dave’s an okay boss, I guess, but he does tend to just shove things at me without explanation or training. I’ve done plenty of headshot sessions, but Dave’s text says to do this fast, don’t waste time on adjusting the lighting or anything fancy, just point and shoot, bang bang done.
And reason number two I’m nervous? Male professional athletes. Put it another way: assholes.
Cool, cocky, jocky boys made my teen years absolute hell, and I’m not looking forward to working with their grown-up versions at all. I was an art nerd, a comic-book geek, a camera dork with frizzy biracial hair and inappropriate-for-high-school boobs, and I got really sick of those boys ignoring me, unless they were making jokes about my breasts. I’m over it.
I set up Portrait Room #2 for the baseball players, making sure I have my light meters and reflectors. I go find the Rowdies backdrop that Dave texted me to get out of the storage room. The shoot is supposed to go from noon to 5 p.m., with players dropping in to the studio every 5 to 10 minutes. There are thirty-five of them. I have no idea when I’m supposed to get a pee break.
“All right, Risha, settle down,” I instruct myself. I check the equipment again, and then the clock. I’m ready. The bell on the outside door jangles, and I turn around to greet the first player.
Five and a half hours later, I am so sick of it that I am ready to take my cameras and go home. Most of the baseball players have been polite, but not all. I’ve been flirted with (“Hey, you’re a lot cuter than the regular photographer!”), hit on (“Wow, these lights are hot—and so are you!”), and been objectified (“Easy for me to smile when I’m looking at a rack that fabulous!”). At least I haven’t been insulted. Yet.
Still. Here it is past five, and I’m waiting on the last guy on the roster. I check off names and jersey numbers one more time—yeah, just one. A pitcher, Daniel Broadway.
“Let’s get the show on the road, Broadway,” I mutter to myself, and then I figure I’ve got time to hit the bathroom. I’m getting hungry, too, and I can’t wait to close up shop and go meet my friends Adera and Violet for dinner. In the bathroom, I smooth my hair and refresh my mascara.
Of course, when I come out three minutes later, the guy I’ve been waiting on is standing there with his hands on his hips, looking annoyed.
Which.
I gotta say.
Number one: is really really galling, because I was waiting for him to show, and he was late.
And number two: is really really incredibly attractive. Because damn, his uniform fits, like, everywhere. And while a lot of baseball players are skinny, this guy isn’t. He’s buff. Muscles for days. And he’s handsome: dark hair, piercingly blue eyes, a big noble nose, cheekbones like blades. Kissable mouth, too. He’s not my type at all—my dream date is actually John Legend, all cute and wry and charming—but he is hot. So very, very hot that things are happening inside my panties, and that pisses me off even more.
“You’re late,” I say.
“I had to wait on you,” he says, hands on hips.
“You were late first. I had to pee.” I put my hands on my hips too, and then I watch him check out my hips. And my boobs. And then, surprisingly, my face. He does this slow-blink thing that makes him look a little bit surprised and a lot sexy.
“Still,” he says. “The team’s paying you to take my picture, so let’s get started.” He starts walking down the hall like he owns the place, cocky as all hell.
I snort. “You had a five-hour window to get your picture taken. Which you missed, actually, so I’m probably within my rights to shut the place down for the night and complain to the team management about you.”
He throws me a smoldering glance over his shoulder, and that’s kind of hot too—that kind of Han Solo, I’m-the-best, you-should-be-so-lucky attitude.
God, I hate guys like that. And at the same time?
Yeah, okay, it turns me on. Dammit.
CHAPTER TWO
Danny
Okay, so I’m late. Big deal. The pitching coach and the manager kept wanting to talk to me on my way out the door, and I couldn’t get a word in to tell them that I hadn’t yet gone over to the studio to get my picture taken. If the team wants headshots, the team should let me go have them done.
When Jose gave us the details on the photos last week, he said some guy named Dave would be doing the pictures.
The young woman standing here in a clingy top with cutouts on the shoulders, looking yummy, is definitely not named Dave. Big round dark-chocolate eyes, a waterfall of brown curly hair, a round face, full lips, soft round breasts . . . in fact, soft round body all the way down. Long shapely legs under her knee-length skirt, lovely caramel skin. I’m so turned on just looking at her, it makes me cranky. Nobody should look this fuckable at work. I did not expect to run into my dream girl when I’m not freshly showered, cologned, groomed and prepared to be charming, and her don’t-waste-my-time attitude is pissing me off.
Okay, it’s turning me on, too, but that’s beside the point. No reason for her to be bitchy.
I just want these damn photos taken before her camera picks up on the half-wood in my pants, and I sternly tell it to back down while I blunder down the hall toward the lighted room where I guess we’re going to be working. “You’re definitely not Dave.”
Now she’s even more annoyed at me. “No, I’m not. Dave was unexpectedly delayed out of town. I am fully competent, however.”
“I just bet you are,” I say, turning
to face her. She could probably tame lions, she’s that fierce. It’s sexy as hell.
“I need to adjust the light sources for your height. Sit down.” She points at a stool in front of the Rowdies backdrop.
Her breasts are moving under her shirt as she bustles around moving equipment, and that’s distracting. I don’t sit fast enough for her.
“Sit. Down,” she orders, eyes narrow.
“I’m not your dog,” I say.
She gives me a long hostile stare. “And I’m not your bitch.”
There are people allowed to order me around: my coaches and my parents. She’s not any of them. “Don’t order me around.”
She comes out from behind the tripod and stands there with her hands on her hips. “First, I’m the professional here. You do what I say or I’m done and you can leave without a photo. Second, you kiss your mama with that mouth?”
Well, no.
And she’s right, she’s just doing her job. I inhale and exhale carefully, the way I do when I’m on the mound and focusing on striking the batter out. “Okay. I apologize. No, I would not talk to my mother like that, and I’m sorry I did it to you.”
She blinks some very long lashes. Damn, she’s pretty.
“What’s your name?” I ask. “I’m sorry, I guess we skipped over this part.”
She drops her hands to her sides, and then steps forward to offer me a handshake. “I guess we did. I’m Marisha Johnson.”
Marisha. I like it. “Daniel Broadway. Danny.”
“Apology accepted, Mr. Broadway.”
“Danny,” I insist again, and a tiny smile curves her full pink lips.
“Okay, Danny. Let’s get started.”
She positions me on the stool, brief nudges with her hand to get me to sit up straighter, turn my torso to one side and look to the other. Then the other direction. Then head-on. Finally she says, “Okay, I think that’s done it. The team will pick one of these. If you want any prints for yourself, here’s a price sheet and your session ID.” She prints a card from the computer and hands it to me.
“Thanks, but . . .” On the verge of turning down prints, it occurs to me that my mama might very well want a copy of some of these. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Marisha sounds more cheerful now. “You can order online or by phone.”
I linger by the front door. She comes closer, one hand on it like she’s going to open it for me.
“Excuse me,” she says. “I hate to kick you out, but I need to lock up for the evening.”
It just comes out, like a hiccup. “Can I take you to dinner?”
She blinks those long lashes again. “Are you hitting on me?”
“I’m just asking.” A movie scene flashes across my mind, and God help me, that comes out like a hiccup too, without me even thinking about it. “You think a princess and a guy like me—”
“No,” she interrupts, fast. “No, I don’t.” But I can see a deep plum flush to her cheeks.
“So you are a princess.”
“You’re not Han Solo,” she says, and I can’t help it, I laugh.
“You know that dialogue.”
“Of course I do. I’m a card-carrying nerd,” she says acidly. “And you’re a jock boy. We’re all done here.” But her soft milk-chocolate eyes are looking into mine, and the air around us crackles, and we are totally not done. I lean forward about three inches, and I kiss her.
We’re not touching anywhere but our lips, but I feel like I’m going up in flames. Her mouth is soft against mine, and the inside of her lip is erotically sweet when I touch it with my tongue, and I could go on kissing her forever. I don’t know how long it is before she pulls away, panting.
“I don’t do this,” she says, almost to herself.
“Me either,” I admit. I’ve kissed girls on dance floors and in bars and on dates, but kissing a girl I just met, at her place of business? Never.
“Ha,” she snorts. “Jock boy. Of course you do.”
“I don’t. And what’s wrong with jocks?”
“Jocks are jerks,” she says, and she’s back to annoyed again.
“Marisha,” I say, but she pushes the door open behind me.
“Have a great season,” she says in that bright acid-green tone that tells me she’s just mouthing pleasantries.
“Marisha.”
“Byeeee!” She practically pushes me out the door, and locks it behind me, then disappears. The light goes out.
I stand there at the door for several minutes, stunned and still horny and puzzled. What did I do to her? I mean, yeah, I kissed her, but she kissed back. Did I just sexually harass her? Did I scare her?
Finally I get the brainpower to make myself walk across the parking lot to my car.
CHAPTER THREE
Marisha
“And then he just hauled off and kissed me,” I say to Adera and Violet, still puzzled by the whole stupid thing. I don't mention how much I liked it.
Violet taps a finger on her glass. “He’s a pitcher? That’s bad news. You don’t need that much ego to deal with.”
I remember the Han Solo cockiness, and how hot it was. “No, I don’t need that.” But I want it. Maybe.
Adera passes her strawberry daiquiri over to me. “You need more to drink.” My Tom Collins is empty, but I’d sooner lick a Strawberry Shortcake doll than drink Adera’s favorite, too-sweet cocktail. I hand it back.
“So was it good?” Violet demands to know, leaning her upper body to me across the table.
I shiver involuntarily, remembering the heat of kissing Danny Broadway. The hard bulk of him three inches away, and the way I wanted to climb him like a fucking tree. My panties were so wet I had to change them, even with only a little bit of kissing. Adera says, “Oooooh, that good?”
“That bad,” I admit. “And that good. Made me feel like the hottest woman on earth. Which scared the crap out of me, frankly.”
“Why?” Violet leans over even farther, avid. “Damn, I only dream about stuff like this.”
“He’s too good-looking,” I explain. “Do you know how much damage a guy that gorgeous could do to me?”
“You don’t know he’d hurt you,” Adera says, sipping daiquiri and looking wise. “Sometimes jock boys are sweet.”
“He’s not sweet,” I say, fighting off another shiver.
“You always date the sweet ones,” Violet says, and pulls the maraschino cherry out of her Manhattan to crunch on it. “And then you get bored and dump them. At least you’re interested in this one.”
“I’m not interested.” I try catching our waitress’s eye, and she comes right over. “Another round, please.”
“Give me your phone a sec,” Violet orders, hand out. There’s no point fighting Violet about anything; she’ll just wear you down. I pull it out of my pocket, unlock it, and give it to her.
Her fingers fly over the phone, and then she sits back in her seat, triumphant. “Liar. If you’re not interested in him, why’d you Google Daniel Broadway?”
My face gets hot. “Oh Lord. I just—that does not mean I’m interested, Vi!”
“Denial. Not just a river in Egypt,” Violet says, still poking at my phone. “The Rowdies don’t have their roster pics up yet.”
“Of course not. I just took them!”
“Let me look at last year,” Vi says, scrolling. “Huh. Damn. He’s hot.”
She turns the phone around to Adera, who leans over to look. “Oh. Handsome. Kind of rakish.”
“He’s not your type,” Vi says to her. “Not like the guy who lives next door.”
“Wait, what?” I turn to Adera. “What guy?”
Violet smirks. “She met our next-door neighbor.”
“In the laundry room,” Adera says, her whole face bright pink. “He—never mind.”
Violet snorts. “I saw it. He was walking out of his apartment wearing just shorts and running shoes, with headphones on. He waved, and she sort of stammered and blushed and mumbled and tripped over the d
oor mat because she was so smitten.”
“I was not!”
“No big deal, Adera,” I tell her. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”
“It’s nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
Violet rolls her eyes, but she pats Adera’s arm.
And then our drinks come, and I get Violet talking about her new favorite shoes, and we’re back to normal.
Except I remember what Danny’s kiss was like, and I shiver again.
We have dinner, and I have another Tom Collins, and I try not to think too hard about the Hot Jock, but my brain keeps playing with the words “hot jock,” turning them into “cocky jock” and “hard jock” and “hot cock” and “hot jock hard cock,” and by dessert time I’m stuck on naughty thoughts. It doesn’t help that the bar part of this restaurant is starting to get loud, with music for dancing and people crowding onto the dance floor.
“Oh man, look at you,” Vi says. “We gotta get you laid, or something. You’re desperate. You’ll call the Hot Jock unless we intervene.”
“I don’t have his number,” I explain, and squirm on the bench.
“Uh-oh,” Adera says, and hides behind her hands.
“What?” Violet cranes her neck. “Oh hey. It’s Sexy Neighbor. Go say hi, Adera.”
I look past Vi’s shoulder. There’s a small clutch of guys, all in jeans and button-down shirts or fitted tees, at the bar. “Which one?” They all look good from here, with broad muscular shoulders and tight butts, but my eyes keep coming back to one guy in a black tee. His hair is combed back neatly, and his jeans fit. In fact, that ass looks a lot like—
Oh shit. I groan out loud.
“What?”
I shake my head and cover my eyes. “It might not be him.”
“Well, that’s definitely Sexy Neighbor,” Violet says, pointing at the guy standing next to the sexy-ass hot jock I can’t keep my eyes off of. I squint. Sexy Neighbor isn’t that tall, but he has a very muscular build and good thighs. He turns sideways to talk to Hot Jock (because yes, it is Hot Jock, Broadway Dan with the magic tongue, damn my luck), and I recognize him as one of the Rowdies players. Catcher, I think, which would explain the thighs.