by Regina Kyle
“She’s twenty-one,” Cade said through clenched teeth. “Almost twenty-two.”
“Let me guess.” Ivy swung her legs sideways over one arm of her chair and took a slug of beer. “The checkout girl with the—”
“Never mind.” Cade cut her off with a glare. “That’s not important. What is important is no matter what I say, she won’t leave me alone.”
“There’s your problem.” Gabe, always the analytical one, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You know the old saying about actions speaking louder than words.”
“Sure.” Cade popped the top of his beer and took a long, slow sip. “But what’s that got to do with Sasha?”
Gabe crossed one Sperry-clad foot over his knee. “You need to show her you mean business, not just tell her.”
“Show her how?”
“By dating someone else.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know.” Gabe lifted a shoulder. “You’re the local ladies’ man. You tell me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the problem.” Cade picked at the label on his beer bottle. “Stockton’s not all that big. I’ve sort of exhausted the dating pool.”
“Hello.” Ivy waggled her fingers at him. “Available female here.”
“Huh?” Cade couldn’t have heard her right. She did not just offer herself up to him like a virgin sacrifice.
“I volunteer as tribute.”
She did.
He continued to stare at her, not sure how to respond. Gabe, on the other hand, had no such problem. He burst into hysterical laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Ivy pressed her lips into a thin line.
“You?” Gabe choked out between laughs. “And Cade? You might as well be brother and sister.”
Only Cade didn’t think of her that way, not anymore. And that was exactly why he didn’t want to go out with her. Couldn’t go out with her.
“Look, Ivy, I appreciate the offer but...”
“But what?” She crossed and uncrossed her legs over the arm of the chair, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of creamy flesh under the hem of her shorts. “Are you chicken? Afraid you’ll succumb to my many charms?”
“Not exactly.” Liar.
“Hang on.” Gabe grinned over the lip of his beer bottle, his laughter finally contained. “The more I think about it, it’s actually pretty perfect. You don’t have to really go out. Just show up somewhere Sasha will be and pretend you’re a couple. That should be enough to get her to back off.”
Great. Pretend dating. Being together and not at the same time. “I don’t know...”
“Come on, man.” Gabe’s grin widened. “What have you got to lose?”
His mind. His heart. The only family he’d ever known if things got serious and then they crashed and burned.
“Tell you what.” Ivy’s tone softened. “Consider it my way of satisfying the dare.”
“Since when does the dare-ee get to decide her own terms?”
“Since the dar-er needs her help to get rid of his ex.”
“Okay.” The corners of his mouth curled upward as he thought of a way to play along without risking anything. “One date. You can come watch me tear it up at third base in the Battle of the Badges game.”
“Battle of the Badges?”
“Softball—cops versus firefighters. They kicked our asses last year.” Cade tipped back his beer, letting the rich, chocolatey liquid slide down his throat, and mentally patted himself on the back. It was genius. Him on the field. Ivy in the stands, cheering him on. Sasha watching the whole thing. He’d convince his ex it was over and still keep Ivy at a safe distance.
“One tiny flaw in your plan.” Ivy shifted her legs back over the arm of the chair and sat facing forward. “How do you know Sasha will be there?”
“Oh, she’ll be there,” Gabe chimed in. “It’s a huge event. Almost the whole town turns out. Winners get bragging rights and pizza after the game, courtesy of the losers.”
“How come I’ve never been? Never even heard of it.” Ivy’s nose wrinkled again. A habit of hers, apparently.
Cade frowned, wondering why he’d never noticed it before. What else had he missed? He shook off the thought and focused on answering Ivy’s question. “We only started playing a few years ago.”
“When is it?”
“Friday at six.”
“All I’d have to do is watch you play?” Ivy bit her lip. The unconsciously erotic gesture sent his sex drive into orbit.
Cade cleared his throat and scraped a hand through his hair. “And root for me. Maybe wear my extra jersey. Typical girlfriend stuff.”
A strange look crossed her face, and for a moment he thought she was going to say no. But then she stood, chugged the rest of her beer and faced him.
“Okay. Pick me up at five thirty. And don’t forget the jersey.”
3
IVY CURSED HERSELF for the thousandth time as she pulled back the curtain and peered out the upstairs window, watching for Cade’s SUV. What the hell had she been thinking? Or maybe she hadn’t been. One too many chocolate stouts and her damned ego had gotten her into this mess.
But she couldn’t help it. It had hurt like hell when Gabe and Cade started discussing the eligible female population of Stockton as if she wasn’t sitting two feet away. What, pray tell, was wrong with her? Did they think she wasn’t good enough for Cade, that no one would believe a super stud like him would date a girl like her?
She wasn’t Jabba the Mutt anymore. She wasn’t.
Not that those two dumb-asses recognized it. To them she’d always be an overweight, insecure, pimply-faced kid.
Well, she’d show them. Especially the chief dumb-ass. Cade.
Ivy abandoned her vigil at the window and headed for the full-length mirror in the master bathroom, needing one last confirmation that all her primping had paid off. Hair tamed in a ponytail, adorably pulled through the back of a Stockton Fire Department baseball cap she’d found in Holly’s closet? Check. Just enough makeup to hide her freckles and play up the pale green flecks in her hazel eyes? Check. Legs tanned, shaved and showcased in an appropriately snug pair of denim cutoffs? Check.
She smiled at her reflection, thinking back to a few years ago when tight had been a four-letter word in her fashion vocabulary. If there was one thing Andre had taught her—over and above all the lessons in photography she’d learned as his apprentice-turned-associate—it was that she wasn’t doing herself any favors wearing clothes that looked like they were designed by Omar the tent maker. “Remember,” he’d said. “You wear the clothes. They don’t wear you.”
Well, she’d wear the hell out of this outfit. She grabbed a pair of silver hoop earrings and her collection of Alex and Ani bracelets off the counter and started downstairs, humming the latest pop radio earworm courtesy of Taylor Swift. All she needed now was Cade’s jersey, which he’d promised to bring. She’d look a little strange if she showed up in only a sports bra. Even if it did wonders for her double Ds.
The doorbell rang when she was halfway down.
“Be right there,” she called, taking the rest of the steps two at a time.
But when she got to the door, her hand on the knob, she froze.
You got this, girl. Show him little Ivy Nelson’s all grown up.
Her heart pounding and her palms moist, she swung open the door. “Hi. Come on in. I’m almost ready.”
She stood back to let him pass, but he stayed firmly planted on the stoop with a dazed expression on his face. “I, uh, brought this.”
He thrust out one hand, a fire-engine-red jersey clenched in his fist. He wore an identical one, the initials SFD across his chest, tucked into a pair of form-fitting, gray baseball pants.
“Thanks,” she said, the tremble almost gone from her voice. Amazing what a little good, old-fashioned leering could do for a girl’s self-confidence. She pried the shirt from his fingers, tossed it onto her shoulder and motioned him inside. “I’ll go put it on and we can get out of h
ere. Can’t have you missing batting practice.”
He followed her in. “We don’t have batting practice, but I should probably stretch before game time.”
“I can help.” She stood in front of the half mirror in the foyer and slipped on her jewelry. “A model taught me some great partner exercises on set in the Turks and Caicos.”
She didn’t mention that the model worked for Victoria’s Secret and that the shoot was for their swimsuit edition. No need to conjure up comparisons between her size-ten frame and the ideal 34-25-34 figure of a VS girl.
“Sounds good.” He leaned against the doorjamb. “Sasha ought to get the picture pretty quick if she sees us working out together.”
Right. How could she forget? This was all for show. For Sasha. Not real. Not for her.
Ivy unbuttoned the jersey and slipped it on, determined not to let Cade’s comment burst the bubble of self-assurance she was floating in thanks to his initial reaction. She had him for tonight, and she was going to make the most of it.
The shirt hung well past her hips, like she thought it would. A throwback to her Jabba days. But she had a plan for that. She pulled the ends together and tied them securely at her waist, checking in the mirror to make sure it had the anticipated effect of highlighting her breasts while revealing just enough—but not too much—skin.
Perfect.
“All set,” she said, turning to face him.
“Damn.” He eyed her up and down, his baby blues leaving goose bumps in their wake. “My shirt never looked so good.”
She eyed him right back, lingering a little longer than necessary between his legs, where the baseball pants weren’t hiding anything.
Down, girl.
“I don’t know.” She licked her lips. “It looks pretty fine on you, too.”
“Oh, yeah?” He pushed off the doorjamb and took a step toward her.
“Mmm-hmm.” She followed his lead, moving into him. “I’ve always been a sucker for a man in uniform.”
He cocked his head. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Maybe.” Another step and she was close enough to put a hand on his chest, praying the whole time he wouldn’t brush it off. When he didn’t, she let her fingers curl into the soft fabric of his jersey. His heartbeat pulsed under her palm, almost as fast as hers. “Or maybe just practicing my witty banter. You know. For Sasha.”
His crystal-blue eyes darkened to indigo. “Anything else you want to practice?”
“Just this.”
She rose on tiptoes and brushed her lips across his mouth. She meant it to be a quick kiss. Sweet and gentle, something to whet his appetite and give him a tantalizing taste of the woman she’d become.
Something to leave him wanting more.
But the second her lips found his all thoughts of kissing and running flew out of her mind. She hadn’t counted on the warmth of his mouth, the softness of his lips or the soapy clean, all-male scent of him tickling her nostrils and sending a current of desire through her body.
She snaked her hand around his neck and pulled his head down, needing more. Needing him to respond. She couldn’t be the only one feeling this electricity between them, could she?
Ivy pressed against him and flicked her tongue against his mouth, willing him to open up to her. With a primal moan he surrendered, parting his lips and bringing his hands around to cup her bottom. The movement brought her impossibly closer to him, fitting her soft curves to his hard lines.
Oh. My. Bleeping. God. Seeing him in the G-string hadn’t prepared her for the delicious pressure of his growing erection against her. She closed her eyes and relaxed into the kiss, letting the sensations left in the wake of his roaming hands overwhelm her.
He released her and stepped back, leaving her breathless and shaky. The sudden rush of air smacked her like a wet towel. She tightened her ponytail and summoned her inner Scarlett O’Hara.
“I think that ought to convince her. Don’t you?”
Cade shoved his hands in his pockets. “It was pretty damn persuasive. But I doubt we’ll have to go that far. Just seeing us together should do the trick.”
“You never know. Better safe than sorry.” Ivy grabbed her purse from the hall table and brushed past Cade on her way to the door. Pinpricks of heat flared where they touched. She shook them off, opened the door and stepped into the mild, sweet-smelling spring evening. “Let’s go. It’s almost game time. We’ve got a grand entrance to make. And a mission to accomplish.”
Cade didn’t need to know Ivy’s mission had a dual purpose. First, show Sasha he was off the market. And second, get him to take her seriously.
Which one would be more difficult was a toss-up.
* * *
“STRIKE THREE.”
Cade threw down his batter’s helmet and stalked back to the dugout.
“Here.” He thrust his bat into the waiting hands of the left fielder, some guy in C Company he barely knew. “Maybe you’ll have better luck with it.”
“What’s eating you, Hardesty?” O’Brien, the first baseman and one of Cade’s fellow firefighters in B Company, greeted him with a smirk and a slap on the back. “One more at bat like that and Cappy’s gonna bump you out of the cleanup spot.”
“No one’s taking Cade off cleanup.” Like Teddy Roosevelt, George “Cappy” Perez, B Company’s captain and the team manager, spoke softly and carried a big-ass stick. Right now that stick was a Louisville Slugger he leaned on in the corner of the dugout.
“It’s okay, Cade, you’ll get ’em next time.” Ivy’s cheerful voice rang across the field.
“That’s right, baby.” Sasha’s followed, a slow, sweet twang that oozed sex. It used to turn him on. Now it was just flat-out embarrassing, like she was trying too hard to be seductive. “Next time.”
“Now I see your problem.” O’Brien leaned back on the bench and folded his beefy arms over his chest. “You’ve got one too many women, Hardesty. Want me to take one off your hands? I bet the redhead won’t mind. Fat chicks usually aren’t picky.”
Cade ripped off his batting gloves, grabbed the front of O’Brien’s jersey and pulled him to his feet until they were standing face-to-face. Cade could see the pores on his pug nose, crooked from being broken one too many times. “Listen up, dirtbag. If I ever hear you say another word about Ivy, I’ll hit you so hard not even Google will be able to find you.”
“Okay, okay. I get it.” Cade pushed him away and O’Brien landed hard on the bench. “The fat chick’s yours. I’ll take the blonde with the big boobs.”
Cade lunged for him again, but a strong arm wrapped around him from behind and held him back.
“That’s enough.” Cappy loosened his hold only slightly and turned his attention to Cade’s antagonist. “O’Brien. Less trash talk. More softball. You’re on deck. Let’s get something started. I’m not buying these pansies pizza two years in a row.”
O’Brien scooped up his helmet and headed for the on-deck circle, pushing past Cade and muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “chubby chaser.” Cappy let go of Cade, giving him a pat on the shoulder before returning to his post in the corner.
The other guys, who’d been strangely quiet during the whole scuffle, resumed their usual midgame chatter. Cade took a seat at the far end of the bench, away from his teammates, wondering what the hell had just happened.
He wasn’t a violent guy, typically. Laid-back and easygoing, that was Cade Hardesty. The guy least likely to lose his temper.
So why had he lost it on O’Brien?
Okay, the jerk-wad had insulted Ivy. Called her fat. It wasn’t anything Cade hadn’t heard a million times from the kids in school. They even had some dumb-ass, humiliating nickname for her, something about Jabba the Hutt. But he hadn’t gone around threatening to beat the shit out of every kid who used it.
Of course, he’d been nothing but a stupid, self-centered kid himself back then. All he’d cared about was who he could con into doing his chemistry hom
ework and which chick he was going to take to Hotchkiss Point on a Friday night. He’d like to think he was past that now. Maybe that’s why he’d leaped to Ivy’s defense at last.
Cade watched as O’Brien swung and missed. Strike two. Not surprising. The guy must be blind if he thought Ivy was fat. Hadn’t he ever seen Jennifer Lopez? Or Kim Kardashian? There was a big difference between overweight and curvy. And Ivy most definitely fell into the curvy category.
He leaned his head against the dugout wall and closed his eyes, remembering how those soft curves had felt molded against him from chest to thigh. She was all sun-kissed, satiny skin. And that kiss...damn. He’d been hard from the minute her mouth met his.
“Wake up, man.” A hand jostled his shoulder. “O’Brien grounded out. We’re in the field.”
Cade jammed his cap on his head, grabbed his glove and trotted out to third base. Once he was in position, he risked a glance at the stands. Even in a crowd, Ivy was a cinch to spot. She’d positioned herself front and center in the first row. Her ponytail bobbed wildly as she nodded her head to the beat of the Springsteen song playing over the PA.
She looked up as the song ended. They might be sixty feet apart, but that didn’t stop Cade’s insides from somersaulting when her eyes met his. The unfamiliar emotion was like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
“Heads up, Hardesty.”
Cade pivoted toward the voice, silently thanking the powers that be for the interruption. The shortstop tossed him the ball, and Cade wheeled and threw it home, completing the circuit.
“Looking good, baby.” Sasha stood in her seat and waved so enthusiastically her bought-and-paid-for boobs almost bounced out of her practically nonexistent top.
“Yeah, baby,” O’Brien mocked from across the diamond, pursing his lips and making goo-goo eyes at Cade. “Looking good.”
Cade scuffed at the dirt around third base with the toe of his cleat. They were down by three in the fourth. He had one woman he couldn’t handle and another he’d like to but damn well shouldn’t. And that no-necked goon O’Brien seemed hell-bent on pissing him off.