Between Me & You: An Enemies to Lovers Workplace Romance (Remington Medical Book 3)

by Kimberly Kincaid

  Door number two. “So, I should probably tell you I’ve never done this before,” she said as she pulled her gym bag out of the back of her BMW and they began to walk toward the building’s brightly lit entrance.

  “You’ve never hit a baseball?” His own bag slipped off his shoulder a little as he pulled back to look at her in surprise.

  “Not unless seventh grade gym class counts. Anyway, what I’m saying is that I’m not really sure this will work.”

  Connor’s chuckle cut through the chill in the air. “Oh, it’ll work. Trust me.”

  Any response she would’ve flipped back got lost in the shuffle of them making their way past the glass doors. The lobby was outfitted with rubber-mat flooring and fluorescent lights, the neatly painted cinderblock walls brightly decorated with giant depictions of logos that Harlow assumed belonged to local baseball teams. The space was empty except for a pair of teenaged boys, both with enormous duffels at their feet, and Connor greeted both of them with a chin-lift before turning toward the woman behind the counter that spanned most of the left-hand wall.

  “Hey, Dee. Was wondering if you’ve got room for me and my friend, Harlow, here, to bat for an hour.”

  “For you, darlin’?” The woman—who looked to be in her sixties, yet had a glimmer in her eye that reminded Harlow of a twenty-year-old—smiled warmly at both of them. “Sure thing. How many buckets?”

  “Let’s do two. One of each, please.”

  The woman nodded, her bleached blond hair not budging despite the move. “I’ll put’cha on the far end, in number eight. Should be good to go in a couple of minutes.”

  “Thanks,” Connor said.

  “Your friend’s gonna need to sign a waiver if she’s battin’.” Dee slid a clipboard over the counter, and finally, something in Harlow’s comfort zone! A contract. She skimmed it, finding a general you-must-be-medically-cleared-for-exercise, you-might-get-hurt-here, you-won’t-sue-us-if-you-do disclaimer. She signed it and handed it over, looking at Connor expectantly.

  “How come you don’t have to sign one?”

  “Oh, Connor’s is on file,” Dee put in with a wink. “He’s a frequent flyer. Speakin’ of which, you want this on your tab, sweetie?”

  Connor smiled at the woman. “That would be perfect. Thank you.”

  “Oh, my God,” Harlow murmured as they walked away. “Is there anyone you’re not friendly with?”

  “You say that like friendly is a bad thing,” he countered, and she noticed that he hadn’t answered the question. But since she didn’t want to lay her stuff out like laundry on a line, either, she wasn’t about to push.

  “It’s not. Anyway, you’ll have to let me pay my half.”

  His eyes turned more gray than green. “Nope. This was my idea.”

  “Connor—”

  “Tell you what. We’ll find a way to even it out, okay? But Dee wasn’t kidding. I really do have a tab here. My credit card is on file along with my waiver, and I’d probably have ended up here tonight, anyway, after the day we had.”

  There he went with all that logic again. Damn it. “Okay. But only if we really find a way to even it out.”

  “Deal,” Connor said. He pointed out the women’s locker room, and after a quick change and a whole lot of internal pep talking she wasn’t sure she really felt, Harlow met him back out in the lobby. He wore a pair of navy blue nylon workout pants that were similar in fit to the scrubs she saw him in every day. But good Lord, his T-shirt loved him, the dark gray cotton surrendering to the hard plane of his chest and gripping his brightly inked biceps just enough to make Harlow breathless, not to mention self-conscious as hell in her pale blue tank and plain-Jane black yoga leggings.

  “Okay,” she said, shaking off the thought of Connor’s (big, beautiful, bitable) biceps, once and for all. Yes, he was gorgeous, and no, she wasn’t immune to that. But they worked together. She knew better. “Let’s do this.”

  “You’re the boss,” he said, ushering her down the narrow hallway to their right.

  It took her four steps to keep her scoff concealed. “Most people don’t say that so easily.”

  “Really?”

  God, he looked genuinely surprised. “Really. I mean, look at the facts.” She held up a hand to keep a tally, following Connor into a much larger room that looked like an indoor football stadium. “I’m twenty-eight”—index finger—“female”—middle finger—“and the daughter of the CEO”—ring finger, three strikes, you’re out. “Most people assume I got where I am by way of good, old-fashioned nepotism. I’m judged far more often on my last name than my merit.”

  “Funny, I know that feeling,” Connor said. His laid-back expression hadn’t budged, but Jesus, she still felt like a jerk. His father might be a horrible man, but after spending two weeks with Connor in the clinic, she knew enough to say the apple had fallen about a thousand nautical miles from the tree.

  “I apologize. That was thoughtless.”

  He came to a stop beside a large, netted-off area, putting his bag down beneath a black and white sign bearing the number eight. “You don’t have to apologize. I came to terms with the fact that Duke is an asshole years ago. Ten of them, to be exact.”

  They fell into the same sort of silence as when they’d walked back to the clinic earlier today. It wasn’t uncomfortable, and Harlow didn’t feel compelled to fill it with anything for the sake of small talk. Which was nice, actually, since she’d always thought small talk was just about the dumbest thing in existence.

  “Okay,” Connor said, once she’d put her bag down and joined him inside the netted area. The main room itself was a wide-open rectangle of space, with what had to be a thirty-foot ceiling topped with exposed gymnasium rafters. Each “stall” was divided from wall to wall width-wise by thick, black nylon safety netting, and equipped with a rack of various bats and helmets. A bright red piece of equipment that Harlow guessed was a batting machine stood not far from the entrance to their stall, and two large tubs of battle-tested balls sat beside the machine.

  “First, you need a helmet.” He turned toward the rack, and her heart stuttered behind the thin material of her tank top.

  “You don’t want to go first?”

  “We’re not here for me, remember? Plus, you don’t need me to show you how this is done. Unless that’ll help you learn it on your own.”

  “Oh.” The stutter in her chest became something else entirely. This had to be the first time in the history of penises that someone owning one trusted her to self-teach something he knew how to do.

  Still, Connor did know what he was doing, and the best source for learning a new skill was an expert, so… “Maybe you could show me how to hold the bat properly and the best way to stand? Just so I’m sure I won’t hurt myself while I figure this out.”

  Or land on my ass and look like an ass, she added silently, sending up a fervent prayer that fate hadn’t zoned in on that little nugget.

  “Sure. But first things first. Try this one out and see how you like it,” he said, passing her a helmet. “Don’t worry, they keep them clean.”

  The appearance of the thing actually backed up his words, and Harlow placed it over her head, adjusting her ponytail. “It feels pretty good,” she said, and Connor nodded his agreement.

  “Looks perfect. Now, for a bat. These aluminum bats are pretty much all the same. Nice and lightweight.” He stepped back while she chose one. “So, you must feel like you’ve got a lot to prove, huh? Being your old man’s daughter.”

  The question took her by so much surprise that her answer shoveled out, unchecked. “Sometimes. Maybe a lot of the time,” she amended when he dished up a little side-eye. “But you must, too, I’d imagine.”

  “Sometimes,” Connor said, flipping her answer back at her with a smile. “Tougher for you, though. Actually working for him.” He grabbed a helmet and a bat of his own and joined her in front of the home plate outlined on the artificial turf mat at the head of the batting stall. “So, firs
t thing to keep in mind are your feet. A square, even stance will give you the best balance. Not too wide, not too narrow.”

  He placed his feet on either side of home plate, toes pointing dead ahead, then stepped back so Harlow could give it a shot.

  “Like this?” she asked, and after a few small adjustments per his suggestions, she added, “I actually like working with my father, for the most part.”

  Connor lifted a reddish-brown brow. “Little bend in the knees and at the waist. That’s perfect.” Then, “Really? Even with all those people who think you got where you are because of favoritism?”

  The fact that the conversation was peppered in with learning to bat and not drilled in on her getting all blabby about her feelings made it all too easy to open her mouth. Plus, talking about work didn’t exactly stress her out, even when the topic was her father. “Mmm hmm. He and I have always been close. Two peas in a pod, my mom used to say.”

  Annnd she’d said too much. Damn it. “So, ah, what about my hands?”

  She gripped the bat tightly, and one corner of Connor’s mouth edged up into his beard. “I admire your enthusiasm, but with a grip like that, you’re liable to break your wrist. Since I don’t want to work tonight unless I have to”—he lifted his own bat, showing her a much looser, more widely spaced grip—“try something like this and see how it feels.”

  “Okay.” She adjusted, and had to admit, the change felt much better.

  “Nice. You want to turn your head to make sure you’re facing the pitcher—in this case, that’ll be me—with both eyes. That whole keep your eye on the ball thing isn’t bullshit.”

  He sauntered in front of the pitching machine, which should’ve been impossible for someone his size, and yet he did it with a ridiculous amount of grace.

  Focus. “We’re not going to use the machine thingy?” she asked.

  “We will. Just not for the first few,” Connor said. “So, you and your old man are tight. Is that why you took the job at the clinic?”

  Unease twisted in Harlow’s rib cage. “Davenport Industries was contracted by the hospital to turn the clinic around. My father felt I was the best person for the position.”

  “Huh.” Connor reached down and grabbed a ball from one of the buckets at his feet, and even though his hands were massive, the ball looked bigger than Harlow had expected it to. “Go ahead and get into your stance. Yep, arms up, nice and level.” He paused while she guessed her way through it. “And what do you feel?”

  “What?”

  He looked at her so easily, as if the topic were the weather or what she’d had for breakfast. “About the position at the clinic. Did you want it?”

  Harlow couldn’t make her mouth form the answer to the question, so she did the next best thing. She dodged. “I’m dedicated to making the place a success. Is this right?” She flicked a glance at her arms, and—whew—Connor’s gaze lifted off hers to follow.

  “Mmm hmm. I’m going to lob this softball. Nothing fast or fancy. Take an easy swing at it, just to feel what it’s like to move and maybe connect. If you miss, that’s cool. We have a lot more of them. Just don’t smack the crap out of it yet. Good?”

  “Good,” Harlow semi-lied. But before her brain could overthink the situation by stressing about her feet/stance/grip/arms/daddy issues, Connor had lofted the softball at her bat, and she had no choice but to act. She tried to watch the ball as it sailed in her direction, then swung accordingly. The bat made contact with a soft thump, and although the ball didn’t go horribly far, she had hit it.

  And it felt…awesome.

  “Oh, my God.” Harlow laughed, and Connor reached down for another ball, laughing, too. He motioned to her in a wordless ready? and she nodded, missing only one of the five times they repeated the process.

  “Ah, you’re getting the hang of it,” Connor said, tossing another ball at her.

  She hit it a little more boldly, then spoke even more boldly. “No.”

  “No.” He echoed her quietly, as if the word had felt strange in his mouth.

  “No, I didn’t want the job at the clinic, at first.”

  Connor kept up with his motions, weaving the conversation into the spaces between their rhythm of throw-hit. “How come?”

  Whether it was the endorphins from batting or the ease of Connor having given her room to talk on her own terms, Harlow couldn’t be sure, but her resistance faded enough for her to say, “I’m not the biggest fan of hospitals, for one, and the clinic is close enough. But the bulk of the reason is that we had bigger contracts on the table. Ones I’m qualified to handle. Ones I should’ve handled.”

  They went through another round before he said, “And you feel like maybe your old man put you in the clinic because he doesn’t think you can hack it with a bigger contract.”

  Well, give the big guy a gold star in connecting the dots. At least now she didn’t have to say the words herself. “A part of me wonders how strong his belief in me is right now, yes.”

  “Is that why you’re so intense about the budgets and the business end of things? You want to be sure you succeed so you can prove him wrong?” Connor asked, and at that, Harlow swung and missed.

  Damn it. “I’m intense about the business end because it’s important. Setting the clinic to rights is my job, and I’d take that seriously no matter what. It won’t happen without good business.”

  “You wanna hit harder?”

  Harlow blinked. “You mean the ball?” she asked, hearing the pure idiocy of it only after she’d given it air time. See, this was why she didn’t do emotions. They made her stupid. And vulnerable.

  And really freaking warm, she realized as a playful smile shaped Connor’s too-sexy mouth.

  “I’d prefer you not hit me, but if boxing is more your speed, I guess we could try that next time. For now…” He pointed to the bucket, and God, she had no choice but to relax around this man.

  “Okay.” Her belly shimmied a little at the idea of taking a good crack at the ball, but she’d already made some good hits. She was ready.

  “Same thing as before, only with a little more oomph,” Connor told her. “Turn into the swing, and follow all the way through with your arms.” His throw was a little faster, and her muscles sprang to life, her brain letting go of everything but her body and the ball, and whoa—

  THWACK!

  “Nice,” he said as the ball sailed far into the open space behind him, and a rush of pleasure and pride (and, okay, a not-small amount of oh-holy-shit) zinged through her veins.

  “Thanks.”

  “So, why do you care what your old man thinks?” he asked after two more throws.

  Harlow’s palms began to sweat, threatening her grip on the bat. “Because he’s my father,” she said pointedly. Of course she cared what he thought. Plus—hellloooo—he was also her boss. She had to care.

  “And?”

  “What he thinks matters,” she said, point-blank. “I know you probably find this hard to believe, and I can’t say I really blame you, but not everyone has a bad relationship with their father. Mine might be unusual,” she conceded, because the business-forward dynamic that she and her father had always shared, even when she was young, wasn’t the norm, she knew. They’d never been big on trading emotions, the way she’d done so easily with her mother. “But we care for each other in our own way, and I damn sure respect him. He’s smart and shrewd and more hardworking than anyone I’ve ever met. He put everything into building Davenport Industries, and I want him to know I value that business, too. He’s trusting me to help him run it. That’s why I care what he thinks.”

  Connor processed this for a few more hits. Just when Harlow thought he might drop the subject entirely, he said, “You shouldn’t doubt yourself. Even if you think your old man does.”

  “But he—”

  “I get it,” Connor said smoothly. “He knows business, and if he doubts you, you think it must be for a good reason. But here’s what I know. You’re doing a really good
job at the clinic, Harlow. Even if I don’t agree with your focus, I’m not too lasered in on my own to see that.”

  “Oh.”

  All of the feelings that had been spin-cycling through her chest for the last eight hours combined to form one huge emotions cocktail. She knew she needed to squash it—she’d already looked weak in front of Connor a half a dozen times today, and that was the conservative estimate. Funny, though, he hadn’t seemed to think less of her for it. In fact, with the way his eyes had just darkened toward the gray end of their gray-green spectrum, glinting with emotions, too, he seemed to actually get her.

  “Thank you,” Harlow whispered.

  “No sweat,” he murmured back.

  For a beat, they stood there, suspended in the moment, and her pulse began to press faster against her eardrums. Then the sound of someone a few rows down from them connecting bat to ball in a loud crack brought them both back to reality, and Connor shook his head, reaching down for another softball. “Ready to step things up?”

  “Sure.” Harlow nodded. They went through a dozen more pitches, with her hitting the ball harder and farther each time. Her muscles loosened up, her mood going along for the ride, and even when she switched to the machine and she had a few missed attempts in adjustment, she still felt as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. They kept the conversation easy, sticking to the best shows to binge watch and where to get the best Italian takeout. Harlow’s muscles didn’t stay happy for too long—batter’s fatigue was real—and she was all too happy to swap places with Connor and watch as he went to bat.

  His body was huge, no doubt, but his movements were lithe and loaded with graceful power. His biceps bunched, tattoos flexing as he waited for each pitch, his gaze sharp and jaw set. His shoulders (oh, God, those shoulders were a work of fucking art) remained loose, though, cradling his spine beneath his sweat-damp T-shirt, and by the time his bucket was empty, Harlow had stopped lying to herself about watching for the sake of memorizing his form.