An Accidental Gentleman

by M. Q. Barber

  “Recycled?” Nora cocked her head. Her plain, peachy T-shirt provided soothing relief from Brian’s misguided style.

  “Like repeating a grade in school.” Rob stepped off the side of the bleachers, crouching as he landed. “Brian had trouble with authority back then.”

  Confirmation of bad-boy reputation, check. These friends of his might be useful, decent folk. Getting the nod from Mr. Nice Guy, they pretty much guaranteed their likeability.

  “I understand he can’t resist a dare.” Not hers, thank God. After his showing at the shop, he’d taken to invading her dreams. She met Brian’s sheepish spring-grass gaze with a smirk. “Is that how you ended up owning those shorts?”

  While Nora and Rob laughed, Brian sidled into her personal space. “Oh, I take orders fine when they make sense.”

  Pale, fuzzy stubble covered his cheeks and chin. A little beard burn between her thighs would scratch the itch he stirred.

  “You want a job done right, with work that’ll hold up under pressure?” In his eyes, he signaled go-go-go. He dipped his chin. “I’m your man.” Deep voice. Backroom darkness, no-bullshit, vibrating-in-her-panties voice. “Isn’t that the way you run your shop, too? Clear orders, strict standards?”

  Jesus. With his sharp, clean storm-scent, he sneaked past her keep-out signs and grasped bare metal. He’d fry them both to sizzling ash. And he’d almost—maybe—be worth the risk. At least once. Or twice.

  Leaning forward, Nora interrupted their stare-down with her extended hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Kit. I hope you brought an empty stomach and fast legs.”

  “I’m playing?” Shit, her old mitt lay buried in a box in the basement somewhere. She shook hands on reflex. “I thought this would be a spectator thing. League play.”

  A gang of noisy children scampered down the fence line and circled the bleachers to the field opposite, where a handful of adults organized a ragged line of youngsters at a tee ball setup and sent the older ones out to field.

  “Intra-office. We’re flexible on teams.” Behind Rob, men and women clustered around the dugout benches. “You can always sub in later if you want a feel for the level of play first—or if you’re worried about Brian beaning you in the head on a force out. His aim’s less than stellar when he’s distracted.”

  Thwapping Rob in the stomach with the back of his hand, Brian elicited a grunt. “Not everyone played Little League ball, farm boy.”

  “Your choice, Surfer Boy.” After casting a glance behind him, Rob punched Brian in the shoulder. “Grab your gear, airman. We’re on the first-inning roster.” As he backed away, he blew his wife a kiss.

  Nora captured the gift with a fast swipe and crossed her hands on her stomach.

  Standing with his feet planted together and his back straight, Brian snapped a salute.

  Aw hell. She refused to leave a man hanging. She sent one back.

  Smile brightening his whole face, he jogged off. As he picked up a mitt in the dugout, he waved at the stands. Nora waved, which meant she had to, too. Every few feet, all the way out to left field, he spun, jogged backward, and waved.

  Nora, arm raised yet again, laughed. “He’s a complete goofball.”

  “Sorry?” Four times now, like he meant to keep checking she hadn’t gotten up and left. Not the smoothest operator, but damn if she didn’t wave every time. Impossible to stop herself. Wearing those ridiculous shorts, losing himself in bro-play with his buddy, ditching her five minutes into their not-date—the afternoon might actually be fun instead of a hard sell on why she should date him.

  “Brian. Lighthearted optimist to the core.” Nora swiveled and greeted a woman toting an infant carrier into the stands. As she turned back, she patted Kit’s knee. “But after Rob, he’s also the most loyal and steadfast man I’ve ever met.”

  “We’re not dating.” Shit. Not offering unsolicited information to a salesman was the first rule of defeating a sales pitch. Brian had roped his friend’s wife into talking him up. In three words she’d told Nora the biggest anxiety weighing on her. Somehow, Brian made nice seductive. Surface charm. He’d show his true colors when he got bored of playing with her, unless she stopped falling for Prince Charming first.

  Nora shrugged. “They’re good qualities in a friend, too. He’s been Rob’s friend for almost twenty years.”

  The players scattered, and the first pitch arced toward the plate. The batter grounded out on a quick hop by the shortstop. A bevy of attaboys followed. Out in left, Brian rocked side to side, ready and waiting.

  “So Brian said you run your own shop?”

  “Huh?” She’d almost missed Nora’s question. “Oh, yeah, with my dad.” Up until last year, she would’ve said grandpa, too. Third-generation pride. Now she had a hard time getting the words out. “I’ve been tinkering since I was a kid.”

  Blue eyes kind, Nora nodded. “Family owned. Lot of strength in that kind of bond. The recession years have been tough on the mom-and-pops. We buttoned up the bank so tight I practically had mothballs on the loan forms when I dragged them out again.”

  The next batter cleared a base hit on a lucky hop past the second baseman.

  Brian pounded his fist into his glove and bellowed, “Let’s go, fellas, look alive out here. We got a crowd in the bleachers to impress and a cooler of celebration beers with our names on ’em.”

  The crowd replied with a whooping chorus. The cheers intensified as the next batter popped one right back into the pitcher’s mitt.

  “The lean years fattened us up.” The girls had a start on college funds thanks to the people who’d put secondhand toys under their Christmas trees and the warranty repair orders. For folks with a pinched wallet, the hassle of scheduling fixes hurt less than the big-ticket hit for new appliances. “Lots of people looking to repair instead of buying new. And the scavenging was epic.” For a while, they’d done fair trade in used TV sets and high-end electronics. Even the occasional electric guitar. Hell, half the time, “broken” meant a loose wire making intermittent contact. “You wouldn’t believe the things people set out in their garage sales.”

  “How do you evaluate risk on the purchases? When I assess a new loan applicant…” Nora launched into a rundown of bank lending policies and the ever-important return on investment. Holy shit, the woman knew her numbers. Despite a clear allegiance to Brian and probable bias in getting him paired off, Nora wore her down with friendly questions about the shop.

  Hashing out the economics of nickel-and-dime profit margins diverted whole substations of stress. Dad did great with repairs and people-handling, but Depression-raised Grandpa Jake had been the one squeezing the value from every penny invested. Now the load fell on her shoulders. Five other people in the household depended on her to make the right calls. “I’ve been thinking about adding—”

  The bat cracked, loud and solid. As a fly ball topped the shortstop’s leap by a foot, Brian raced in from left field. A single for sure. He’d never scoop the ball before—he launched himself forward, arm extended. With a tuck and roll, he came up on his knees. In his right hand, his arm cocked back and ready to throw, he held the ball.

  “Showoff.” But she hollered like a banshee, hands cupped megaphone-style, while Nora clapped with her arms raised over her head. Brian’s diving catch ended the top of the inning.

  “Do you like softball?” Nora waved as Rob hustled in from first base. Drifting clouds formed a patchwork of sun and shade across the field. “You should play. They’re short a woman anyway, now that I’m out for the season.”

  “Are you hurt?” She looked healthy enough, but she did keep shuffling around against her backrest. Maybe a doctor had mandated padded cushions.

  “Only my pride. Rob and I agreed no competitive sports after the first trimester.” Sighing, she shook her head. But then she smiled wide. “Except maybe mini golf.”

  With the ease of a flipped switch, congratulations flowed from her mouth. She followed up with all
the right questions—was this their first, would they find out the sex in advance—but beneath her social shell, the motor jammed.

  Brian’s buddy had gotten married. Brian’s buddy was starting a family. Two and two sure as fuck added up to four. A thirty-seven-year-old man would be in the hunt for a wife. And he wouldn’t stop at that. He’d insist on one who’d give him a kid or three to fulfill his fatherhood fantasies. She’d be insane to get involved with him. After a few years hip-deep in full diapers and middle-of-the-night crying, he’d wake up from his mid-life crisis and leave her with miniature copies of him to raise.

  Brian threaded through the dugout fences and stopped in front of her. “We need at least two women in our first five at-bats. What do you say? You coming out?”

  A muddy scrape decorated his shin. His T-shirt, though an aqua almost eye-searing paired with his shorts, clung in not-unpleasing ways to his chest and biceps.

  “I suppose I’d better, to show up your sorry—” Whoops. A small blond boy grinned at her from the front row. “Uhh, backside.” Whew. No cursing asses here, nope, not a one.

  Laughing, Brian offered his hand. “If your saves on the field are as good as the ones off it, I don’t doubt you’ll show me up.”

  “Be hard to top your last performance.” Grabbing hold of his forearm for balance, she clambered down the aluminum benches. Keeping things on sexual footing with him would crush any ideas he had about wedding rings and car seats. “Those are mighty fine hands you’ve got there.”

  * * * *

  Hello, double entendre. As she leaned on him, he waited for her to hit the ground. Soon as she did, he ducked right up under her ear. “You would know.”

  Shivering, she clamped down on his forearm.

  Fuck yes. He’d owe Nora a set of wingman bars if she’d coaxed Kit’s guard down. Rob had made a fine partner for charming the women and exercising sober caution in their alcohol-blurred twenties, but reeling in Katherine for a real relationship demanded a whole different strategy.

  “I do know.” She met him eye to eye, toe to toe. “So when do I get my hands on your bat?”

  “Right now.” He put the devil in his voice and dragged her to the dugout. Rummaging in his gear bag, he went for the comedic about-face. “Thirty-four inches of solid maple beauty.” He thrust the bat skyward. “Go give her a swing.”

  Her freckled cheeks pink as she laughed, she took the bat from him. “All right, smart guy. You win this round.”

  Seeing her relaxed and enjoying herself, he really did. An unqualified victory. His lucky shorts had worked their magic. Busting out his peacock feathers diverted Katherine’s attention and let him continue his stealth campaign for her heart.

  She trotted down the fence a bit. Didn’t start with a shoulder-breaker, no ma’am. Like any craftsman, she eyed the barrel and tested the balance. No added weight on the end of his bat. He swung all-natural. About the way he wanted to start swinging north as she stretched her arms behind her back.

  By locking her knuckles, she pulled her faded green T-shirt tight. She rolled her shoulders and her neck. Once-white text curved Runyon’s in a semicircle on the sweet upper swell of her breasts, cutting across the line of her bra beneath. The bottom half, an equally faded Repairs, smiled from around her navel. And why not? He’d smiled touching her in the exact spot. A wrench and a screwdriver crossed in the middle.

  No question she’d rather their not-a-date ended with him sucking on her through every one of those letters. When the time came, he’d need a hell of a lot more than lucky shorts to remember why sex with Kit remained a bad idea. Claim the territory, lose the war. Strong and focused, icy as the lake in February. That’s the man she deserved, one who’d wait to make love to Katherine instead of fucking Kit.

  Level swing, steady power off her back foot, she nailed the follow-through. With a solid connection, she’d be a valuable member for their team. In a handful of practice swings, she’d adjusted her grip and her stance. Goddamn, her hip waggling would have him running to jerk in the bathroom if she went on any longer, and no man on the bench would blame him.

  Trotting back, she tossed the bat at him from a few feet away. “Been a while for me, but your bat’s a good fit.” She stopped beside him, brushing his shoulder, and tilted in close. “How about now, Brian? Who wins this round?”

  He choked the stiff maple in a two-handed grip. “Pretty sure we both do.”

  They stood thigh to thigh along the dugout fence as the first batter failed to get on base. Fast hands at shortstop today.

  Batting helmet in hand, Rob gave Kit the wave. “You’re up.”

  Brian passed her the bat and placed his encouraging pat in the safe friend zone between her shoulder blades. “Let’s go, slugger.”

  On her first swing, she mistimed the pitch and came in slow. Helpful and not-so-helpful advice came from all quarters, telling her to settle down, keep her shoulders level, keep her eye on the ball—or get that second out.

  As the pitch flew, she dug in her heels. She launched a drive into the gap, catching the second baseman napping. The center fielder rushed to cover as she rounded first, the base coach waving her on. “Go, go, go!”

  The throw came in short. She stood safe on second, bent and huffing, as pudgy Roger from finance turned to tag her.

  With a whoop, Brian jumped onto the dugout bench. “Attagirl! Way to get something started.”

  She raised her head and flashed him a thumbs-up. Below her helmet, the tail-ends of her pixie-short hair flared out every which way like fallen matchsticks. Christ, she needed kissing.

  As he jumped down, one of the new hires rocked back and spread his knees, claiming way too much bench. “That your girlfriend?”

  “Just a friend.” For now. No chance she’d hear him from second base, but he’d promised her he wouldn’t call her his date or his girlfriend. Doing it when he wouldn’t be caught would be a bigger violation of the honor code than making an announcement over the PA. Her no-dating policy might’ve come from a lying ex, and no way in hell would he be that guy. When she asked for his promise, he’d deliver. “A good friend.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to be her good friend, too.”

  “No.” A pop-up to the shortstop left Katherine raring to go on second. If he drove another man’s face into his knee and left him bleeding in the dirt, she might have some questions for him.

  “C’mon, man.” Drawstring-shorts, saggy-tank hotshot drummed the bench. “Hook me up.”

  The company gym, though. He’d welcome a new sparring partner. One who liked hitting the mat.

  “Brian!” Rob waved him in. Coaching decision or instinct to head off a brawl, good choice either way.

  “On it.” Serving up a dead-eyed stare for the pushy Kit-chaser, he lowered his voice. “Ask about her again, and we’ll settle the question in the ring.”

  As he strode to the plate, the left fielder dropped back. The right fielder stood scratching his elbow. Kit waited, crouched and ready.

  He tipped off foul. Looking for precision over power, he reset a half-step closer to the pitcher and a few inches away from the plate. The second pitch came in beautiful. Hardly an arc at all. He smacked low and slow, the contact solid and the ball heading for the gap Kit had found. The right fielder got off his ass, but not before Brian’d touched first and Kit rounded third. Christ, she hustled. The relay throw came in too late to stop her from crossing home plate.

  The whole bench erupted with cheers. As he clapped and whistled and Rob thumped her helmet, she turned and caught him. Grinning wide, she ducked her head under the storm of accolades. But coming up, meeting what had to be the proudest fucking stare he’d given anyone in his life, she raised her hand and honest-to-God waved at him.

  Ending the inning stranded on base when the next hitter popped one to the left fielder’s glove couldn’t take the shine off his happiness. Serious Kit could be playful Kit, too, and not limited to panty-dropping sports. Though mo
re of those would be welcome once they’d established the exclusive, long-term nature of this relationship.

  After four more innings, none so exciting as the first, he crossed them off the roster. The rematch would have to go on without them. The strong breeze carried a smoky charcoal-and-burger mix from the pavilion. “I promised you food and beer. Let some of these early eaters sweat out their calories while we fill up.”

  They tore through the spread, the line short, the sides on ice, and the picnic tables on the concrete slab mostly empty with the game in full swing. As Kit toted their laden plates, he snagged his half-size Coleman from the table of show-ID coolers.

  Riley from HR, standing guard over the alcohol to keep out suds-seeking teens, wagged her finger at him. “Goldang, Brian, I didn’t know you were playing in the intern pool. Should I card your girlfriend?”

  Kit bobbled the plates. Macaroni salad slid sideways, but she recovered without spilling a speck.

  “Relax, Ri, this is my friend Kit.” A truth, he hoped, because fuck-buddy didn’t come near close enough to what he wanted to be for her, and she wouldn’t allow him to claim more. “Not my girlfriend, not an employee, and definitely over twenty-one. You won’t see harassment forms on your desk with my name, thank you very much.”

  Bypassing the few tables with diners, he led Kit down to the cozy hexagonal table farthest from the buffet. He’d shared her since her arrival. Given her time with Nora, gotten her out on the field, kept her at a distance to help her settle in some. Now he’d get his date—a nice, casual, midafternoon burgers-and-beer date. The sky cooperated, pumping thick clouds across the sun and dimming the covered pavilion to candlelight levels. Long as she didn’t think about the implications too hard, they’d be fine.

  “How’s the food? Good for free, right?” He jabbed the chunky potato salad with his plastic fork. Seated at adjacent wedges, he and Katherine rubbed knees the way a shoveler warmed his hands on a snowy morning. Her soft skin had him thinking hard on the teasing fantasy he’d spun for her. Maybe she imagined him walking his fingers up that road, too. “I’m a disaster in the kitchen. Hell, half the reason I come to the game every week is to give my takeout menus a break.”