Take Me Out (Crimson Romance)

by Elley Arden

  He shook his head in disbelief. “You were there — at Yankee Stadium — and I didn’t know?”

  “Yes. Every year I’d swear I wasn’t going the next, but I always did.”

  He was quiet for a few beats. “How did I play when you were there?”

  She laughed. Just the question a cocky athlete would ask. “Good. Mostly. You had the odd crappy game here and there, but mostly good. Great even.”

  “Any chance you were at that Mets game year before last when I — ”

  “No,” she said. “But I saw it on television. I know what you did. You were fabulous.”

  “Well, I don’t know about fabulous.” He made a show of looking at the ceiling then met her eyes and grinned. “It was just one of those days when it all came together.”

  “Marc.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “Today, you asked if I was relieved about what happened and I said I didn’t know. That wasn’t really true. I did know. I was not relieved on any level. I was devastated. But I wasn’t surprised. And I’m ashamed of that. You did nothing to earn that. I should have heard you out.”

  He nodded. “I made mistakes, too. I was caught up in my own world. I should’ve been more sensitive to your needs. I knew you felt left out and left behind. I was just so sure of us that I didn’t take the time to give you the assurance you needed.”

  “We were very young,” she said. And with a shaky hand she raised a finger to the corner of his mouth because she couldn’t bear not to touch it anymore. He covered her hand with his and brought her palm to his lips.

  But he didn’t stop there. He drew her arms around his neck and gathered her to him before — at last — bringing his mouth to hers. And it felt just as beautiful as it looked. Just as she remembered. They kissed for a good long time, tasting, savoring, celebrating.

  At least Bailey thought they were celebrating. But what if they were saying goodbye? She had to know. She drew back and rested her forehead against his lips.

  “What happens now?” she asked. “Where do we go from here?”

  He drew back and bit his bottom lip. “I have something.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a little beat-up leather box. “I might be crazy. I might be blowing it like we blew it eight years ago, but I guess I’ll know in a second.” He opened the box and held it out to her.

  It couldn’t be. But it was. Three perfect diamonds set in a row on a gold band. More ring than a twenty-year-old ought to have been able to afford.

  “That’s my ring.”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “And you carry it around.” Then her stomach sunk. “Please don’t tell me that’s the ring you always use and you just carry it around in case you run into your next soon-to-be-ex fiancé.”

  “Oh, please,” he scoffed. “I’ve never gotten another single ring back. You’re the only one who ever returned hers.” He dropped a kiss on her nose. “Besides, I would never have given this ring to anyone else.”

  “Then I don’t understand … ”

  He shrugged. “At first, right after you sent it back, I carried it because I was so mad at you. If I began to feel hurt, I’d take it out, look at it, and get mad all over again. It’s hard to feel hurt when you’re mad. After a time, it became habit. I just picked it up every day with my keys and loose change.”

  Bailey nodded. “I understand.” And she did. For a very long time she had worked hard to keep her anger alive to keep from feeling the deep pain of loss, though she hadn’t had a talisman to help her. She’d had to rely on her memories and imagination.

  Marc continued, “Then, there was the superstition. You know how baseball players are. Even on the field, I wore it around my neck on a chain and called it a good luck charm.”

  That image filled Bailey’s heart with sweet warmth that flowed through her and bloomed on her face in a smile. “No one made fun of you for that?”

  He shook his head and grinned. “Oh, no. No, ma’am. Nobody makes fun of anyone else’s mojo, not in The House that Ruth Built.” Then the humor went out of his face and his eyes went wide. “But I don’t think that’s why I really kept it.” He slipped the ring from the velvet box.

  “You don’t?” Bailey whispered, her heart beating faster in anticipation. She had only worn that ring a few months, but she had longed for it — and him — for eight years.

  “I think I always have it with me because I’ve never stopped hoping for the chance to put it back on your finger.” He gave her a questioning look and held the ring up, toward her. “So … is there a chance?”

  That’s when the tears came.

  “Aw, Bailey. I’m no good with tears. Am I rushing things? ‘Cause I gotta say I don’t think we have time to wait for another random golf tournament. Before I get too old to play, I’d like to look up there in that family section and see you with my boy — or girl — wearing a miniature of my uniform.”

  She cried some more and held out her hand. He kissed the spot where the ring would rest then slipped it on.

  “I made the mistake of not asking you to go with me before. You could’ve finished school in New York just like you can work there now. I can’t play baseball here, and I can’t be away from you. I’ve never been any good at it.” He looked at her imploringly. “Is there any chance you would do that? I know your work is important, and Manhattan has the best hospitals. We can work that out, if you’ll just come. I won’t play ball forever. When I’m done, we’ll move wherever you want. Here. The moon. If you want to be a nurse in a third-world country, I’m there. But for now … just … please come with me.”

  Bailey didn’t hesitate. “I need to give two weeks notice but yes. Yes, I’ll come.” She grinned at him, mischief in her eyes. “And maybe I won’t look for a new job until after October. That is, if you can afford to feed me until then.”

  He laughed with joy and pulled her into his arms. “I might be able to at least keep you in Ramen noodles until then. But why October?”

  “I want to be free to watch you win the World Series.”

  He shook his head with uncertainty. “Well, let’s get to the playoffs first.”

  “We will. And that family section? It’s not in the nosebleed section, is it? Because that could be a deal breaker,” she teased.

  Marc grinned. “Nowhere near. But I’m done talking about baseball, honey.”

  “Oh really? Well, whatever will we talk about then?”

  He leaned in, lips close to her ear, his voice low enough to be practically considered a growl. “Unless you want me to peel that dress off you right here among the napkins and extra sugar packets, you might want to come on over to the Merritt Inn where my room is.”

  As she let him lead her out into the hall, Bailey didn’t even stop to wonder if it was still storming outside.

  • • •

  As Marc and Bailey ran laughing and kissing down the hall toward the exit, they never saw the two people who stepped out of the shadows.

  “Looks like she’s going home,” Tiptoe Watkins said.

  “I didn’t know she was from New York,” Missy Bragg said.

  “She is now. You’re from where you belong,” Tiptoe said. “I owe you for getting him down here.”

  “Piece of cake,” Missy said, winking even as she waved a hand dismissively. “But if you mean that, you can come help me out. It’s going to take some finesse to get Miss Texas into the seat beside my cousin without some kind of scene.”

  “Ah, we can do it. You handle him; I’ll handle her,” Tiptoe said.

  “Ha,” Missy said. “I’m not worried about them. They’re easy. It’s that — that Ginger, that watchdog of Jacky’s — I’m worried about. She does not like a change unless she’s the one making it.”

  Tiptoe laughed. “Don’t you worry about Miss Ginger. I’ll handle her. And don’t you worry about anything else. You helped make a little magic today, Melissa Jackson Bragg. And daytime magic just gets better as the night wears on. That’s always the way of it.”

 
“It is, isn’t it?” Missy said. And though she would have denied it, she had to blink a tear away. She linked her arm with Tiptoe’s. “What do you say you and I swing by the bar first for a little toast? To having a good plan, to knowing where you belong, and to making a little magic.”

  The older man grinned. “Well, I’ll drink to that.”

  About the Author

  Stephanie Jones and Jean Hovey form the writing team of Alicia Hunter Pace.

  Stephanie teaches third grade and wishes for a bigger bookstore in her small town. She likes civil war history, and people who follow the rules. She is happy to provide a list of said rules to anyone who needs them.

  Jean is a former public librarian who lives with her husband in a hundred-year-old house that always wants something from her. She likes to cook but has discovered the joy of Mrs. Paul’s fish fillets since becoming a writer.

  Being cradle-to-grave avid fans of Alabama Crimson Tide football, Stephanie and Jean are doubly elated to be part of the Crimson Romance family.

  Learn more about them at: http://aliciahunterpace.com/

  Follow them on twitter at: https://twitter.com/AliciaPace

  Want more Alicia Hunter Pace? Be sure to check the end of this book for a sneak peek from another Crimson Romance by this author!

  Safe at Home

  Leslie P. García

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Baseball — okay, mostly Atlanta Braves baseball — has been a passion of mine for much of my life, and I owe my intense interest in the game and its heroes and goats to two people: my mother, Nancy Rhodes Potter, and my brother, Gregory Phillip Potter.

  Mom, I know you’re still with me every opening day. I’ll never forget our celebration when Hank Aaron hit that homerun — wish I’d been home with you!

  And Greg, I’ll always believe you would have made the Reds team that next spring if you hadn’t had the chance stolen away.

  Thanks to both of you for a love of baseball and family.

  Acknowledgments

  Occasionally, colleagues call on me and ask me to critique a college paper or write a letter of reference — to use my words and craft to help them in some small way — and I’m delighted they trust me to do so.

  But then, faced with the editing of my own work, I feel obligated, almost, to warn them — ask at your own risk! Confronted with my own mistakes, all I can say is thank God for editors.

  To my sister, Victoria Morgan Potter, a technical editor who MUST start submitting her own work — thanks for the multiple read-throughs, conferences, and for all the assurances that, in spite of the color red, I can write!

  And to my Crimson Romance editor, Tara Gelsomino, thanks for the hard work helping me polish stories and for your high expectations, explained with patience. And red ink.

  Stories are better for red ink.

  Chapter One

  Mandy Warner pulled the worn baseball jersey up over her head and tossed it on her bed. The softened gray material crumpled, obscuring the large navy 9 on the back. She slipped on the sundress, sighing a little; the thing was so new it felt stiff and foreign.

  “Should just wear my comfort shirt,” she muttered, glancing at the gray heap. “He’d think it was his number anyway.”

  She glanced at the mirror. The floral sundress, with its spaghetti straps and low bodice line, fell to her knees in feminine folds. Fussy, too, but long enough that she wouldn’t have to worry about how she sat — if she could get Josh Arrevalos to sit down and talk to her. Of course, with the pennant chase full on, and the Santa Fe Scorpions a couple of games behind, getting Josh to sit down and talk might prove as impossible as Wile E. Coyote catching the Road Runner, or the Yankees, Mariners, and Rangers all faltering at the same time.

  She looked in the mirror again, frowning at just how much cleavage the dress showed, and glanced at the neon pink bra she’d purposely left lying in a heap on the bed. She’d heard a line from some movie about feeling “naked under my clothes,” and she felt exactly that way. Naked. Her lips twisted. From what she knew of ballplayers, naked might work as well as anything else — not that she’d be caught dead naked. This should do. One last glance in the mirror relaxed her lips into a smile. Okay, sexy should do. As awkward as the dress felt, she had to admit she liked the stranger in the mirror who felt sexy.

  Mandy checked her face in the reflection, too. She’d applied her makeup almost as artfully as she used to when she was a kid following in her sister’s footsteps, back when her mom wouldn’t let her wear the stuff. How ironic that she hardly bothered now that she was old enough.

  I miss you, Shelley. For just a minute, her sister’s face flashed before her, brown eyes full of tears and fury as she’d confronted their parents that final time. Then she had turned and walked out the door. Mandy hadn’t seen her in the last 8 years, hadn’t heard from her.

  She jerked her purse off the dresser, forcing Shelley into the recesses of her mind, like she did at least once a day. Shelley had chosen to absent herself from their lives, and she was here. She had responsibilities, she reminded herself as she stuffed the car keys into the pocket of the dress. Corralling all-star Josh Arrevalos was job number one just now.

  • • •

  Josh ran a hand through his hair, realizing it was long again. Hadn’t he just had it cut? Days ran into one another, 162 games, changing cities, the physical aches and pains. He’d been blessed, and he wasn’t complaining. The season was going well, he thought, stepping onto the scorching asphalt of the players’ parking lot. Across the lot, shortstop Marty Benton was entertaining a couple of women who pressed against the railing above.

  He paused briefly, casting a glance at his Armada halfway across the lot, wondering if he could get to it without the women noticing. Maybe Benton would keep them diverted, he thought, as the younger player spat tobacco and tossed a ball up to them. Just like the infielder to carry balls in his pocket.

  In spite of his postgame weariness, the thought made Josh grin. Balls in his pocket, he thought again. I’ll have to remember that. Then, the more sobering thought — why? For whom? For women like the ones flirting with Marty, all over one player until the next one walked in? His smile faded, and he fished his keys out of his pocket, focusing on the SUV parked among all the other players’ expensive toys. If he were lucky, no one would notice him. At least there weren’t dozens of fans dangling way too far over the railing, clamoring for attention. Either no one had been excited about the team’s record come-from-behind win, or everyone had headed out to bars and restaurants in hopes that players would wander in and sign autographs.

  Drawing a deep breath, he headed for his vehicle with long strides and was reaching for the door when the clamor erupted behind him..

  Feminine squeals. And screams. God, I’m a ballplayer, not a rock star.

  “Hotstuff! Hotstuff Josh! Over here! Come talk to us!”

  “Josh, we’ve been waiting for you — ”

  “You heard ’em, man! Get on over here!” Benton called, although he looked a little annoyed to lose his audience’s interest.

  Josh hesitated, torn. He didn’t need female companionship, but even these screaming women were among those who plunked down money to see the Scorpions play, and baseball wasn’t just his job — it was his life. Keeping the team in this town that felt like home was important. He could contribute a few minutes to satisfy fans.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw George, the regular parking lot guard, moving out into a more visible spot. Waving slightly at George, knowing the security officer had probably already called someone to head out to the other side in case anyone tried to jump down, he sauntered over to the base of the rock wall and smiled up at the women. Women amazed him — beauty in so many forms, at all ages. He almost wished he didn’t find the fairer sex so damned enticing.

  Benton waved at the women and wandered off, leaving Josh alone with his admirers.

  “Hey, ladies! What’s happening?”

  They giggled a
nd whispered things to each other before answering.

  “Great game, Josh! Where you goin’ now?” asked a zaftig blonde who was huddled up with a brunette friend.

  “State secrets.” He winked. “Seriously, I gotta go, but thanks for stopping by!”

  “Wait! At least an autograph!” The blonde, clearly the more outgoing of the two, leaned over, her boobs all but spilling out of the tank top she wore, and tossed him a Sharpie.

  Josh caught the Sharpie above his head, and the women giggled and clapped.

  “Got a picture?” he asked when no one presented anything to sign.

  While he waited, another woman approached, younger than the first two, in a bright summer sundress that bared her shoulders and showed some cleavage. She had a breathtakingly pretty face, but she stayed back a little, and he noticed her tug at the dress as if it bothered her. When she fussed with the fabric, she almost dropped her purse.

  All hot and bothered, he thought to himself with a slight smile. Too bad he’d sworn off any woman who might be a Scorpions’ fan. Twice he’d been stupid and paid dearly — literally and figuratively. Never again.

  “Mr. Arrevalos — ” the red purse slipped again as she moved closer to the other women. Was she a klutz or just nervous? He watched her approach, and apparently the first two gals noticed.

  “Hey, Josh baby, we were here first!” the brunette whined. “You promised us you’d sign … ”

  “Oh, here,” the blonde called, and something fluttered down to squeals from her partner.

  Oh, God! The woman’s tank top, damp with perspiration. He frowned. Marty’s signature took up a huge space. So … she’d already taken it off once? He shot a glance upward. Yep. She was there in all her glory. She wasn’t wearing a bra.