Reaching First

by Mindy Klasky

Someone coughed behind him.

  Tyler whirled around, shoving his hands in his pockets like a shoplifter dragged before the cops. Nick Durban was standing close by, smiling broadly at the announcement on the board. The second baseman was clearly pleased, which meant that Tyler should act happy.

  “Well, that’s good news,” Nick said.

  “Yeah,” Tyler agreed, fishing out one of his age-old strategies for getting by. “What’s the story behind it?”

  Nick shrugged. “Last month, team management said we had to buy all our own food in the clubhouse. It was part of a dispute with Ormond. Near as I can tell, it didn’t have much of an effect on him, but it sure pissed off a lot of other guys.”

  Tyler nodded, like he’d known that all along. “Management,” he said, letting the word trail off in a player’s eternal disgust.

  “Half the guys were sure they’d keep the restrictions in place, just because they could.” Nick tapped the board. “It’ll be nice to get back to normal.”

  So. The paper said the team would pick up the tab on clubhouse food. Good to know. And that’s the way things usually worked out for Tyler. He could figure out what was going on from context. He could get all the information he ever needed, without forcing himself into one of those pounding headaches that ached for days.

  “Hey,” he said as he followed Nick into the locker room. “Can you recommend a decent restaurant around here? I’m taking someone out to dinner after the game.”

  Nick stopped in front of his locker. “Most of us spend a lot of time at Artie’s. It’s a steakhouse, about fifteen minutes from the stadium. Up on Renton Road.”

  “Artie’s,” Tyler repeated, making sure he wouldn’t forget the name. “On Renton.” That would be enough for his phone to find him directions. “Sounds great.”

  And a steakhouse was great. In a steakhouse, he never needed to worry about the menu. Sure, he could look at the damn thing, study all the specials and the fancy drinks and whatever. But all he really had to do was ask what they had on tap, and order up a rib-eye.

  A band of tension he hadn’t known he was carrying eased between his shoulder blades. After the game, he’d hit the showers, drive back to Emily’s, then on to Artie’s.

  Earlier, he’d been intrigued by the idea of eating dinner with Emily. Now he was actually looking forward to the experience. All he had to do was get through nine innings of baseball.

  * * *

  Emily watched the end of the Rockets’ game on the TV in her bedroom as she tried on every item of clothing in her closet.

  Okay. Not every item. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t need a floor-length ball gown for wherever Tyler was taking her. And it was too warm for a wool jacket. But everything else was fair game.

  She could wear a business suit. Tell him she’d just come from a meeting at the VA hospital about Minerva House. Let him know she was a professional, a hard-working woman who knew her way around a boardroom. That might counteract the grin she’d caught on his lips that morning. What had she been thinking, coming down to the kitchen in her bathrobe? She wasn’t a teenager hanging out in her aunt’s rambling old home any more. She was living on the premises of Minerva House, and she’d better start acting like it.

  Okay, a suit was laying it on a bit thick. Maybe she should go for the other extreme—jeans and a T-shirt. Remind Tyler that she was a hard worker, a practical girl, a woman who was busy with the infinite details of the House, pulling her own weight even as he worked with the handyman in the front room.

  But would jeans be appropriate for wherever he took her? Even if the restaurant let her in, was that what she wanted to say—she took this dinner for granted, and it was no more important to her than a run to the grocery store or a trip to post office?

  A summer dress, then. There was the emerald green one that people always said brought out the color of her eyes. Sure, its scooped back meant she couldn’t wear a bra, but what difference would that make? It was a fun dress. A date-night dress.

  Which left her wondering all over again—was this a date? Or was it a peace offering? A chance to get back on the right foot after Tyler’s disastrous late arrival the day before, after his less-than-professional ogling over her morning coffee.

  Not that Tyler had been the only one ogling. Emily had to admit she’d taken a few passes by the living room as the guys worked that morning. Watching Tyler’s muscles flex as he worked the pry bar, she’d had no trouble at all imagining the smooth planes of his abs beneath his T-shirt, and she’d startled herself by wondering if he wore boxers or briefs beneath those faded jeans.

  She shook her head and dragged her mind up from the gutter. Boxers, briefs, what did it matter? She was supervising Tyler’s community service, the community service of a man who had been arrested for starting a bar fight, slugging it out with three other guys.

  She and Tyler were going to dinner. Nothing more.

  Nothing less.

  She finished her hair and makeup before she pulled on the emerald dress. After a critical review in the bathroom mirror, she ordered herself to slip on her heels, to pick up her clutch purse, and to stop acting like a breathless high-school girl.

  Like Bluebell.

  Damn. Why did she have to think of that? Why did she have to bring Caden Holloway’s cruel insult into what could have been a perfectly innocent evening?

  She shook her head and forced her attention back to the TV. She was surprised to see that the game was over. The Rockets had won by a comfortable three runs. Emily watched the post-game interviews, realizing she was a bit disappointed that Tyler wasn’t singled out for a chat with the on-field reporter. Rolling her eyes at herself, she turned off the TV and headed down to her office to work until he came to pick her up.

  First matter of business: a one-page flyer that could be posted on every bulletin board in the VA hospital. Emily had been struggling with the wording, trying to balance a zippy message with the very real need to explain the wealth of resources that would be available at Minerva House. She’d reviewed various designs over the past week, combining them, redesigning them, simplifying them all over again, until she was sick of the advertising copy.

  And this time was no exception. On her computer, she changed the lettering to a royal blue, thinking that might draw the eye. The color made her think of the uniforms the Rockets players had worn that afternoon—alternates that included deep blue tops. “Pajama tops,” Aunt Minnie used to call them, sniffing at anything other than pinstripes.

  And what did Tyler Brock wear to bed? Somehow, he didn’t seem the type of guy who’d spend a lot of time in formal PJs. He was more a boxer shorts sort of guy. Boxers and a wicked smile…

  Emily tossed her head, forcing her attention back to her work. Maybe the problem wasn’t the color of the type. Maybe it was the graphic. Her current design had two hands holding a book. The image was stiff, formal, as if the book were some sort of precious Bible. Maybe she needed different hands.

  Tyler had beautiful hands. She couldn’t help but notice them the day before, when he’d moved around the paint samples. And again, that morning, as he’d folded his fingers around his pry bar. She’d swallowed hard watching him flex those fingers—imagining the delicate work they could perform along a hidden zipper, touching the edge of lace that skated across the top of her panties.

  No! She was not going to imagine Tyler Brock’s hands.

  Not his sleepwear, not his hands, not anything about him. In fact, it would probably be a lot more appropriate for her to call him, to tell him that dinner was a bad idea, that she’d thought it through and realized she had an obligation to the court, to Anna, to Tyler himself.

  But she didn’t reach for her phone. And she’d long since given up pretending she was getting any work done, when the heavy knocker rose and fell on the front door.

  She forced herself to take three deep breaths before she moved down the long hall. This was an ordinary dinner, like any other meal. He hadn’t meant anything more by it
when he’d asked her out. She was building castles in the air, letting him get past all her years of dreams, of fantasies, letting herself think there was anything special about him, something that might make him the one.

  She smiled, though, as she opened the door. “Hello,” she said, shocking herself by turning the word into a throaty purr.

  * * *

  “Good evening,” he said automatically, but he felt his eyes go wide. His pulse leaped to double-time.

  This wasn’t the uptight woman he’d seen in Ms. Benson’s office, the one with a computer tote and a notepad all ready for use. This wasn’t the pissed off supervisor he’d faced the day before, the woman who was supposed to clock him in and out, who was supposed to monitor every second of the time he spent on her project. This wasn’t even the sleepy homeowner he’d surprised in the kitchen that morning.

  Emily Holt looked like the woman he’d imagined while he’d been showering after the game. There was that voice, the one that vibrated along a direct line to his crotch. And her smile was perfect, her lips curved into an invitation that only an idiot would ignore.

  An idiot, or a man serving a court sentence.

  He settled for brushing an imaginary kiss across her cheek, not even letting his lips actually touch her skin. That didn’t keep him from catching a whiff of something—her perfume, or her soap, or her shampoo. She smelled like strawberries, hot and full of juice under a summer sun. He had to clear his throat before he stepped aside, gesturing for her to lead the way to his car.

  He held her door for her, waiting for her to pull the seatbelt across her lap before he closed her in. Walking around the vehicle, he cursed himself for thinking this was a good idea. What the hell were they going to talk about? What could he possibly say to a woman like Emily Holt, for the hours it would take to order and eat a steak dinner?

  She made it easy, though, as he shoved the key into the ignition. “Not exactly the type of car I thought a major-league baseball player would drive.”

  He grimaced as the underpowered engine caught. “I’m more of a truck guy. Mine broke down, though, right before I left Texas, and I haven’t had time to buy a new one here.”

  “It’s hard to move at the drop of a hat, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “Part of the job.” He sounded like he meant it, even though this trade was the first of his career. “Have you moved around a lot?” He caught his breath, waiting for her answer. Because he truly wanted her to say that she did not, that she was going to be in Raleigh for a long time.

  “I used to. My parents are missionaries in Africa. I traveled with them until I turned thirteen.”

  “What happened when you turned thirteen?” Shit. He shouldn’t ask that. It might be something personal.

  But she laughed. “I put my foot down and said I didn’t want to live overseas any more. Now, my arguments seem really immature, but at the time I thought I’d made a perfect list. I needed to position myself to apply to the best college I could get into. I needed a school with extracurricular activities. I needed to play team sports. I needed to get a paying job, to show that I could handle the responsibility.”

  “So your parents moved back here?”

  She shook her head. “They sent me to live with Aunt Minnie. Served me right, for being such a pain.” But she laughed when she said it.

  “Where’d you end up going to college?”

  “University of Michigan. That’s where I met Anna Benson. How about you?”

  It was an old question. One he was used to not answering. He didn’t even have to admit anything he wanted to keep secret. “I didn’t go. I was drafted by Texas straight from high school.”

  There. It was easy talking to Emily. Maybe because her best friend was baseball royalty. Maybe because she was just a relaxed person. Maybe because she’d learned some trick in all those years of traveling with her parents, some magical skill that made it easy for her to meet new people and make them feel comfortable. But the conversation flowed all the way to the restaurant, even when he had to spare a little thought for the directions his phone kept calling out to him.

  And Nick Durban hadn’t led him astray. Artie’s looked like an old farmhouse sitting at the top of a hill. Lights glowed on the front porch, welcoming newcomers. The host greeted them as if they were long lost friends, introducing himself as Artie before he guided them past the bar, past a room filled with something that looked like a family reunion, past a tiny alcove with burgundy curtains where they could have sat at a four-top and felt like they were miles away from anywhere—and anyone—else.

  What the hell was he thinking? He wasn’t taking Emily anywhere. This was a professional dinner, a formal thank you for helping him out, for letting him get back on track with the Rockets.

  He managed not to look too hard at those curtains, not to imagine too clearly just what he could do behind them.

  Instead, he accepted a table by a huge bay window, one that looked out over the gardens at the back of the farmhouse. In the summer twilight, he could make out neat rows of beans and staked tomatoes, sprawling vines that could have been cucumbers or squash or half a dozen other things. His mother had sent him out to the family garden often enough, giving him the largest bowl she owned and telling him to pick enough beans to satisfy all five of his brothers and himself.

  Sunset painted the sky crimson, adding a flush to Emily’s cheeks. It looked good on her, made him want to see what the rest of her would look like in that soft pink light…

  Down, boy.

  Artie left a couple of menus and a heavy leather-bound wine list. “Make sure you save room for pie,” he said. “We’ve got cherry, peach, and blackberry tonight.”

  Nick had definitely not led him astray.

  Tyler leaned back in his chair. “So. Was it tough, growing up as a preacher’s kid?”

  Emily looked at him with a practiced smirk. “Not at all. I just chose not to follow all the rules.”

  Damn. There was an invitation there. An invitation a hell of a lot more blatant than the glimpse she’d given him under her robe that morning. He’d be an idiot not to follow up.

  He’d be an idiot to endanger his community service, to screw up his sentence and his entire future with the Rockets. He shook his head and said, “I’m guessing there’s a story or two there.”

  Her grin was automatic, but he thought he read more beneath it—a tremor of disappointment. Like she really wanted him to follow up on all those rules she chose to break.

  “Did you have any questions about the menu?” Saved by Artie himself.

  “I don’t think so,” Tyler said, annoyed that he sounded grateful for the interruption.

  Artie turned to Emily. “What can I get you? The filet is gorgeous tonight.”

  Emily shook her head, a tight little motion that Tyler was coming to realize meant she had her mind made up. “I’ll have a baked potato, with butter and sour cream, and a side order of asparagus.”

  “And for your entree?” Artie pushed.

  “Nothing, thank you. That’ll be good for me.”

  “And for you, sir?”

  “A rib-eye. Rare as you can make it. Loaded baked potato. And what do you have on tap?”

  They negotiated a beer, and a glass of wine for Emily. It wasn’t until Artie left the table that Tyler said, “A potato and asparagus?”

  She shrugged. “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “Jesus!” And then he thought better of cursing in front of a missionary’s daughter. “I mean, damn. I mean, I should have asked. I didn’t even think—”

  Of course he hadn’t thought. He’d been too worried about what would work for him. About how he could keep his secret, how he could impress Emily, without ever letting her know he was too stupid to read a menu.

  * * *

  “It’s all right,” she insisted. “Really. I’m used to piecing together dinner in all sorts of restaurants.”

  She’d had years to become an expert. Ever since she’d seen that goat sla
ughtered in the first village where her parents had served. The locals had meant it to be a treat, but she’d refused to let one bite of the stewed meat pass her lips. Almost eighteen years later, her food choices were completely automatic.

  Until she saw people get flustered like Tyler was right now. “Please,” she said. “If you make a big deal out of it, then I will feel bad.”

  To make her point, she settled her palm on top of his hand. She meant it as a casual gesture, just a quick pat. But she felt him stiffen beneath her touch. His reaction closed a circuit, and she was jolted with the same energy, almost like he’d gripped her wrist at the instant he shoved a fork into an outlet.

  “All right,” he said after what seemed like a century. “But you choose the next place we eat.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, trying to laugh. She didn’t want to admit she was thrilled there’d be a next place. She pulled her hand back, settling it in her lap and trying not to flex her fingers in memory of the power she’d just felt. “So,” she said, determined to get them back to easy conversation. “Tell me about your family. No missionaries, I take it?”

  He laughed. “Hardly. My people are from Central Texas. My father was a carpenter by trade. A plumber and an electrician on the side, pretty much whatever anyone needed to get their house up and running. He made me and my brothers come along whenever he needed another hand.”

  “So you come by your community service naturally.” She tossed off the words, not meaning anything by them. But from the way he sucked air between his teeth, she knew she’d hit a raw nerve.

  “Daddy died about three years ago. A heart attack. Just dropped dead in the middle of a job.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. She knew the words were meaningless, that they could never offer true comfort. They were a reflex, though, something she had to say.

  He shrugged. “It was a bad time for all of us. I’m glad I hadn’t been traded yet. I got home often enough to make a difference.”

  “I’m sure your father was very proud of you. Proud of your playing for Texas.”

  Another cloud ghosted across Tyler’s face. There was something there. Some regret. Something he wished his father had said, or that he’d said to his father. Something he wished he’d done. But the sorrow was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.