Make Me Yours (Top Shelf Romance Book 4)

by Devney Perry

  I need to turn around, to face him, but I stall. The images from Google are seared in my mind. The charity calendar where the month of April is a picture of him wearing nothing but a strategically placed baseball glove. The ESPN body issue where he’s batting—naked—the twist of his legs hiding his package. The ESPYs with him looking dashing in a three-piece suit. All of them are there, floating around, reminding me how all those hard lines and toned edges look in person.

  And it would take a dead woman to not be affected by him.

  So, I steel myself for the visceral impact of looking at him—hot, sweaty, relaxed—but it doesn’t help when I turn around. I’m not sure anything could. Because even in his sweat-dampened T-shirt, he’s still breathtakingly handsome with his mixture of all-American and rugged outdoorsman. He still exudes that tinge of arrogance. And the odd thing is how today when I look at him, after I’ve stared at pictures of him for hours yesterday, somehow the arrogance adds to his appeal.

  And then he smirks, and I shake my head and question my own sanity.

  “So you actually want me to look at your arm? You mean you’ll trust me with it? And here I was under the impression you thought I was just a trophy trainer.”

  “Come again?” He chuckles.

  Time to clear the air between us. Being handsome doesn’t override being an asshole. “You know, trophy trainer—someone good for you to look at, but incapable of much else.”

  He shrugs. “If the shoe fits.”

  I take a step closer to him, his sarcastic comeback igniting the embers of my temper he lit yesterday. “Don’t be a jerk. If you want to find out if I’m qualified for the job—capable of getting you back in top form—then you ask me for my credentials. You want a resume? You want references? I’d be glad to hand you a list of them, so don’t go snooping around, making phone calls, and questioning everything about me without talking to me first. Got it?”

  Our eyes hold as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth to combat the smile he’s fighting. “You want me to take my rehab seriously, right? Then don’t chastise me for making sure the person charged to do it is up to par and has the right experience. I don’t trust my body with just anyone, let alone a rookie trainer still learning the ropes. Got it?”

  “Touché,” I murmur as we wage a visual war of defiance and misunderstanding. “We’re wasting time. Let’s get started.”

  Maybe if we begin, I’ll forget about the phone calls I received last night. The ones from previous clients and personal friends I’d rehabbed informing me I was being vetted. I was thankful for the heads-up, and at the same time, I was pissed that he was questioning my qualifications.

  But he did just make a damn good point.

  I grab the ultrasound cart and wheel it toward the table, but he’s still standing there like yesterday, still questioning me. Obviously, he doesn’t believe I’m experienced enough to do the job, but I shrug it off, knowing after my rebuke of him, he was bound to either respect me or test me, and by the current standoff, I’m guessing it will be the latter.

  “Yes?” I finally ask when he doesn’t budge.

  “You wanna tell me where Doc is?”

  “He’s got a packed schedule on the East Coast right now. As you know, injury happens without warning.” I hold his gaze and hope he doesn’t see through the lie.

  “Uh-huh.” He just nods, but I can tell he’s not convinced. He’s the one who made the calls last night, so I’m certain he has pieced together that it’s been a while since Doc’s been around. But there must be something in my eyes he sees—the something I’m trying desperately to keep together—that prevents him from digging deeper. “He’s the best there is,” Easton says.

  “Agreed.”

  “Should I be worried then?”

  “About?” I prompt.

  “If he’s the best, then doesn’t that mean you’re second best?”

  His remark hits closer to home than I’d like, but it’s his body, his career, and his right to ask.

  “Second best to Doc Dalton isn’t a bad place to be. I learned everything I know from the man. I assure you, he’s the last person I want to let down, and you’re the beneficiary of that fear, so . . .” I quirk my brows. “Lucky you.”

  “Lucky me,” he murmurs but still doesn’t move. “The problem is I still don’t know shit about you, and yet you’re standing there ready to work on my arm.”

  “What do you want to know?” I’m getting impatient. Another day, another round of bullshit, and once again, time is wasting. But at least he listened and is asking me instead of snooping around for answers.

  “What were your stats in the major leagues?”

  “What?”

  “I asked your stats. Errors. On-base percentage. Batting average. Fielding percentage. You know, statistics.”

  “I know what statistics are,” I respond dryly.

  “But if you’ve never played in the majors, how do you know how my arm’s supposed to feel so that you can get it back to one hundred percent?”

  He’s neglecting the fact that no other trainer has played in the major leagues either . . . but I have a better way to shut him up. “Have you ever been a woman?”

  “What?” It’s his turn to be surprised by an unexpected question. “Of course not. I’ve got plenty of proof that I’m all man.”

  I roll my eyes, half expecting him to grab his crotch and equally relieved that he doesn’t. “Well, if you’ve never been a woman, how is it you know how to please one in bed? How do you know if you’re hitting the right spot? Getting her off?”

  He fights back a bark of a laugh, but eventually lets it escape as he just shakes his head. “Touché,” he repeats my word back to me.

  “If you’re going to bust my chops, Wylder, you should know that I can give as good as I get.”

  “Point taken. But since you’re the one singlehandedly charged with busting my balls in rehab over the next three months, you’ve gotta admit, it was a valid question.”

  “It was,” I concede, “but it’s your job to talk to me, tell me how it feels, where it hurts, and when it feels good, so I can make it better.” An unexpectedly shy smile slides onto his lips when he gets the correlation between my question about how to please a woman and my answer.

  “Just like sex.”

  “Perhaps.” I smile; it’s all I can do as heat flushes my cheeks and the room around us becomes too small for him and this innuendo-laced conversation. “Some men have all the tools in the world, but if they don’t know how to use them, they’re useless. It’s the same with my job. You’ve gotta know how to use your skills, and I assure you, I do. So, if the I-don’t-trust-you-because-you-have-a-vagina-card has been exhausted, can we get started, please?” I lift my chin toward the table behind him while I adjust the settings on the machine.

  “You drive a hard bargain, Kitty.” He chuckles as he sits down and pulls off his shirt.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  Nothing more is said between us as I apply the ultrasound gel and then the wand to his shoulder, despite being all too aware that he’s still staring at me.

  I welcome the silence, using it to concentrate on the task at hand as I move the wand over the joint of his shoulder, across the angry red seam there and back, several times over. Players enter the locker room beyond where we are. I can hear their chatter—the low whistles, the suggestive laughs, the one-off comments—but know better than to give them attention. It may be a different clubhouse, but it’s basically the same reaction I typically get.

  I knew I’d have a tough crowd to win over when I followed in my father’s footsteps. I knew being a woman in this male-dominated world wouldn’t be a walk in the proverbial ballpark. And so I ignore the comments like I always have and choose to consider them compliments, while letting the more suggestive ones go. In a practiced move, I keep my eyes focused on the player I’m working on and my back to the lockers to avoid any pecker peep-shows, which I learned long ago are inevitable.


  It saves me embarrassment and preserves the respect I have to command to be taken seriously.

  “Relax,” I murmur as I run the ultrasonic waves back and forth to reduce inflammation. For some reason, he keeps tensing up, and it’s counteracting the therapy I’m providing.

  There’s another comment behind my back. Something good-humored about another wand in his jock I could put to better use.

  If the guy’s going to be a chauvinist, at least he’s witty about it.

  I stifle a laugh. It’s all I can do. But it’s Easton who visibly tenses in reaction.

  Apparently, he can dish it out, but doesn’t want anyone else to.

  Interesting.

  And sweet.

  He seems to be upset on my behalf, and yet yesterday he was the one who thought I was a stripper here to entertain him.

  Good thing I didn’t take the bait, then. I was ready to kiss you senseless just to call your bluff and prove you were a stripper.

  His words come back to me—the ones that repeated through my mind at random times yesterday, which then led to my Google search on him. My hands touch him now, but my mind recalls the charity calendar I found—him in all his gorgeous, naked glory.

  Another comment somewhere in the locker room.

  Another bristle by him.

  And the irony isn’t lost on me. He’s getting pissed on my behalf, and I’m thinking of what he looks like naked. Well, almost naked. My imagination fills in exactly what is beneath the baseball glove.

  And, of course, now I blush.

  “Where did you leave off with your previous trainer?” I ask to try and break the tension that’s becoming more and more evident in the tightening of his muscles.

  “We were throwing the ball.”

  “All out?”

  “At about fifty, sixty percent.”

  “Hitting any?”

  “A bit, at about seventy percent.”

  “Okay.” I draw the word out, pleased he speaks my lingo. “Tell me how it felt when you did those things.”

  “Frustrating.”

  “If you’re going to make love to me Wylder, you’re gonna need to do a helluva lot more than that to get me off.” His head whips up, shocked hazel eyes meeting my gray ones, and I know I’ve got his attention now. I continue. “Explain. Why was it frustrating? Did it hurt? Was there a pinch, or was it just tight from not being used? Or was it mental? It’s bound to feel different, so is it the fear of reinjuring yourself that’s holding you back?”

  He struggles with what to say, his eyes narrowing as he looks away. I lower the wand and wipe the excess gel from his shoulder. “How about all of the above?” he finally says.

  “That’s a fair answer. I tell you what—how about we stretch it today, go through some new exercises that you might not have done yet, and then tomorrow we take it to the field and get a ball in that hand of yours?”

  “Really?” He sounds like a little boy finding out he gets to play after sitting on the bench for the last six innings. It breaks my heart and fills it simultaneously.

  “Really.” I walk around to the back of him and begin to move his arm to feel for any clicking or popping with the movement in his rotator cuff. “Let’s get started then.”

  “So, I think it’s on the right track,” I say with a conclusive nod, needing to step away from him and the connection that our bodies have had for the better part of ninety minutes.

  I’ve worked his arm every which way and now have a better grasp on what I need to do to strengthen it. How to make a plan of attack.

  “It might be a bit sore later and tomorrow. Your hissing tells me I pushed you a little further than your previous trainer did, but I’m pleased with how solid the repair feels. We just need to get you back into the routine slowly, and then the motions will begin to feel natural again.”

  “Does that mean I get to throw a ball tomorrow?”

  “It does, indeed.” His smile is lightning-quick in response, and completely disarming.

  I’ve seen Easton-the-skeptic’s smile. I’ve even seen the Easton-thinks-he’s-being-played smile. But Easton’s I-get-to do-what-I-love-tomorrow smile is bright enough to light up the room.

  “Easton. My man. You doing good?” Luckily we’re interrupted so I stop staring at him. J.P. Gaston, another player, walks into our training room. He grabs hands with Easton in some kind of handshake and pulls him in for a manly hug before slapping him on the back in greeting.

  “Hanging in there. Way to kick ass last night. Your bat’s on fire, man.”

  “Don’t jinx me, dude. Bad juju is everywhere these days.”

  “Look who you’re talking to,” Easton says with a shake of his head. “I feel like I’ve been swimming in it for months. My luck has to return soon.”

  “Fucking bad juju,” J.P. says with a laugh before leaning closer to Easton and murmuring so I can barely hear it, “But dude, the DL has never looked as appealing as it does right now.”

  “Watch Guzman’s slider tonight,” Easton says, talking right over the comment as if he didn’t hear it. “I was studying him against the Yankees the other night, and it’s starting to float some.”

  “Ah, the beloved hanging curveball,” J.P. says as he takes a few steps backward toward the door. He slides his eyes my way and offers up a smile before looking back to Easton. “Good thing I know how to swing my stick.”

  Easton picks up his shirt sitting beside him, balls it up, and throws it at him, just as he darts out of the doorway and past the windows, into the depths of the now-full clubhouse. I avoid the natural inclination to watch him, because the pregame ritual has started out there, and that means men in varying stages of undress, shooting the shit as they mentally prepare for their night of work.

  “Hot damn. She’s as hot up close? Shit,” someone says loud enough for me to hear. Seems that J.P. was the one elected to come on in and get a closer look at the new female trainer.

  There’s one in every clubhouse.

  “Hurt me, baby,” someone else cries out.

  “Oh, Easton. Let me stretch you and bend you and do naughty things to you,” another teammate mimics in a high-pitched voice.

  Without glancing up, I lift my middle finger to the men, who I’m more than sure are watching and waiting to see my reaction from their schoolyard ribbing. Laughter rumbles through the locker room at my response, but I hear a muttered, “Goddammit,” beneath Easton’s breath.

  “Let me guess? Tino and Drew?” I ask, completely unfazed.

  “Yep,” he sighs with a roll of his eyes.

  “Good to see they’ve matured since high school,” I say lightheartedly as I continue to put the ultrasound machine away. But when I turn back around, I’m stopped in my tracks by the look on his face. His expression is guarded, and yet there’s something about it—a hint of surprise maybe—that holds my feet still and my attention hostage. “What is it?”

  “Just trying to figure you out, is all,” he says with a shake of his head.

  “There’s not much to figure.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Well, you’re wrong,” I say as I spray disinfectant on the table and start to wipe it down, anything to avoid the softening of his eyes and the questions I don’t want to answer. “I’m boring. A what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of girl.”

  “Except you wear your heart on your sleeve.” My hand falters mid-motion then I continue to clean with a renewed vigor, but he doesn’t turn to leave like I had hoped. “You come off tough as nails, like you don’t let shit get to you, and yet that heart you’re wearing says there’s a helluva lot more than the tough exterior does.”

  “And your point?”

  “Nothing. Just making an observation.”

  Those words scrape nerves already raw after the last few months. Comebacks and rebukes all swirl in my head, but every single one of them is on the defensive. And while the defensive implies he’s right—and he is right—I sure as hell don’t want to let him know t
hat.

  This is work—the reputation I’m trying to establish. And he’s a client who holds the ticket to achieve two of my goals.

  “Scout and Easton sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” someone sings above the fray outside the door.

  “Let it rest, guys,” Easton shouts over his shoulder.

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  “Of course it is. Anything to save you from having this discussion, right?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with wearing your heart on your sleeve.” I may say the words to play it off, but my tone doesn’t sound as forgiving.

  “Sorry.” He sighs. “For what I said . . . and for the assholes.”

  “Don’t be. I’m here for you. Not them.” I risk a glance their way and smile. “Hopefully none of them get hurt, because I’d be a lot less gentle if I have to rehab them.” I get the chuckle from him I was working for and hope the discussion is now buried.

  “Good to know, but I’m sorry, anyway. We can train somewhere else if you want. Or if it bugs you, I’ll have a talk with them.”

  “No need to . . . but thank you for the thought. Besides, it seems like their ribbing is minor compared to the legendary pranks you’ve pulled on them.”

  “True.” His lips break into a smug smile. “But it’s not fair to you.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl. I can handle myself. I’ve got a sword tucked in my purse in case I need to slay any dragons.”

  “Your purse?”

  “Yeah, it’s big and roomy.” I smile, more than glad to change the subject, as I grab said purse from the cupboard I stashed it in.

  “Keep anything else in there besides a sword?”

  “High heels,” I joke, earning a raise of his brows. “This girl likes her heels when she’s kicking ass.”

  “Gotta love a woman who’s multidimensional. You heading out, too?” he asks, but neither of us makes a move to leave as his eyes continue to ask more questions than I want to answer or even acknowledge.

  Suddenly flustered by the intensity of his stare, I begin to ramble. “So, alternate ice and heat every twenty minutes or so for the next few hours. That will help with the swelling and inflammation I caused today. Okay?”