by Laura Simcox
It wasn’t as if Brett had never seen those looks before. After all, he had grown up with the stigma of being desperately poor. School teachers had treated him differently, some of them assuming that he was headed straight for nowhere. Others had quickly decided that he was a prime candidate for whatever program was in place to keep poor kids in school. None of them had looked beyond the poverty and seen him for himself. Not that he’d made it easy, with a giant chip on his shoulder. He thought he’d gotten rid of that chip, but he hadn’t. The need to prove himself was as strong as ever.
Blowing out a breath, he got the lenses in and looked in the mirror. A handsome, but shell-shocked face stared back. He narrowed his eyes at himself and stuck out his jaw. “Get your shit together. You’re Knox the Fox.” He grinned at himself. Much better. Now that guy could charm any girl, even a daughter of the president. That guy played hard—and hard to get. But face-to-face with Georgia Fulton . . . how would he really act?
Only one way to find out.
Chapter Two
GEORGIA FULTON WAS in a hot mess.
As she trudged through the bowels of AutoZone Park, home of the Memphis Redbirds, she felt like a steaming wet washcloth had been slapped over her head. Her blouse stuck to her back. Her stomach gurgled. Her brand-new briefcase hung heavily from the strap over her shoulder. And her heart sank because the very first day of her internship was so not what she had expected. Since her dad had been elected president, she’d gotten used to encountering the unexpected, but this? Her future career in TV journalism hinging on whether or not she could interview baseball players? No. Just . . . no.
But unfortunately, yes. Her internship hadn’t come with a job description attached other than the fact that she would be working on features. Over the past few months, when she’d pictured what July 1 would be like, it certainly wasn’t this. She was supposed to have been getting settled at WHAP, Channel 19 News—gearing up to tackle investigative stories, not interviewing athletes about what they did during downtime. Weren’t their whole lives recreation time?
She didn’t care to find out. But that didn’t matter because, before she’d even reached the Memphis city limits, Joan Crisp, the station manager, had e-mailed and turned Georgia’s world upside down. Joan hadn’t been subtle about it, either—Georgia was famous, so naturally she needed to be writing stories on local celebrities and making the ratings soar. Joan had been so eager for her to get started that the instructions had sent her to the stadium before she could even drop her briefcase on a desk at the station.
Georgia wasn’t supposed to report for work until she’d tracked down the Redbirds’ star catcher and set up an interview for a feature story about his major league aspirations. A fluffy no-brainer story, reported by the president’s daughter. Her internship had barely begun and she already felt used.
Would it echo too badly in the concrete tunnel if she let out a blood-curdling scream?
But she couldn’t. Not if she didn’t want poor Fred Shipley, the team’s general manager, to be tackled by Stan and Ernie, her Secret Service detail. Fred, who was obviously nervous, lumbered alongside her, and Stan and Ernie walked just behind. Georgia glanced back at the agents. Both of them grinned at her, probably because they loved baseball. They were clearly thrilled that she’d been stuck with this assignment, whereas she just needed time alone to come up with a successful argument against it—like reminding her new boss of the awards she’d won in college for serious investigative stories. It wasn’t like she couldn’t ace her internship—Georgia Fulton could do anything she set her mind to.
“We’ll have you there in a jiff, Miss Fulton,” Fred said.
“Great.” She gave him a smile.
Fred trundled on, beads of sweat rolling from the oval bald patch on his head. After a moment, he slowed to catch his breath. “Today sure turned out to be a scorcher, but your agents said the timing was good since the stadium’s empty.”
He jerked a thumb backward toward Stan and Ernie, who weren’t breaking a sweat at all. The two men strode purposefully, wearing suits and sunglasses. The look on Fred’s jowly face said everything—he couldn’t quite believe that he was dealing with real, live Secret Service agents, and he wasn’t sure how to behave. “I do appreciate y’all stopping by.” They nodded but didn’t speak. Fred turned back to Georgia and shook his head in wonder, as if she, too, weren’t quite real. “You doing okay? It’s not much farther.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said pleasantly, training her eyes on the square of hazy pale sky, shimmering in heat waves at the end of the tunnel. She wanted to say something witty, but there was a good chance that what she meant and what Fred perceived wouldn’t be the same thing. She’d been curbing her sarcasm a lot more lately because she needed to focus on her professional image.
After her dad had been elected, she’d assumed that impressing people with her intellect was the way to go—the 4.0-college-student who could outwit even the smartest brainiacs. Being super smart all the time hadn’t worked with her fellow students very well, and college had been an isolating—sometimes lonely—experience.
Her Trivial-Pursuit-wired mind hadn’t mixed well with presidential cocktail parties or groundbreaking ceremonies, either. Georgia needed to remember her mother’s advice—normal conversation could go a long way toward making people comfortable. She ought to bring up the fact that she’d been to Memphis before, even though that particular memory made her blush.
She smiled at Fred again as they walked. “I’ve been to Memphis before. It’s a nice city.”
“Oh, how wonderful.” Fred’s chest puffed up. “Yes, once you visit, you fall in love. When were you here?”
“It was a couple of years ago when my dad was campaigning. There was a cocktail party, if I remember correctly.” She remembered vividly, but she didn’t want to tell Fred that she’d spent a lot of the event attempting to keep her gaze off of the baseball players who’d been in attendance. In their tight uniforms. She also didn’t want to tell Fred that all she’d ever seen of Memphis before today was the inside of the Peabody Hotel. At night. “I enjoyed it very much.”
Fred’s face relaxed and he stopped walking. “Of course. I remember meeting your father . . . and your family.” He cleared his throat. “What a moment that was. I hope that you find a warm welcome again.”
“Thanks. You’ve been very welcoming so far.” It didn’t surprise her that Fred hadn’t remembered that she’d been there, too. She spent most of her time going unnoticed—not because she was shy but because she blended in on purpose—participating in her own life only when she felt relevant. For her, that almost always meant the classroom, not campaign events. Plus, with her brown curly hair, freckles, and plain brown eyes, she was hardly a stunner, especially at this moment. Her curls were frizzy with the humidity, and she felt . . . wilted. She looked toward the end of the tunnel, where she could see the green grass of the playing field. Hopefully there was a breeze out there. “Should we continue on? You said something about showing me the press box?”
“Surely.” Fred began walking again, whistling this time, and she knew she’d put him a little bit more at ease. At least somebody was, right? Her heels made a hollow ringing sound on the concrete as she tromped uphill through the tunnel toward the open air of the grandstand.
“So the Redbirds had a game this afternoon. Did you win?”
“Yes, ma’am. We knocked the Isotopes all the way back to Albuquerque.”
“Awesome.” Georgia paused, searching for more small talk but coming up short. It was all she could do to keep her smile, anyway.
“Miss Fulton, is your dad a baseball fan?” Fred asked in a hopeful tone.
“Oh yeah. He loves it,” she answered, and it was true. “Huge fan.”
“Will he be coming to any games?”
“Well . . . I’m not sure. I only found out this morning that I’d be covering baseball. I haven’t given him any details about my internship yet, Mr. Shipley.”
; “Oh, you can call me Ship. Most people have nicknames around here.” He coughed out a laugh. “Even general managers—but I hope you don’t hear what some of the players call each other. Funny stuff, but not fit to be on the news.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Georgia hoisted her briefcase up. There was something else she needed to keep in mind too. She was so close to graduating that she could taste it. A year behind her classmates—but she wasn’t resentful about that because she’d chosen to take time off school to support her dad while he’d been campaigning. It had worked out: Patrick Fulton was president of the United States, and she was here because she’d chosen the internship with the shortest time frame—two months. Her eagerness had landed her smack in the middle of a pile of athletes. Most women her age would be practically melting from the excitement of it all, but, where athletes were concerned, Georgia had a love-hate relationship. Mostly hate. Ogling them was one thing, but getting mixed up with one of them was quite another. Been there, wished she hadn’t done that.
“Here we are!” Fred exclaimed. He threw his arms wide as they emerged into the blinding sunlight. “Just look. Gorgeous infield, isn’t it? And the sight lines are incredible. Over there’s the home bullpen. That’s where Booker the Hooker spends most of his time. Solid relief man, that one. If he hadn’t been throwing brush backs and walked a batter today, he might’ve pitched a no-hitter. But gotta love him. He’s got the best ERA in the league—you know what I mean?”
“Sure. Incredible ERA.” She didn’t have a clue what Fred was talking about.
“I’m tickled to know that a presidential kid is such a baseball fan,” Fred said and then wrinkled his nose. “I don’t mean kid as in child. You’re a young lady,” he continued.
Georgia gave him a patient smile. “That’s okay, Ship. I’m a kid at heart.”
Not really. And sports fan? That would be a big no—not that she was going to admit that. “So, uh, I appreciate your showing me the field. The heat’s getting to me just a bit, though, so do you mind if we go to the press box?”
“Oh, sure. Would you care for a cool drink?” Fred asked.
She’d give her left arm for it. “That would be nice.”
“Concessions aren’t open after the game, but there’s a case of cold water in the gift shop. We can stop by there on our way.”
Georgia nodded, shrugging her briefcase strap higher on her shoulder. She followed Fred up steep concrete steps to a covered deck and then down a long curved concourse. By the time the gift shop, encased in glass walls, was in sight, it was all she could do not to pull her blouse off, tie it around her head, and stumble toward it as if it were an oasis in the desert. But she knew she had to wait for one of her agents to check the place out before she could go in.
Ernie opened the door swiftly, disappearing behind racks of baseball jerseys and plastic cups. Thirty seconds later, he reappeared and Stan gestured for her to go inside. “We’re all good, Cherry Blossom.”
Georgia smiled at the use of her Secret Service code name. “Thanks, Stan.” The cool air hit her like a blast of pure heaven, and she closed her eyes. “Ahhh.”
Fred chuckled and followed her inside. “Lots of great souvenirs in here. Think your dad might want a cap?”
Actually, he probably would. “Good suggestion. I’ll browse before I come to a game, which I’m sure will be soon.” She made a mental note to stop by and purchase a cap, even if she managed to get removed from the baseball assignment.
“Good.” Fred walked to a case and pulled out a large bottle of water. “Here ya go.”
“Thanks.” Georgia took it with a smile and followed him toward the back of the shop, glancing at the souvenirs she passed. Reaching out, she flicked a wide-eyed bobblehead of a player named “The Fox,” watching it grin and jerk. Hopefully, that wasn’t what she looked like at the moment. She forced her face to relax as Fred opened a door at the back of the shop and stepped into a carpeted hallway.
“Right through here are the steps to our premier luxury box and the press box,” he told her, and she followed him to a door marked “Staff Only.” They went up a staircase, emerging into a small lobby. He opened another door and gestured grandly. “The press box.”
As Georgia stepped inside, she noticed a middle-aged man in a baseball uniform standing a few feet away, his arms folded over his paunchy stomach. When he caught sight of Georgia, he removed his hat and stepped forward. “Hi there. I’m Monty Ballard. Coach Ballard.”
“Nice to meet you.” Georgia shook his meaty hand. She didn’t know much about coaches, but this one looked every inch like what she expected. Weathered face, sharp eyes, and a no-nonsense attitude.
“Just wanted to stop by and introduce myself. Anything you need, let me or Ship know. We’ll round up players for you.”
“I’m already on top of that,” Ship commented.
“Thanks.” Georgia knew she ought to at least go through the motions of pinning down the interview with the catcher, but that could wait ten minutes, couldn’t it? “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
“Please do.” Ship clapped a hand on Monty’s shoulder and ushered him through the door.
When the men had lumbered down the steps, Georgia turned to Ernie and Stan. “Guys? I need a moment to . . . process my life.” They nodded and stationed themselves just outside the open doorway. Dimly, she heard voices from the stairwell, and then the door at the bottom of the stairs shut. Ernie and Stan muttered to each other for a moment and after that—silence.
Georgia sighed in relief and glanced around the large room, which was made up of tiered platforms, with table space for reporters. She stared out the wall of windows for a moment, which offered an eagle-eye view of the playing field, and then she walked around a large post in the middle of the room and put her briefcase on a table.
After unscrewing the bottle cap, she leaned against the post and took a healthy swig of water. Too healthy, because some of it escaped her lips and splashed down the front of her blouse. “Great,” she muttered and lifted her blouse out of her skirt to flap it against her body. “Now all I need are some peanuts and Cracker Jack, and I’ll be all set for a fun time.”
There was a low laugh behind her and she snickered in response. Ernie and Stan—as far as Secret Service agents went—were pretty funny people. They always got her wry humor. “Go ahead, guys, laugh it up.”
Nobody answered, so she peeked around the post, pushing hair from her eyes.
“Guys?”
“Uh. Hi.”
Georgia splayed her hand over the front of her wet blouse and stared. The impossibly tanned guy standing just inside the doorway, wearing a tight T-shirt, jeans, and a smile, was as still as a statue. A statue with fathomless, unblinking chocolate-brown eyes. She let her gaze drop from his face to his broad chest. “Oh. Hello. I was expecting someone else.”
He didn’t comment, but when she lifted her gaze again, past his wide shoulders and carved chin, she watched his smile turn into a grin, revealing way-too-sexy brackets at the corners of his mouth. He walked down the steps and onto the platform where she stood. He had to be at least six foot three, and testosterone poured off him like heat waves on the field below. She shouldn’t stare at him, right? Damn. Her gaze flicked from him toward the glass wall but moved right back again.
“Scared of heights?” he asked. His voice was a slow Southern drawl and deep. Sexy deep. “Maybe you oughta sit down.”
“No, thanks. I was just . . . looking for something.” Looking for something? Like what—a tryst with a stranger in the press box? Her face heated and she clutched the water bottle, the plastic making a snapping sound under her fingers. “So . . . how did you get past my agents?”
He smiled again. “They know who I am.”
“And you are?”
“Brett Knox.”
His name sounded familiar. “Okay. I’m Georgia Fulton. It’s nice to meet you,” she said, putting down her water.
He shook her hand br
iefly. “You too. But I just came up here to let you know that I’m declining the interview. Too busy.”
Georgia felt herself nodding in agreement even as she realized exactly who Brett Knox was. He was the star catcher—and right in front of her, shooting her down before she’d even had a chance to ask. Such a typical jock.
“I’m busy, too, which is why I’d like to set up a time that’s convenient for both of us,” she said, even though she hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. But she couldn’t very well walk into the news station without accomplishing what she’d been tasked with—pinning him down. Georgia was a team player. So was Brett, literally.
“I don’t want to disappoint my boss, and I’m betting you feel the same way about yours,” she continued.
“Sure. I sign autographs, pose for photos, visit Little League teams. Like I said, I’m busy.”
“That’s nice.” She nodded. “I’m flattered that you found the time to come all the way up to the press box and tell me, in person, that you don’t have time for an interview. Thanks.”
He smiled a little. “You’re welcome.” Then he stretched his arms, his broad chest expanding with the movement. He flexed his long fingers, braced a hand high on the post, and grinned at her again. Her heart flipped down into her stomach. Oh no.
“I get it, you know. I’ve posed for photos and signed autographs too. I’ve visited hospitals and ribbon-cutting ceremonies, and I know it makes people happy. But public appearances can be draining, and it takes time away from work. Right?”
“Right.” He gave her a curious look. “We have that in common, though it’s not exactly the same. I may be semifamous in Memphis, but I don’t have paparazzi following me around and I like it that way. You interviewing me would turn into a big hassle.”
“I won’t take much of your time. Just think of me as another reporter.” She ventured a warm, inviting smile, and Brett’s dark eyes widened. “The paparazzi don’t follow me like they do my sisters. I’m the boring one.”