by Laura Simcox
“Really?” She smiled at him, her gaze trailing over his chest before she looked away. “Thanks.”
“Try it again. Except this time . . .” Brett adjusted the ball in her hand and turned her sideways. “Twist forward as you let the ball go.”
Her shoulders shifted under his hands, and her hip pressed against his as she planted her feet wide. “Like this?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.
“Uh . . . kind of.” Brett nodded. It was all he could do not to trail a hand over that hip.
“‘Kind of’ isn’t good enough,” she said, her voice breathy. “Show me how it’s done.”
There was a hell of a lot he’d like to show her but not with his entire team—and her Secret Service agents—watching. He squeezed her shoulders gently and stepped back. “Feet a bit closer together. You’ll get more torque.” He smiled. “Go ahead.”
She blinked at him, her lips parted again, and Brett took another step back. “I . . . I’ll catch this time,” he muttered and shoved his mask back down. As he jogged toward the plate, Booker yelled from the dugout. “You suck as a pitching coach, Knox!”
“Bite me.” Brett went into his stance and held out his mitt. He watched as Georgia followed his instructions and wound up—a little bit too tightly—but then again, who was he to talk? He was wound up tighter than a guitar string right now and very thankful that his squat hid the bulge in his crotch. When Georgia threw the ball, her breasts bounced, and he couldn’t help it: he groaned out loud, nearly missing the catch as the ball sailed over home plate.
This time, when the guys cheered, Georgia grinned at them and took a bow. “Think I’m ready?” she called out.
“Yeah, but nobody’s more ready than Knox the Fox!” Booker yelled back.
That did it. Friend or not—Brett was going to put his foot squarely up Booker’s ass. He sprang up and started for the dugout. Booker took off running, straight into the tunnel that led to the clubhouse. Shaking his head, Brett turned back toward Georgia, who walked to home plate, her hands clasped in front of her. When she took off the cap, her hair tumbled around her shoulders.
“I won five bucks,” she announced.
“Yeah?” He tried not to stare at the sheen of sweat on her collarbones. “How’d you do that?”
“I bet my Secret Service agents that I could get the ball across the plate within five tries.”
Brett grinned. “I’d say those guys are suckers.”
“Hey, Stan! Ernie!” Georgia shaded her eyes and looked into the seats, where the two agents stood with their arms folded. “Did you hear that? Brett said you’re both suckers.”
As Brett watched, his eyes widening, the two men exchanged glances and then started forward, their expressions grim. “Why’d you tell them that? They’ll sic the FBI on me or something.”
“No, they won’t.” Georgia shoved his shoulder. “If they found it necessary, the Secret Service would do their own siccing.” She paused. “Is that a word—siccing?”
“Dunno. I’m pretty sure your guys have done a background check on me at least, right?” He waited for her answer, not breathing. There was a good chance Georgia already knew everything about him there was to know. Which would suck.
“Of course you’ve had a background check. You obviously don’t have anything to worry about since you’re standing right next to me.”
Brett pressed on, half afraid of her next answer. “So if there’s a file on me, why do you need to do an interview?”
“What do you mean?” She turned to him with a frown. “I don’t have clearance to look at people’s files, Brett. I’m just a protectee.”
“Oh.” Before he could say anything else, Stan and Ernie walked onto the field, each of them with a five-dollar bill in hand. Georgia clapped her hands. “Pay up, suckers,” she crowed.
Stan shook his head. “You don’t have to be so smug about it.”
“Yeah,” Ernie added, handing her the money. “Should’ve remembered how you get.”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is indomitable,” Georgia suggested.
Ernie glanced at Stan, who was trying not to smile. “Stubborn,” Stan said.
“There’s nothing wrong with stubborn.” Georgia turned to Brett. “Right?”
“Sure.”
As long as he wasn’t sent over the edge by her stubbornness. Or her smart mouth. Or her sexy body, or the way she looked at him, her large brown eyes full of unintentional desire. Or—
“Knox!” Monty yelled. “Hit the clubhouse.”
Brett thrust the ball out. “Here ya go, sugar. I’ll practice with you some more tomorrow. You’re gonna need it.” He turned and jogged toward the tunnel and a very welcome cold shower.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Georgia stood in the gravel-covered back parking lot of the WHAP station. The sun beat down on her like a sadistic heat lamp, and underneath her fogged up sunglasses, her left eye squinted against a bead of sweat. Under normal circumstances, she’d say screw this and go inside, where it was nice and cool. But inside, she wouldn’t have the view she had right now.
Brett stood at the other end of the lot, wearing loose shorts and a T-shirt. On pretty much any other guy, that outfit would look like lounging-on-the-couch clothes. Not on him. He might as well have been wearing a tux as far Georgia was concerned because he was that gorgeous. She watched as he dragged his foot through the gravel, making an X to mark home plate. While he was looking down, she stared at his long, muscled legs. They were perfect. His chest—perfect. And his arms—that tight T-shirt could barely contain those biceps.
“Get it together,” she muttered to herself and punched her fist into her borrowed baseball glove. “Get his story.”
Brett looked up, smiling. “What’s that?”
“I said, what’s the story?” She smiled back, knowing it was a flirty smile and not able to stop it.
“You have to have something to aim for,” Brett answered, pointing at the ground.
Georgia pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan. “Didn’t one of your teammates tell me to aim for your head?”
“I wouldn’t advise that. My head’s worth a lot to the Redbirds.” He chuckled. “You ready to pitch?”
No. She was ready to ask him a bunch of questions. Yesterday, after she’d returned to the station, she’d viewed the tape of WHAP’s interview with Joe Jr. It had been eye-opening. Very sappy and obviously slanted toward give the viewing public a feel-good story about overcoming poverty, but still—Georgia had a pretty solid idea about why Brett didn’t want her to ask too many questions about his background.
He was embarrassed, and that made her heart hurt.
It couldn’t though—she needed to be impartial. But somehow, everything about him—his vulnerability, his easy manner, the way he looked at her—had layered over the pure lust she felt for him. She was acutely aware that the crush she was doing her best to avoid had already begun to form.
She sighed and rubbed sweat from her forehead. This wasn’t good. She knew better. And after what had happened in college, she’d be an absolute fool to open herself up to Brett Knox. As if he could read her thoughts, Brett grinned and walked slowly, confidently, toward her. As she watched him, she conjured up her own embarrassment from the past, hoping it would help her reign her feelings in.
Last year, just before first semester finals, she’d been tutoring an athlete—a football player—who had put the moves on her, and she’d been thrilled. He’d been so hot. And, it turned out, he’d been the biggest asshole she’d ever met because after she’d finally given in to her raging hormones and slept with him, he’d dropped her faster than she could crack open a calculus book. She’d found out later he’d made a bet with his teammates that he could bag the president’s daughter.
Georgia had spent her Christmas break in tears, though she’d learned an important lesson. She wasn’t so short-sighted that she thought all athletes were assholes, but she knew one thing was true: athletes would put their teams,
their sports, and—most of all—their egos above everything else. In her book, that made them an automatic and resounding no. Never again. But none of those guys had been even close to the amazing guy Brett was.
When Brett stopped in front of her, she took a deep breath. “So about the windup. I was—”
“Are you all right?” he interrupted.
“Sure,” she answered brightly.
“You look a little pale, sugar. Maybe you ought to take off that sweater.” Brett reached out to touch her arm but hesitated. He looked over her shoulder, and Georgia turned and looked too. Courtney stood near a row of WHAP vans, her face impassive. “I feel like she might eat me alive or something,” he said.
Georgia laughed and leaned closer to him. “Oh, she’s capable, but I think you’re safe.”
Georgia gave her a weak wave, and Courtney’s lips rose in a pleasant smile. Georgia knew her agent well enough—and that smile meant that Courtney was thoroughly enjoying watching Brett too. Great. No help there.
She turned back to him. “I’m fine. It’s cold in the station, which is why I’m wearing this,” she explained, plucking at a sleeve. He didn’t need to hear that the sundress underneath was backless or that she’d chosen it because it matched her eyes. Or that she hadn’t realized that it was going to be ninety degrees at 9:00 a.m., and the sweater might have to come off.
“Okay. Just a few pitches, then. Don’t throw too hard.”
Georgia raised an eyebrow. “I’m not made of glass.”
“I’m well aware.” He grinned. “Just trying to help you control the ball. Don’t think about getting it across the plate. Think about throwing a strike, and you’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” Georgia picked up the ball and waited for Brett to get into place. She was burning up, in more ways than one. Carefully, she wound up and pitched. The ball landed with a smack in Brett’s glove.
“Good one!” he called.
She beamed. “Thanks.”
With a wink, he squatted again. “Two more and our imaginary batter’s out.” He threw the ball back to her.
Georgia pitched five more, and each time Brett moved back a few feet, increasing the distance between them. On the last pitch, the ball landed in the dirt in front of him. “Damn,” she muttered.
“It’s okay.” Brett stood up and trotted toward her. “Your form looks good.” He gave her a wicked smile.
“I’m not going to touch that comment.” She took off her glove and pressed it against his chest. “Here.”
Brett slid her glove inside his catcher’s mitt and walked with her toward the back door of the station. He didn’t make any more comments, and she glanced up at him. “Did you and your brother play a lot of catch growing up?”
“Yeah.” He paused. “Did you and your sisters?”
“Only when we were playing keep-away with our teddy bears.”
When they reached the back door, Brett held it open for her. “I had a teddy bear too,” he said.
“Oh yeah?” She smiled and went into the wonderfully cool, dim hallway. “So what was your bear’s name?”
Brett frowned. “Oh, hell no. I’m not telling you that.”
“It’s off the record,” she coaxed, raising her sunglasses to the top of her head.
“Precious Boy,” he muttered.
Georgia pressed her lips together. “What was that?”
“You heard me,” he said.
She giggled as they walked toward her office. “No judgment. Mine was called Special Baby. My mom named it—after me.”
Brett raised his eyebrows. “Same here.”
When they reached her office, Georgia smiled. “Come on in.” She went to her desk and pulled up an extra chair—making sure that it wasn’t too close. But when she sat down, Brett rolled his chair over anyway and sat down with a sigh. She cleared her throat. “So, could I ask you some questions?”
“Not about my teddy bear.” His gaze flicked up and met hers. “Or my mom.”
“She seems like a nice person,” Georgia ventured.
Brett slouched in the chair and folded his hands over his lean middle. “You’ve met her?”
“No, I—” Damn. She hadn’t wanted to bring up the tape of Joe’s interview, but she couldn’t very well avoid it now. “I watched some footage from a couple of years ago, and—”
“Okay. Yeah. I don’t want to discuss that.” Brett was staring at her desk, where the tape lay on top of a stack of folders. A hard light had entered his eyes, and she knew then that Joan had been right. It was going to be very tricky to get Brett’s personal story.
She nodded. “Then we won’t. What would you like to talk about?”
He didn’t answer. But when he turned and met her gaze, she couldn’t look away, much less speak. There was pain in his eyes—but something else too. A challenge. He wanted her to try to get close to him, didn’t he? But he didn’t want to give her what she needed. Just what she wanted.
No, that was ridiculous, right? She was reading him wrong—she had to be. “Brett?”
“Yeah?” He leaned forward, just as a knock sounded at the door.
Georgia leaned past him to look. A small boy stood in the doorway, Simone behind him.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Simone said. “My son, Ricky, was wondering if he could have your autograph.”
“Sure,” Brett and Georgia said at the same time.
Georgia glanced at Brett and then reached for a pen. “Come on in, Ricky.”
The kid, who couldn’t have been more than five, pointed at Georgia. “Mama, who’s that lady?” the kid asked.
Simone grimaced. “I’ll explain later, Ricky. Now go on—Knox is busy, sweetie.”
Oh. Of course. Georgia grimaced too. Why would she assume that a small child wearing a baseball T-shirt would want her autograph?
Brett chuckled and dropped to his knees on the floor. “Hey, buddy,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
The kid didn’t hesitate any more. He ran to Brett, who enveloped him in a hug. “You’re my favorite player, Knox.” Ricky lifted his head and grinned. There was an unmistakable Cheetos ring around his mouth, and Georgia suppressed a smile.
“Thanks, man.” Brett held the kid at arm’s length. “Been to any games lately?”
“Yep. I got a T-shirt, see?” He grabbed a fistful of his too-large T-shirt, which read, “FAN-tastic Day for the Redbirds.”
“Cool! I didn’t get one of those.” Brett turned back to Georgia, an easy smile on his face. “Do you have a permanent marker?”
“I think so.” She opened a desk drawer and handed him a Sharpie and a blank piece of paper. He winked up at her and turned around, his back brushing against her knees. She tried not to sigh, but a little one might have slipped out. How stereotypical of her. A gorgeous, complicated man was being super nice to a little kid, and she melts all over the place? Yeah. And she couldn’t help it.
Brett propped the paper on his knee. “What do you want me to write, Ricky?”
“Um . . . your friend, Brett Knox the Fox?” the boy suggested.
Brett did as suggested. “There ya go.”
“Thanks. Can you come over and play later? I have trucks and a sword.”
Simone let out a cough. “Ricky.”
“Can you?” Ricky persisted. He looked at Brett with wide, hopeful eyes.
Brett hesitated. “I have a game later, buddy. Otherwise, I would.”
“Oh.” Ricky took a step back, tears forming in his eyes. “See ya.” Without another word, he darted out of the room.
Georgia’s brow wrinkled. Poor little guy. But what else was Brett supposed to have said?
“Sorry about that,” Simone offered. “He’s . . . his father isn’t around. Thanks for the autograph again.” With a sharp nod, she turned and walked away.
“That was really nice of you,” Georgia said. “It probably made his day.”
“Or ruined it,” Brett muttered. He stood up and jammed his hands on his waist. “Shit.
”
“You did the right thing, though. It’s not realistic to expect—”
“Kids that age with no daddies don’t understand realism, Georgia.” Brett let out a breath. “Anyway. Hope I was able to help you out with the pitching.”
“Oh, you did. I appreciate it.” Georgia realized that there wouldn’t be any more interviewing today. She touched his arm. “I’m not going to be a bit nervous tomorrow.”
He gave her a smile. “Yeah, you will.”
“You’re right.” She laughed, swaying toward him a little bit.
He laughed too, and the next thing she knew, he’d pulled her close and wrapped her in a hug, her face pressed against his chest. She drew a sharp breath, inhaling the scent of Tide, warm male, and a distinct chemical cheese smell. Before she could even think about what that was, he’d let her go. “See ya on the ball field.”
“Okay.” She blinked up at him and then glanced at the front of his shirt. There was an orange smudge right in the middle.
Brett touched her cheek. “Hey, how did you get—”
“You’ve got Cheetos on your shirt,” she said at nearly the same time.
They stared at each other for a moment and then burst out laughing.
Chapter Five
ON THE FOURTH of July, Georgia stood in the tunnel next to the home dugout, her legs rubbery from the anxiety that had been building for hours. She was flanked by Monty Ballard and Fred Shipley, who were making small talk, but none of it registered. All four of her agents were present for the ceremonial first pitch, and Courtney had informed her that Secret Service would be everywhere in the stadium, but all Georgia needed to pay attention to was her regular crew. Georgia knew the open stadium filled to record capacity was a nightmare for them, but they’d reluctantly agreed to this event, just as she had.
And they’d worked tirelessly all day preparing for the five-minute appearance. On the edges of the field—in front of both dugouts and behind home plate, Ernie, Stan, and Jim stood—all three men in Redbirds uniforms. Courtney, dressed in a WHAP polo shirt, guarded the field entrance to the tunnel. Next to her, WHAP’s camera operator turned and gave Georgia a thumbs-up. A few seconds later, a voice boomed an announcement over the PA system: “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a special guest here to throw the first pitch of the game. Please welcome Miss Georgia Fulton to AutoZone Park!”