Driving Erin’s little errand-runner, Kit turned off on a packed-dirt road with a hand-painted plywood sign reading Ballfield in cobalt blue letters. Some joker had hung a matching cap over the stake sticking up the back.
A passel of cars and trucks in darn straight rows for impromptu mud-and-grass parking lay ahead to the left. Families crowded around trunks. Men balanced Coleman chest coolers and pint-sized children on their shoulders in about equal measure. Waiting on a stampede of older kids crossing the entry, she searched for Brian’s crimson coupe. Mid-life crisis car for sure, but he had the good sense to choose a sporty old workhorse and not a flashy dick extender.
The athletic complex where the youth leagues played, out by the airport, featured nearly a dozen diamonds. This middle-of-nowhere plot boasted two, both with chain-link backstops and sidelines. Crawling down the aisle, she spied a flash of red beyond the pickup trucks and minivans. Her sister’s boxy beige Camry fit alongside at the end of the row. Shabby as all hell, but none of these folks would see her again.
She hopped out and stretched. The breeze carried shouts, laughter, and the smoky char of burgers and dogs on the grill. The clouds dotting the bright blue sky kept the heat at bay. Saturdays didn’t get much better. Pocketing her keys, she joined the stream.
As she rounded a monster of an extended cab, Brian barreled into her and hoisted her off her feet.
“You made it, great.” He set her down easy, kissed her cheek, and grinned. “When you didn’t answer my last text, I thought you might’ve changed your mind.”
“I might yet.” Picking her up, Jesus. Treating her like a damn date. “We agreed you weren’t going to make a thing out of this.”
His eyes flickered, but he held steady on his megawatt smile. “No, I greet all the women I know with inappropriate displays. You should’ve seen the kiss I planted on Rob’s wife.” Elbowing her in the side, he pointed toward a couple sitting on a set of short-stack metal bleachers. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”
In the swarm of jeans and khaki shorts, Brian made an eye-piercing statement with his knee-length paint explosion. The swirling purples, yellows, and greens resembled a five-year-old’s summer camp tie-dye project. He’d misstepped with the kiss, but no man seriously on a date would wear those shorts.
“Can’t wait.” She allowed him to drag her off to happy coupleland. No sense tanking the day in the first minute when the food and beer were free and she’d borrowed the car and driven out here. A shiny business park, the kind with mirrored buildings, sat behind a fence a few hundred yards off. “That where you work?”
“Yep. That’s where they keep all the secrets.” As he led her through the crowd, he offered nods and greetings to most of the adults by name and not a few high-fives to the kids. “Lot of us came over together when we left the service.”
The brown-haired man broke off whispering in the woman’s ear and stood as they approached. “You find her, or she find you? Your shorts are so bright the sats are tracking you from ten thousand miles up.”
“My lucky shorts, man.” Hands shoved in his pockets, Brian spread the wide-leg cotton and spun. “These babies are gonna bring us in at least an extra two runs. Maybe three.”
The shorts absolutely qualified as a nightmare. But his ass in them? Begging for a squeeze. “Sounds like bragging to me, hotshot.”
Brian pouted. “Would I do that?”
“Yes.” Three voices mingled in the answer, hers and the couple’s. They wore matching wedding bands. Forty-some people at softball. Not a date, he’d said. Except he took her straight to double-datesville.
“Ganging up on me already. Should’ve known this would be a bad idea.” Grinning, he clapped her shoulder. “Kit, meet Rob and Nora. He works in encryption; she crunches numbers. Together, they—”
“Prefer not to hear the end of that sentence when Brian’s the one delivering it,” Nora broke in, her smile friendly and her caramel-colored ponytail swinging.
Brian dropped his head back and raised his arms in a what gives to the heavens. “Kit runs that repair shop in town I was telling you about. We’re not on a date.”
The man did not do subtle. Should’ve figured on brash from his red car and riot shorts. Plenty of scuff marks in the dirt as she added a few more. The divot in front of the aluminum bleacher support needed smoothing.
“Right, right.” Rob stuck out his arm. “The woman who knows her way around a flat tire.” He offered a firm handshake, short and to the point. “Rob Vanderhoff. Brian and I have worked together since he couldn’t put his cap on straight to save his life.”
As Rob spoke, Brian swung his head in wide denials. “No, no, it was a fashion statement. The angle was lucky, same as my shorts.”
Rob snorted. “The attitude was a sure shot to getting dropped. You wouldn’t believe the push-ups he did. After eight weeks, he was nothing but biceps and a smart mouth.” He gestured to the blanket-draped bleacher beside his wife’s padded backrest. “Here, Kit, grab a seat. Those first three weeks, I could’ve sworn he wanted to be recycled.”
“Recycled?” Nora cocked her head. Her plain, peachy T-shirt provided soothing relief from Brian’s misguided style.
“Like repeating a grade in school.” Rob stepped off the side of the bleachers, crouching as he landed. “Brian had trouble with authority back then.”
Confirmation of bad-boy reputation, check. These friends of his might be useful, decent folk. Getting the nod from Mr. Nice Guy, they pretty much guaranteed their likeability.
“I understand he can’t resist a dare.” Not hers, thank God. After his showing at the shop, he’d taken to invading her dreams. She met Brian’s sheepish spring-grass gaze with a smirk. “Is that how you ended up owning those shorts?”
While Nora and Rob laughed, Brian sidled into her personal space. “Oh, I take orders fine when they make sense.”
Pale, fuzzy stubble covered his cheeks and chin. A little beard burn between her thighs would scratch the itch he stirred.
“You want a job done right, with work that’ll hold up under pressure?” In his eyes, he signaled go-go-go. He dipped his chin. “I’m your man.” Deep voice. Backroom darkness, no-bullshit, vibrating-in-her-panties voice. “Isn’t that the way you run your shop, too? Clear orders, strict standards?”
Jesus. With his sharp, clean storm-scent, he sneaked past her keep-out signs and grasped bare metal. He’d fry them both to sizzling ash. And he’d almost—maybe—be worth the risk. At least once. Or twice.
Leaning forward, Nora interrupted their stare-down with her extended hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Kit. I hope you brought an empty stomach and fast legs.”
“I’m playing?” Shit, her old mitt lay buried in a box in the basement somewhere. She shook hands on reflex. “I thought this would be a spectator thing. League play.”
A gang of noisy children scampered down the fence line and circled the bleachers to the field opposite, where a handful of adults organized a ragged line of youngsters at a tee ball setup and sent the older ones out to field.
“Intra-office. We’re flexible on teams.” Behind Rob, men and women clustered around the dugout benches. “You can always sub in later if you want a feel for the level of play first—or if you’re worried about Brian beaning you in the head on a force out. His aim’s less than stellar when he’s distracted.”
Thwapping Rob in the stomach with the back of his hand, Brian elicited a grunt. “Not everyone played Little League ball, farm boy.”
“Your choice, Surfer Boy.” After casting a glance behind him, Rob punched Brian in the shoulder. “Grab your gear, airman. We’re on the first-inning roster.” As he backed away, he blew his wife a kiss.
Nora captured the gift with a fast swipe and crossed her hands on her stomach.
Standing with his feet planted together and his back straight, Brian snapped a salute.
Aw hell. She refused to leave a man hanging. She sent one back.
Smile brightening his whole face, he jogged off. As he picked up a mitt in the dugout, he waved at the stands. Nora waved, which meant she had to, too. Every few feet, all the way out to left field, he spun, jogged backward, and waved.
Nora, arm raised yet again, laughed. “He’s a complete goofball.”
“Sorry?” Four times now, like he meant to keep checking she hadn’t gotten up and left. Not the smoothest operator, but damn if she didn’t wave every time. Impossible to stop herself. Wearing those ridiculous shorts, losing himself in bro-play with his buddy, ditching her five minutes into their not-date—the afternoon might actually be fun instead of a hard sell on why she should date him.
“Brian. Lighthearted optimist to the core.” Nora swiveled and greeted a woman toting an infant carrier into the stands. As she turned back, she patted Kit’s knee. “But after Rob, he’s also the most loyal and steadfast man I’ve ever met.”
“We’re not dating.” Shit. Not offering unsolicited information to a salesman was the first rule of defeating a sales pitch. Brian had roped his friend’s wife into talking him up. In three words she’d told Nora the biggest anxiety weighing on her. Somehow, Brian made nice seductive. Surface charm. He’d show his true colors when he got bored of playing with her, unless she stopped falling for Prince Charming first.
Nora shrugged. “They’re good qualities in a friend, too. He’s been Rob’s friend for almost twenty years.”
The players scattered, and the first pitch arced toward the plate. The batter grounded out on a quick hop by the shortstop. A bevy of attaboys followed. Out in left, Brian rocked side to side, ready and waiting.
“So Brian said you run your own shop?”
“Huh?” She’d almost missed Nora’s question. “Oh, yeah, with my dad.” Up until last year, she would’ve said grandpa, too. Third-generation pride. Now she had a hard time getting the words out. “I’ve been tinkering since I was a kid.”
Blue eyes kind, Nora nodded. “Family owned. Lot of strength in that kind of bond. The recession years have been tough on the mom-and-pops. We buttoned up the bank so tight I practically had mothballs on the loan forms when I dragged them out again.”
The next batter cleared a base hit on a lucky hop past the second baseman.
Brian pounded his fist into his glove and bellowed, “Let’s go, fellas, look alive out here. We got a crowd in the bleachers to impress and a cooler of celebration beers with our names on ’em.”
The crowd replied with a whooping chorus. The cheers intensified as the next batter popped one right back into the pitcher’s mitt.
“The lean years fattened us up.” The girls had a start on college funds thanks to the people who’d put secondhand toys under their Christmas trees and the warranty repair orders. For folks with a pinched wallet, the hassle of scheduling fixes hurt less than the big-ticket hit for new appliances. “Lots of people looking to repair instead of buying new. And the scavenging was epic.” For a while, they’d done fair trade in used TV sets and high-end electronics. Even the occasional electric guitar. Hell, half the time, “broken” meant a loose wire making intermittent contact. “You wouldn’t believe the things people set out in their garage sales.”
“How do you evaluate risk on the purchases? When I assess a new loan applicant…” Nora launched into a rundown of bank lending policies and the ever-important return on investment. Holy shit, the woman knew her numbers. Despite a clear allegiance to Brian and probable bias in getting him paired off, Nora wore her down with friendly questions about the shop.
Hashing out the economics of nickel-and-dime profit margins diverted whole substations of stress. Dad did great with repairs and people-handling, but Depression-raised Grandpa Jake had been the one squeezing the value from every penny invested. Now the load fell on her shoulders. Five other people in the household depended on her to make the right calls. “I’ve been thinking about adding—”
The bat cracked, loud and solid. As a fly ball topped the shortstop’s leap by a foot, Brian raced in from left field. A single for sure. He’d never scoop the ball before—he launched himself forward, arm extended. With a tuck and roll, he came up on his knees. In his right hand, his arm cocked back and ready to throw, he held the ball.
“Showoff.” But she hollered like a banshee, hands cupped megaphone-style, while Nora clapped with her arms raised over her head. Brian’s diving catch ended the top of the inning.
“Do you like softball?” Nora waved as Rob hustled in from first base. Drifting clouds formed a patchwork of sun and shade across the field. “You should play. They’re short a woman anyway, now that I’m out for the season.”
“Are you hurt?” She looked healthy enough, but she did keep shuffling around against her backrest. Maybe a doctor had mandated padded cushions.
“Only my pride. Rob and I agreed no competitive sports after the first trimester.” Sighing, she shook her head. But then she smiled wide. “Except maybe mini golf.”
With the ease of a flipped switch, congratulations flowed from her mouth. She followed up with all the right questions—was this their first, would they find out the sex in advance—but beneath her social shell, the motor jammed.
Brian’s buddy had gotten married. Brian’s buddy was starting a family. Two and two sure as fuck added up to four. A thirty-seven-year-old man would be in the hunt for a wife. And he wouldn’t stop at that. He’d insist on one who’d give him a kid or three to fulfill his fatherhood fantasies. She’d be insane to get involved with him. After a few years hip-deep in full diapers and middle-of-the-night crying, he’d wake up from his mid-life crisis and leave her with miniature copies of him to raise.
Brian threaded through the dugout fences and stopped in front of her. “We need at least two women in our first five at-bats. What do you say? You coming out?”
A muddy scrape decorated his shin. His T-shirt, though an aqua almost eye-searing paired with his shorts, clung in not-unpleasing ways to his chest and biceps.
“I suppose I’d better, to show up your sorry—” Whoops. A small blond boy grinned at her from the front row. “Uhh, backside.” Whew. No cursing asses here, nope, not a one.
Laughing, Brian offered his hand. “If your saves on the field are as good as the ones off it, I don’t doubt you’ll show me up.”
“Be hard to top your last performance.” Grabbing hold of his forearm for balance, she clambered down the aluminum benches. Keeping things on sexual footing with him would crush any ideas he had about wedding rings and car seats. “Those are mighty fine hands you’ve got there.”
* * * *
Hello, double entendre. As she leaned on him, he waited for her to hit the ground. Soon as she did, he ducked right up under her ear. “You would know.”
Shivering, she clamped down on his forearm.
Fuck yes. He’d owe Nora a set of wingman bars if she’d coaxed Kit’s guard down. Rob had made a fine partner for charming the women and exercising sober caution in their alcohol-blurred twenties, but reeling in Katherine for a real relationship demanded a whole different strategy.
“I do know.” She met him eye to eye, toe to toe. “So when do I get my hands on your bat?”
“Right now.” He put the devil in his voice and dragged her to the dugout. Rummaging in his gear bag, he went for the comedic about-face. “Thirty-four inches of solid maple beauty.” He thrust the bat skyward. “Go give her a swing.”
Her freckled cheeks pink as she laughed, she took the bat from him. “All right, smart guy. You win this round.”
Seeing her relaxed and enjoying herself, he really did. An unqualified victory. His lucky shorts had worked their magic. Busting out his peacock feathers diverted Katherine’s attention and let him continue his stealth campaign for her heart.
She trotted down the fence a bit. Didn’t start with a shoulder-breaker, no ma’am. Like any craftsman, she eyed the barrel and tested the balance. No added weight on the end of his bat. He swung all-natural. About the way he wanted to start swinging north as she stretched her arms behind her back.
By locking her knuckles, she pulled her faded green T-shirt tight. She rolled her shoulders and her neck. Once-white text curved Runyon’s in a semicircle on the sweet upper swell of her breasts, cutting across the line of her bra beneath. The bottom half, an equally faded Repairs, smiled from around her navel. And why not? He’d smiled touching her in the exact spot. A wrench and a screwdriver crossed in the middle.
No question she’d rather their not-a-date ended with him sucking on her through every one of those letters. When the time came, he’d need a hell of a lot more than lucky shorts to remember why sex with Kit remained a bad idea. Claim the territory, lose the war. Strong and focused, icy as the lake in February. That’s the man she deserved, one who’d wait to make love to Katherine instead of fucking Kit.
Level swing, steady power off her back foot, she nailed the follow-through. With a solid connection, she’d be a valuable member for their team. In a handful of practice swings, she’d adjusted her grip and her stance. Goddamn, her hip waggling would have him running to jerk in the bathroom if she went on any longer, and no man on the bench would blame him.
Trotting back, she tossed the bat at him from a few feet away. “Been a while for me, but your bat’s a good fit.” She stopped beside him, brushing his shoulder, and tilted in close. “How about now, Brian? Who wins this round?”
He choked the stiff maple in a two-handed grip. “Pretty sure we both do.”
They stood thigh to thigh along the dugout fence as the first batter failed to get on base. Fast hands at shortstop today.
Batting helmet in hand, Rob gave Kit the wave. “You’re up.”
Brian passed her the bat and placed his encouraging pat in the safe friend zone between her shoulder blades. “Let’s go, slugger.”
On her first swing, she mistimed the pitch and came in slow. Helpful and not-so-helpful advice came from all quarters, telling her to settle down, keep her shoulders level, keep her eye on the ball—or get that second out.
As the pitch flew, she dug in her heels. She launched a drive into the gap, catching the second baseman napping. The center fielder rushed to cover as she rounded first, the base coach waving her on. “Go, go, go!”
The throw came in short. She stood safe on second, bent and huffing, as pudgy Roger from finance turned to tag her.
With a whoop, Brian jumped onto the dugout bench. “Attagirl! Way to get something started.”
She raised her head and flashed him a thumbs-up. Below her helmet, the tail-ends of her pixie-short hair flared out every which way like fallen matchsticks. Christ, she needed kissing.
As he jumped down, one of the new hires rocked back and spread his knees, claiming way too much bench. “That your girlfriend?”
“Just a friend.” For now. No chance she’d hear him from second base, but he’d promised her he wouldn’t call her his date or his girlfriend. Doing it when he wouldn’t be caught would be a bigger violation of the honor code than making an announcement over the PA. Her no-dating policy might’ve come from a lying ex, and no way in hell would he be that guy. When she asked for his promise, he’d deliver. “A good friend.”
“Yeah, I’d like to be her good friend, too.”
“No.” A pop-up to the shortstop left Katherine raring to go on second. If he drove another man’s face into his knee and left him bleeding in the dirt, she might have some questions for him.
“C’mon, man.” Drawstring-shorts, saggy-tank hotshot drummed the bench. “Hook me up.”
The company gym, though. He’d welcome a new sparring partner. One who liked hitting the mat.
“Brian!” Rob waved him in. Coaching decision or instinct to head off a brawl, good choice either way.
“On it.” Serving up a dead-eyed stare for the pushy Kit-chaser, he lowered his voice. “Ask about her again, and we’ll settle the question in the ring.”
As he strode to the plate, the left fielder dropped back. The right fielder stood scratching his elbow. Kit waited, crouched and ready.
He tipped off foul. Looking for precision over power, he reset a half-step closer to the pitcher and a few inches away from the plate. The second pitch came in beautiful. Hardly an arc at all. He smacked low and slow, the contact solid and the ball heading for the gap Kit had found. The right fielder got off his ass, but not before Brian’d touched first and Kit rounded third. Christ, she hustled. The relay throw came in too late to stop her from crossing home plate.
The whole bench erupted with cheers. As he clapped and whistled and Rob thumped her helmet, she turned and caught him. Grinning wide, she ducked her head under the storm of accolades. But coming up, meeting what had to be the proudest fucking stare he’d given anyone in his life, she raised her hand and honest-to-God waved at him.
Ending the inning stranded on base when the next hitter popped one to the left fielder’s glove couldn’t take the shine off his happiness. Serious Kit could be playful Kit, too, and not limited to panty-dropping sports. Though more of those would be welcome once they’d established the exclusive, long-term nature of this relationship.
After four more innings, none so exciting as the first, he crossed them off the roster. The rematch would have to go on without them. The strong breeze carried a smoky charcoal-and-burger mix from the pavilion. “I promised you food and beer. Let some of these early eaters sweat out their calories while we fill up.”
They tore through the spread, the line short, the sides on ice, and the picnic tables on the concrete slab mostly empty with the game in full swing. As Kit toted their laden plates, he snagged his half-size Coleman from the table of show-ID coolers.
Riley from HR, standing guard over the alcohol to keep out suds-seeking teens, wagged her finger at him. “Goldang, Brian, I didn’t know you were playing in the intern pool. Should I card your girlfriend?”
Kit bobbled the plates. Macaroni salad slid sideways, but she recovered without spilling a speck.
“Relax, Ri, this is my friend Kit.” A truth, he hoped, because fuck-buddy didn’t come near close enough to what he wanted to be for her, and she wouldn’t allow him to claim more. “Not my girlfriend, not an employee, and definitely over twenty-one. You won’t see harassment forms on your desk with my name, thank you very much.”
Bypassing the few tables with diners, he led Kit down to the cozy hexagonal table farthest from the buffet. He’d shared her since her arrival. Given her time with Nora, gotten her out on the field, kept her at a distance to help her settle in some. Now he’d get his date—a nice, casual, midafternoon burgers-and-beer date. The sky cooperated, pumping thick clouds across the sun and dimming the covered pavilion to candlelight levels. Long as she didn’t think about the implications too hard, they’d be fine.
“How’s the food? Good for free, right?” He jabbed the chunky potato salad with his plastic fork. Seated at adjacent wedges, he and Katherine rubbed knees the way a shoveler warmed his hands on a snowy morning. Her soft skin had him thinking hard on the teasing fantasy he’d spun for her. Maybe she imagined him walking his fingers up that road, too. “I’m a disaster in the kitchen. Hell, half the reason I come to the game every week is to give my takeout menus a break.”
He tried to limit his glances as they talked, gazing out toward the field instead, but goddamn she stunned with her sweat-dampened shirt and her helmet-frizzed hair.
A post-workout woman, her cheeks pink and her blood flowing, she didn’t run to the mirror and pull out a comb. She’d shown hustle on the field. He wouldn’t have brought a woman playing the learned helplessness game. The men and women he’d served with, and the ones he’d met through the company, respected skill and determination. Grit. Anything less would be an embarrassment.
“You know what’s great about softball?” Aside from him getting a solid grip on her temperament. Once she committed, she went all in. She would with him, too, if he made her see the value. Made himself trustworthy, upstanding, but with the bad-boy bedroom appeal she demanded. “A non-contact sport is the perfect excuse for full-contact praise. You nailed that run in the first inning. I’ll have to make sure I’m close enough to smack your ass in congratulations next time, Foxy.”
She burst into nose-huffy laughter and waved him off. With the back of her hand pressed to her mouth, she finished chewing and swallowed. “Okay, now you sound like every guy who’s ever tried to get in my pants. Foxy? Really?”
He locked down his glee at matching her bad-boy expectations. Shrugging, he played up his hurt-feelings protest. “Foxes have kits.”
“So do skunks, weasels, and wolverines.” The arch in her eyebrow more than met the slow-pitch minimum-required height. With her unimpressed superiority, she came close to perfect deadpan. “You think they’re sexy, too?”
Heart pounding, he slid to the end of his bench and threw his arm across her shoulders. “I’m a Michigan boy.” When she didn’t push him away, he chanced a hug and a friendly head-knock. “Wolverines were my first love.”
Relaxed in his embrace, she dipped her head but failed to tame her smile. “You want a ferocious killer ready to rip your face off and bite through your spine?” She chomped her teeth, her ferocity closer to adorable than terrifying.
He flew back, hands up, laughing. “Let’s not be hasty. At least wait until our second date.” Fuck, fuck, no, he’d pushed the wrong button. His chest seized.
She shot him an I-know-what-you-did glance and swigged her beer. Three swallows she took, all while the condensation rolled down the bottle and across her suckable fingers. She set the bottle down and snorted. “That’s a long wait, smart guy, since we haven’t had one date yet.”
Yet. The woman beside him was more Katherine than Kit, teasing, playful, and almost snuggly. She leaned her bare knee against his.
“Well, I worked in satellite intelligence in the service. We have to extrapolate from the existing data and form plans for every contingency, no matter how remote. So it’s vitally important, should such an event occur, that I have an appropriate endearment waiting.” Overtalking, throwing his hands around like an Art of Gesture textbook, he tried to rein himself in and failed. His mouth kept going, determined to fill the hours until sunset and the starry night after. “I feel ‘babe’ is a little too bro for me and maybe demeaning for you to endure. But, you know, diminutives are a traditional choice. What about Kitten? Are you—”
“No.” As her voice gained a clipped edge, she lost her merry smile. Her eyes turned hard. She crumpled her napkin in her fist. The muscles in her neck stood tight and prominent.
“Whoa, Kit, I’m sorry.” Christ Jesus, she might truly rip his face off. Whatever mine he’d landed on, the blast left him stumbling around blind and dumb. In one misstep, he’d blown every hard-fought inch of ground he’d gained sky-high. “I won’t say that word again. Fair?”
She stared past him.
Something an ex had called her. Had to be. The asshole who’d messed up her head and turned her off of dating. Plenty of women he’d slept with preferred to keep things casual, but none had been so adamant. They’d been comfortable with choosing one night, not closed-off and defensive. Or he’d missed their signals in the static. With Katherine, he’d damn well fine-tune the resolution to peer at every pixel.
Breathing out slow, she hung her head and dropped her hands in her lap. Her knee wobbled.
Back straight and leg a steady rest, he didn’t dare move. She’d hop in her car and pull another disappearing act on him. The awkward conversational fumbles he’d joked his way out of a thousand times hadn’t prepared him for her.
She swayed toward the table. “My grandpa had these pet names for us.”
Granddad. Not ex. Christ. Least he hadn’t opened his mouth and made a bigger fucking ass of himself.
Hugging her elbows, she tugged her sleeves. “My sister was always Clover. I was Kitten. Even our parents don’t use them. Just Grandpa Jake.” She lifted her head and swallowed. Voice dull and eyes shiny, she radiated cracks as dangerous as ice snapping under her feet. “He died. Last summer.”
Might as well’ve been last week, so tight the anger and grief clung to her. He ordered his hug to stand down. Get too emotional, and she’d bolt—and this sharing wasn’t about his wants but hers. So no wrapping his arms around her, no dotting her face with as many kisses as freckles, and no spouting bullshit platitudes. Truth and nothing but.
He covered her fingers with his cupped hand, firm and gentle as the first time he’d cradled his youngest brother, the family oops baby. ’Bout as terrified, too. “I’m sorry about your granddad, Katherine.”
Nodding, she laced their hands together and studied the interlocked result. As she squeezed, he matched her pressure for pressure until their hold turned fierce and white-knuckled.
She exhaled and let go. “He would’ve liked you.”
Acceptance of his attempt at comfort and approval from a man she respected. They were dating. Whatever her mouth said, her heart had gotten the message. Long as he followed her lead, they’d be together when her ice cracked. He wouldn’t let her spark drown.
And he wouldn’t press his luck with arrogant prattle about wishing he’d met the man and what great friends they’d have been. “You must’ve made him awful proud.”
She finished off her bottle. “Tell me something about your family. Something funny.”
Quick pivot. Well all right then. S’pose the maudlin tone didn’t suit the raucous fun-having around them. But he had the perfect answer to lighten the mood before some well-meaning busybody asked if Katherine needed a tissue and spooked her.
Swiping through his phone, he bypassed the clutter and pulled up shots from last summer. “Can’t tell me this ain’t hilarity at its finest.”
He plonked the phone in front of her. Lucas and Nora grinned at the camera in mid-chicken-dance, flapping their elbows as they mocked his missed turkey. Freaking five-pin. After coming in too soft to make the third strike, he’d bought the next round for the lane.
Kit wiped her hands on her shorts. Raising the phone, she squinted. “That’s Rob’s wife. Who’s the kid she’s with? He yours?”
“Hell no.” A kid. His shoulders jerked before the idea settled in place and cursed him with that bad luck. “I am one hundred percent kidless, thank God and unbroken condoms.” Fuck, what if she’d— “Are you?”
The longer she eyed him, the thicker his blood grew. The more sluggishly the sludge traveled, threatening to shut down his heart. A foot-in-mouth mistake that huge couldn’t be undone.
Ducking her head, she laughed. “Fastest I’ve ever seen the color drain from a man’s face.” She reached across his plate and swiped his bottle. “I’m a fan of unbroken condoms myself. They’ve answered my prayers so far.”
His fear flattened out, a swell lapping his toes instead of threatening destruction. No kids. No accidental insult to the woman who’d come so beautifully in his hands. Hell, at least he’d made her laugh while she’d given him a heart attack.
As she dragged the rim of the beer across her lips, she made him lose his breath for a whole new reason. No beer tasting required a tongue flick so pink and sexy. A dare in the offing. One he’d best shut down before his dick took her up on it.
Ahem-ing, he tilted the phone in her hand. “Yep, that’s Nora. She wasn’t Rob’s wife then. They’d just met.” A pinch-zoom magnified Lucas until his face filled the screen. “And that smart-ass is my baby brother. I’d invited him down for the summer.”
“He looks exactly like you.” She studied the photo while her half-eaten burger got cold. “What is he, sixteen?”
“Twenty-two next month.” Fuck. Lucas was closer in age to Kit than he was. And yeah, chicken-scrawny and young-looking. A proto-him, minus the demanding basic training regimen and boxing that had filled him out at eighteen. “Fourth of four boys. Me and Lucas scored the luck with Mom’s hair.”
“Aww, are you fishing for compliments, Blondie?” She waggled the phone and the beer. “I’d ruffle those golden feathers for you, but I don’t have a third hand.”
He pulled the slick bottle from her grip and took a swallow. Mouth where hers had been. Almost a kiss. He fucking ached for a real one, a sunset, fireworks, bonfire, laughing, full-body-press of a kiss. A perfect moment with relaxed, teasing Katherine. “Problem solved.”
“Cocky.” She rubbed the top of his head in a speed challenge. Probably left a haystack behind. “Your brother have trouble with authority, too, or is that just you?”
“Might could.” He’d let Lucas stay with him last summer to head off those problems. Show him opportunities and job advice. Give him a break from being stuck in-between boyhood and independence. “He’s bunking at home, going to community college. It’s rough, being an adult living in your parents’ place. A whole pack of frustration. Unnatural, right?”
She clenched the phone’s protective shell as her back stiffened. “Oh?”
Hell, she wanted the bad boy. He’d have been irredeemably down that path without one goddamn miracle of an Air Force recruiter shoving literature at him.
“Think about it—you can drive and vote and maybe drink, but they’re still up in your business, setting the rules.” A curfew. A slam against friends who, okay, yes, ripped off the mom-and-pop gas stations and encouraged him to do the same. Pocketing shit here and there, skating by on a fucking tsunami of luck and look-the-other-way-ism because boys will be boys. “It’s not like Dad suddenly believes in democracy because you turned eighteen. You’re a grown man stuck in a place where everybody sees you as a kid, at least in my family. You gotta have respect for anyone who can hack that mission. I couldn’t. Partly why I blew out of the house and enlisted the day after graduation.”
The travel. Fucking Hawaii in the brochure the recruiter handed him, and visions of warm sand and perfect waves had him signing his name without a second thought. Nobody mentioned they’d be sending him to Texas for basic first, hours from the gulf and no leave time to enjoy the summer swells at Padre Island.
“Respect, yeah.” She passed him the phone and rolled her shoulders. “You and your dad didn’t get along so good?” Elbows on the table, she settled in with the rest of her plate. “But the military turned you around?”
“The military kicked my ass. Sherwood—Rob—turned me around.” The good influence scraping off the barnacles of his older brother’s bad habits. The wiser-than-eighteen man who’d slammed the books open on his desk and demanded he learn the goddamn material because no way would the class leave him behind, no matter how hard he tried to prove himself a fuck-up. “I owe him for that. Huge debt.”
Like the one he’d paid on his first visit home. Dress blues neat and clean, shoes polished until they glowed, and three crisp hundreds, straight from the bank, in his pocket.
The two-pump gas station on the corner had been their favorite spot to hit. The owners were old, the cashiers young, and the unblinking security cameras for show. The old man had been behind the counter. Good, because he hadn’t had to ask for him with his throat screwed tight. Bad, because the confession reminded him of every time he’d taken advantage, and the apology couldn’t set things right. The money covered the financial loss, but nothing excused his callous behavior.
* * * *
“I dunno if you remember me, sir. I used to come here a lot with my friends.”
The old man scanned his uniform, his eyes dark and sharp in a face crisscrossed with the grooves of age and experience. “I remember you. Pack of young hooligans. There’s no trouble a boy can’t find if he goes looking for it. But you’re not dressed for trouble today.”
“No, sir.” Fuck, this’d be easier with Rob at his side, being the stand-up guy so he could laugh the whole thing off as clowning. The rows of candy bars and packs of gum mocked him. He’d taken a fucking eyeglasses kit once, because it’d been small and slim and easily tucked in a pocket. Didn’t wear glasses, but he’d still ripped off the old man and his wife. “I’m here to apologize. For the things I took.”
“Less than your friends did.” The old man’s stare came down as heavy as a superior officer’s. He stood tall despite the bow in his shoulders and the faded gray of his hair. “I remember that about you, because you stood lookout. Chatted and joked to hold attention while them boys loaded up their jackets. Studied your feet a lot, like you’re doing now.” He swiped the counter with the side of his hand. “You were already ashamed of yourself, son. I figured you for a boy who didn’t have nothing else.” With one pointed finger, he waved at the single row of color decorating the left breast of Brian’s uniform. “Looks like you do now.”
As he pulled out the hundreds, his hand shook as hard as the old man’s. “For everything we took, and the trouble we caused. I’m sorry, sir.”
“You were a troubled boy.” The old man clasped him with both hands before he accepted the bills. “You’re a better man. And you and me? We’re square.”
* * * *
As she finished off her burger, Kit reclaimed his beer. “Maybe you owe Rob a debt, sure, but no amount of support’ll make someone do something they don’t have it in them to do.”
She took a slow sip, her head tipped back and her throat exposed and vulnerable. Same as she’d look straddling him, except she’d be bare and moaning and he’d have her breasts in his hands. Fuck, not a good thought. Later, later, later—when he’d made clear sex belonged in a package deal, inseparable from real dating.
Offering him the bottle, she eyed him sideways. “You might’ve played at being bad for a while, but you’re a good guy at heart. The Air Force—and your buddy—gave you an excuse to be that man.” When their fingers grazed, she laughed and shook her head. “Sorry. That’s not my business. I don’t know you now, and I sure as hell didn’t know you then. Beer talking.”
“No, you’re right.” He refused to grip the bottle when her fingers fit so perfect inside his hand. She might not know him yet, but she sounded like a woman who wanted to, finally. “The service wasn’t what I expected, but it was what I needed.”
“To prove you could be your own person. Nobody controlling you or waiting for you to mess up your life like—” As she slid her plate away, raindrops pinged off the pavilion roof and splatted in the dirt beyond. “Jesus, that’s stupid. Not you, me, I mean. It’s the fucking military. You had nothing but people controlling you.”
“Orders, yeah, but proving to myself I was capable of being a man? That’s the best thing basic taught me.” Better by far than learning that one-handed pushups impressed uniform chasers, which he’d definitely believed the most valuable lesson at eighteen. “I pulled a ton of stupid shit as a kid because I wanted to be liked. Keep up with my big brother, impress my little brother.” No dare turned down. He flashed her a grin. Her sort of dare, he could get used to. “Now I do stupid shit just for me.”
“Ohh, so that’s why—” Palm out and forward, she mimed a circle over his face. “I thought you’d forgotten to shave. But clearly you lost a bet.”
“I’m growing a beard.” He scrubbed his face. Still scratchy. Approaching scratchy, at least. Theoretically over-the-top attractive to a woman who liked bad boys. “This is my badass scruff.”
“This?” She touched him. With gentle fingers, she danced across his cheek and down his throat. “Fuzzy and blond is not badass scruff, Prince Charming.”
Feeling up his face and giving him cutesy nicknames. Forget dating—they’d jumped to sickeningly sweet honeymoon coupledom complete with gagging bystanders. Their next date, first date, whatever the hell he called the damn thing, was an absolute lock.
“What you have is sweet cottonball fluff.” She ran her short nails up under his chin and let go too soon. A few seconds more, and her fingertips would’ve been in kissing range. “Maybe give it a few days before you try calling it a beard. Or scruff.”
“This here is five days of primo beardification.” He hadn’t taken a razor to his face since she’d come in his arms. Endured the good-natured ribbing of the rest of the chair jockeys in data analysis all week. Worth every minute to get her hands on him. “It’ll be more impressive when I dye the beard to match my lucky shorts.”
Collapsing into giggles, she landed with her forehead pressed to his shoulder. A sweet sound and a sweeter weight. He’d carry both a mighty long while, see if he didn’t.
* * * *
As thunder boomed, the skies opened up. The ping of sprinkles on the pavilion roof surged into a roaring downpour, drowning out conversation.
Good thing, since Brian’s so-called beard lacked the substance to survive the teasing. Hell, the minute he stepped out in the rain, the hair would rinse from his face like so much Magic Marker.
Men. Brian. Ridiculously proud of his scruffy face and his color-riot shorts. God. He’d make her life simpler as an out-of-shape hound dog with a sagging belly and a balding scalp. If she didn’t want to fuck him, he’d make a great friend.
He smelled different today, musky and male under the sharp storm and fresh with grass stains as spring green as his eyes. The swirling mix of comfort and arousal called for his arm around her as much as his shirt peeled from his back and dropped to the floor.
“You all using these?”
Kit shot up straight. Draped on Brian like a lovesick puppy, ugh.
The shouter, a smiling guy in a soaked tan T-shirt, waved at the four empty benches filling out their table. The rain had driven two score players and families onto the covered concrete slab. The crowd, hemmed in and adding to the humidity, pressed closer on all sides.
“Not a one.” Raising his voice, Brian piled their trash in a small stack and snapped his cooler shut. “Looks like tables are going for premium prices just now, but I’ll let you have the rest of this beauty for an overnight sat shift sometime when Daniel’s in Prague and wants a morning briefing.”
“Shit, that price might be too high for me.” But he swung into a seat and extended his hand as Brian flipped the trash into an open-barrel can. “Aaron. You’re the gal who got a double off my slow scramble in center, but I won’t hold it against you. Next time you come to the game, though, I won’t be sleeping.”
“Kit.” She shook extra-firm. Next time didn’t scare her a bit. Wouldn’t be a next time anyhow, because she’d fuck Brian tonight and get him out of her system. That’d be the right play. A shame, because he—but absolutely the best option. “I might have to stay off the field so my victory isn’t ruined.”
“Oh, now that’s an unfair move.” Aaron bounced his fist off Brian’s forearm. “C’mon, Surfer Boy, manly pride on the line here. Tell your girlfriend she’s gotta give me a chance to even the score.”
His friends needed to stop fucking calling her his girlfriend. The easier the word rolled off their tongues, the better the idea sounded circling in her head. The better Brian looked. Not the entitled white-collar office jockey she’d imagined him, the college guy who played racquetball in a sweatbox or golf on manicured lawns and drank imported shit for the prestige of the fancy names. A regular guy who’d made mistakes, fixed the ones he could, and tried to put his little brother on a better road. A man who cared about family.
“No can do.” Brian swatted his buddy away and flashed bright eyes toward her. His blond fuzz would be gentle on her thighs. “I don’t tell Kit her mind. She’s her own woman. No labels.”
Goddammit. The pit in her stomach belonged to a lovesick fool. Exactly the situation her rules avoided. Wanting and not-wanting twisted up the guts until the springs popped and the gears bent. Every stuck tooth jabbed in a sore spot. No shortage of those.
Aaron launched into some story half-drowned by the growing buzz of nearby conversations and the deep-voiced thunder rumbling through the heavy gray clouds. In a clattering shuffle, a foursome claimed the remaining benches.
More people, more labels, more pressure to know what the hell she was doing with Prince Charming. Would an uncomplicated fuck in his car while the rain beat down around them be so much to ask for?
“Hey.” Brian slid up against her, their shoulders forming one broad bulwark. No shouts to be overheard, just a solid nudge and a low tone meant for her alone. “Sure is getting stuffy in here, right?” He clasped her fingers in a quick squeeze, gone before the full hold registered. “Must be all the hot air trapped under the roof.”
His lips shaped each letter. Syllable. Whatever those things were called that no one gave a damn about after middle school because boys with mouths and lips and teeth and tongues grew far more interesting. A soft kiss, for his sweet rescue. A hard kiss, for the way she’d taste him before she let him fuck her. No kiss at all, because they sat surrounded by his friends and colleagues, who undoubtedly figured them for calf-eyed new lovers.
She followed his thumb up the curves of his knuckles to the back of his hand and traced the tendon to his wrist. “You wanna get out of here?”
A glance for the roof and its driving beat, and he set his level gaze on her. “Make a run for it? My gear bag’s in the dugout. We’ll get drenched.”
Reason enough to strip off their clothes and warm up together.
“A little water isn’t going to break me, Brian.” Hell, the rain shower might wash away the muddiness in her head until her thoughts ran clear again. She gripped his arm, and he flexed under her palm. She’d hold his biceps when he braced himself over her, when his nice-guy manners insisted on not crushing her and she dragged him into the abyss beyond manners for a night he wouldn’t forget. “Is it going to break you?”
Swallowing, he stared at her hold on his arm. “No, ma’am. Lead the way.”
She snatched his little cooler off the table and threaded through the crowd with his hand tucked away in hers. He stayed at her heels, so close they rubbed together as often as a grasshopper’s legs in a mating song.
Same reasoning, too. She ought to fuck him before she grew more attached to his sexy-sweet stares and his ridiculous shorts. Hell, imagining he might understand her living at home because he took pity on his baby brother’s situation. As if she wanted his pity. A quick fuck had no reason to know a thing about her, and a long-term prospect would be an unwelcome hassle.
Thunder boomed over the chattering crowd as she reached the edge of the concrete slab. Run-off sleeting from the roof pooled and streamed through the grassy area behind the bleachers.
“Ready to run?” She flashed him a smile, her best mischief-making grin, and crossed the line. “Let’s see you hustle.”
The storm devoured her shout, but Brian plunged into the riot with her all the same. She sprinted for the dugout with the six-pack cooler banging against her knuckles. The rain infiltrated her clasp on Brian, turning their skin slick. Easier to let him go, but a rebellious no fought simple logic. She clamped down until her fingers ached.
As they rounded the bleachers, the packed dirt churned into mud under their feet. The earth sucked at her tennis shoes, threatening to pull her out of them. She lurched forward.
Grabbing her shoulder, Brian yanked her upright. “Watch your step. Ground’s muddy.”
The storm had soaked them to the skin. Water ran down his face and across his T-shirt collar in rivers, unable to saturate the fabric any more.
“Oh, is it?” She raised her face to the sky and swept the plastered hair from her cheeks. Tempting to lick the water off his neck and see what he made of that move. “You think that might have something to do with all the rain we’re getting?”
“Might could.” As he steadied her, he brushed a ticklish spot beneath her ear. “Be right back.”
He trotted around the chain-link and snatched one of the waxed canvas bags lying in the mud.
The water beat down with the warmth and pressure of a showerhead. Brian still owed her for the interrupted shower orgasm. She didn’t dare glance down. Her shirt, heavy and sopping, clung every time she moved, and her hardening nipples undoubtedly gave him a barometer on her thoughts.
Wait ’til they reached the cars, at least. Families with kids milled under the pavilion, for chrissake. Out toward the parking lot, a few other brave souls ran for their rides. A line of cars crept forward, each pausing at the walkway between the barbecue pits and the cinderblock bathrooms. Passengers rushed out from under the roofed picnic area and dove into seats.
No point running, aside from the fun of splashing in the muck. Kicking through a puddle, she splattered mud clear up her legs. She hit Brian’s, too, as he sauntered up with his bag slung one-handed over his shoulder despite the weight of multiple bats and gloves.
“Playing dirty?” He tsked and clicked through his smile. “Somebody likes to stir up trouble.”
Somebody sure as hell did. She stomped, one-two, and splashed more mud his way. “Come and stop me, then.”
As he reached out, she darted back. She jogged just enough to stay ahead of his advances. With his arm extended, his hand clenched in a claw-grip, and a shambling gait, he chased her movie-monster style. All the way to the parking lot, her leading and him following, she giggled as he swiped and missed and mock-growled at her.
The happy, carefree moments came few and far between in adulthood. This, with Brian, felt more like childhood. Fun. With a man. Without sex. Somehow, the drive to fuck him fell second to the joy of playing with him. She’d lost her fucking mind, and madness was glorious.
He’d had all afternoon to play Mr. Nice Guy. Maybe he’d like to spend the night as a bad boy. Loosening up her rules more for Brian would be all right if he made concessions, too. A summer fuck-buddy. Still casual, with no guarantees except a good time. But how to ask him in the middle of rain-monster tag?
Brian stopped his pursuit. Their cars waited a dozen more down the line. Water-filled tire ruts with squishy-slop sides created an obstacle course.
She hopped across one. “I guess I win this round. Too big a leap for you?”
He nodded toward the next row of cars, over the low hood of a sporty coupe. “Married life.”
She followed his cue to the couple standing behind an old pickup. Brian’s buddy Rob held a wide umbrella over his wife’s head.
Brian switched his grip on his bag to his right hand and resettled the weight. “Sherwood’s Mr. Careful these days.”
Mr. Overprotective, more like. With one hand on Nora’s back, he kept her under shelter and guided her around toward the passenger side.
Nora shook her head and danced out into the rain. Twirling, she extended her hand.
Her husband closed the umbrella and chucked it into the truck bed. Then he took his wife’s hand, reeled her in, and started a slow dance. After three spins, he pulled open the passenger door, scooped up Nora, and set her gently in the seat. Laughing, she leaned out and kissed him.
Jesus, he’d better not be the same sort of man Erin had married. Skip town and leave his wife juggling car seats and diapers and questions about why her kid didn’t have a daddy. “Yeah. Married life.”
* * * *
The allure of the rain must’ve worn off. Kit stood wringing out the bottom of her shirt in a two-fisted grip, the cooler shoved under her arm.
“Getting somewhere dry’s not a bad idea, though.” He hustled past her, digging in his pocket for the key fob. The sooner they stowed the gear in his car, the faster they’d get on to something else. Dinner, with a heap of convincing. Sure, they’d dragged out lunch for the last hour, but they’d both need time to shower and change. Easy enough to pick back up for dinner and a movie. He’d play up the apology angle—a friendly makeup non-date to compensate for the rain. She might let him get away with that.
Shoes squelching, she strode across tire ruts and trudged through the muck. She’d been kid-at-recess playful running into the rain and all girlish giggles and squeals when he’d chased her. Hints of the Katherine inside had peeked out all afternoon, a string of small victories. But every time, she reverted to a more distant Kit.
As he popped the trunk, the downpour eased into a steady shower. Kit set the cooler inside.
Fuck, she shone even when the sun hid from nature’s fury. Her clothes, pasted to her with rain, and the mud streaking her legs made her more beautiful still. Sleek and curving, she leaned her hip on the car.
With a quick drop to his knees, he could push up her thin shirt and suckle the soft skin of her belly beneath. Lick the rainwater from her forearms when she reached for him.
She squelched those plans with a stern brow and a finger-tap on the bumper. “You planning to stow your equipment, or are you using the trunk as a rain barrel?”
Right, the reason the trunk yawned and waited. Flashing a so-sorry smile, he swung the gear bag.
His leg slid out in the muck. As the bats thudded on the trunk lip, he tucked his head and went down.
Splat.
He’d missed the bumper by an inch. Real close to giving his teeth a good clacking and his head a bump.
“You okay?” Clanking bats and a solid thud gave her voice a background track. “Brian?”
Was he okay? Downside, he’d be an absolute mess when he got up. On the plus side, the bag hadn’t fallen on his head. She must’ve heaved everything the rest of the way in.
Belly flopped in the muddy tire tracks, he rolled over.
She’d lost her stern expression. She bent over him, eyes wide and lips parted, her breasts rounding in her tight T-shirt. A vision.
Raindrops pelted his face. “Right as rain.”
High and low, their laughter mingled. His new favorite soundtrack. When he was with her, clowning wasn’t a plea for attention. The ability to make her laugh was a gift he gave himself.
He patted her ankle. Soft, smooth skin in his palm. A leg he’d drape across his shoulder when he knelt and tasted her. Fuck, not helping divert blood flow from his cock.
Releasing her, he left muddy fingerprints behind. “Mud’s some expensive skin care shit, right? Lookit all I’m getting for free.”
Covered, head to toe. The mud camouflaged his lucky shorts. He spread his arms wide and grinned, eager for a new round of her amusement. Her joy in him.
She dropped on top of him.
Arms flying, he caught her waist as she straddled his stomach.
Cool mud slid between them. With strong calves, she gripped his sides. She leaned forward and folded her forearms across his chest. “Now we’re both filthy. Do the skin-care benefits work through the clothes, or should we take them off?”
Whoa boy. He tamped down the urge to flip her over and find out. “Probably not in the parking lot. Kids and whatnot.”
She nodded, her face rearranged into faux-serious lines broken by her twitching lips. “You have a shower big enough for two?”
If he didn’t, he’d swing by the hardware store for a sledgehammer and a tarp on the way.
No—bad, bad, bad idea. Once he let his balls leapfrog ahead of his brain, he’d be nothing more to her than a quirky weekend in a long summer. Fuck that. He’d be every damn weekend. And winter, spring, and fall besides.
“We could squeeze in.” He grabbed hold of her hips, gorgeous and flaring, to appreciate her gasp. A little incentive never hurt anyone. “But once you get what’s in my shorts, you’ll be off to the next conquest.” Exaggerating his sigh, he added a pouty droop and jostled her seat. “Unless you’re gonna put a ring on it. Can’t walk away then.”
Her face hardened faster than a mud mask.
“Fuck you, Brian.” Jamming her elbows into his chest, she wrenched herself upward. “Fuck you.”
Christ Jesus. Two divots burned holes in his chest, and still the coiling wrongness in his stomach outmatched them. He always pushed the jokes over the edge. Shit, shit, shit. “What did I say? I’ll take it back.”
Her foot caught and dragged his shirt. She lurched forward, arms outstretched, and thudded against the bumper, his scrambling intervention too goddamn slow.
“Katherine? Are you—” Fuck, no, she wasn’t okay.
Cradling her left arm, she kicked mud toward him and stood on her own. A wince cut through her glare. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
“Let me get a medic.” He scanned the lot. Anyone in shouting distance would do. They’d have the kit under the pavilion until the last person packed up. “Or drive you to the hospital. We should get you looked at.”
Backing from him, she circled around his car to hers and dug keys from her pocket.
“At least stay and let me ice that.” He gave chase. “You’re hurt. You shouldn’t be driving.”
She opened the door in an awkward backhanded grab. “Tell me one more time what I should and shouldn’t do, Brian. Who the fuck do you think you are?” Dropping into the seat, she hissed air between her teeth. “I’ll tell you what you are—nothing. We’re done. Don’t text me. Don’t call me.”
The door slammed. The engine started.
He pounded on the window with the flat of his hand. “Katherine, wait. Please. I just want—”
She reversed past him, too fast.
“—to make sure you’re all right.”
Spraying mud and rattling through the bumps, she zipped down the aisle.
His whisper fell short of her retreat. “I want to fix this.”
Impossible, standing in waterlogged wheel ruts. Mission outcome: utter failure. His date idea had shifted her farther from him than they’d started. And for his next trick? Wooing a woman who actively loathed him.
“Good talk.”