Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel (14 page)

Sonny swiped his eyes again. “S . . . sorry, T.”

“He wasn’t crushing me,” Paige said quickly. “He was just upset.”

Trevor gave Sonny a bracing slap on the cheek. “Get it together, Barnes. Aren’t you supposed to be fielding grounders right about now?”

Sonny nodded, sniffing, stared down at his thermos, then thrust it at Paige. “You can have this. I don’t want to see it anymore.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be all right.” He hesitated, as if about to say more, but Trevor elbowed him in the ribs.

“Grounders,” he said sternly.

Sonny nodded and dragged himself in the direction of the dugout. Paige rounded on Trevor.

“What’s wrong with you? The man’s grieving and all you can say is ‘grounders.’”

“He’s a ballplayer. That’s what we do.” He righted her tote bag, which had tumbled to the floor when Sonny collapsed on her. “Why did he go crying to you?”

“He needed someone to talk to. Terry called me in.”

“Paging Dr. Paige?”

She bristled, propping her butt against the massage table. “I told her I’m not a therapist or anything, but I think I handled the situation okay. Sometimes a sympathetic ear is enough.”

“Looked like more than an ear. Kind of a full-body sympathy thing going on. And he gave you his thermos? He never lets that thermos out of his sight.”

She bit back a smile. Was Big Bad Trevor Stark actually jealous? “Sonny’s going to need a lot of support over the next few days. Maybe you could try to be there for him.”

“Oh, I’ll definitely be there for him. Especially if he mauls you like that again.”

“He wasn’t mauling me. You sound like a dog guarding a bone.” She tried to frown—she shouldn’t like that possessive tone so much. It was so macho, so old-school. But the part of her that had been devastated by Hudson soaked it up like rain after a drought.

“Shizuko said you helped him out with a personal problem the other day,” he said.

“So?”

He reached for her as if he couldn’t help it, touched her shoulder, then let his hand drop away. “So, what was it?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be signing posters or something? Why are you here interrogating me?”

“Why won’t you answer?”

Her skin was responding to his attention with the usual prickles of cold and heat.

“Because it’s Shizuko’s business, not yours. I consider any communication like that confidential.” Maybe that would make him understand that he could trust her.

“Did he ask you out?”

“What? Of course not.” Shizuko had been debating whether his music career was holding back his baseball career, or vice versa.

“And T.J. Gates? When he talked your ear off in the bullpen the other day?”

“Again, none of your business.” T.J. was worried that family pressure was interfering with his performance on the field. His parents were both surgeons and claustrophobically passionate baseball fans.

“How about Leiberman?”

Especially
not his business. Leiberman had told her about his instant crush on Nina and his insane fear of Trevor’s reaction. She’d promised to do what she could, but now was definitely not the time. “It’s not a crime to show emotion, Trevor Stark. Even for a tough ballplayer.”

For a long, inscrutable moment, he looked her up and down. “I think you’ve seen me show emotion. In this very room.”

Heat flashed across her nerve endings. The last time she’d been in this room, they kissed. She’d tried so hard to forget her attraction to Trevor, but now she couldn’t help reliving the exact sensation of his lips on hers.

“So all the players are pestering you to listen to their problems like you’re, what, some kind of team psychologist?”

Her patience snapped. She pushed past him, toward the closed door. “Does that seem so strange to you? I’m a good listener, and I like helping people. And some guys actually enjoy sharing their thoughts and feelings instead of pushing people away with a big concrete wall. If you ever want to give it a try, call me.”

He snagged her arm and whirled her back against him. Heat steamed from his body, or maybe from the combustion the two of them generated. “I like talking to you. Too fucking much.”

“You do?” She could barely breathe. “What else do you like?”

He nuzzled her neck, his warm breath filtering through her hair. “I like how you smell. Like apple blossoms.”

Her heart raced so much she was afraid it would jump out her throat. “What else?”

“Your voice, your smile, those little freckles on your nose, your laugh, the way you toss everything aside to go help someone, the way you feel against my cock . . .” He pulled her groin against the big bulge in the front of his baseball pants. “You make me so fucking hard I can barely stand. You don’t have to do anything, just look at me with those big blue eyes of yours. Shit.” He thrust her away from him, keeping his hands on her shoulders. To maintain distance or because he didn’t want to stop touching her? “I have batting practice. I gotta go.”

Go?
After revving her up like that, he was just going to waltz onto the field and hit baseballs? He couldn’t destroy her peace of mind like that.

“We have to talk, Trevor,” she said firmly. “We can’t just keep tiptoeing around this attraction of ours. It’s not going away. It’s doing the opposite.”

He spun away from her, raking a hand through his light hair. “I’ll keep a lid on it. I’m sorry. I can control myself.”

She snagged his forearm, feeling each taut muscle flex. “What if I don’t want you to control yourself?”

He threw her a tortured look, while she let him see every bit of her lust for him. She didn’t hide anything, not the desire making her eyes heavy, the flush sweeping across her cheeks, the rapid rise of her pulse. It felt like stripping naked in front of him. If she did that, he’d see her aroused nipples and the shocking wetness between her legs. She tried to communicate all that without a word.

Then he was gone, out the door, while she nearly collapsed against the massage table.

She went to the sink in the corner of the room and splashed water on her hot face, then blotted it with a paper towel. Filling her lungs with deep breaths of air, she slowly evened out her heartbeat.

Trevor Stark was practically lethal. He should come with a prescription—take only in small doses. Guaranteed to drive you wild.

On the other hand, the way he looked at her, the things he said . . . she actually felt sexy and desirable again, not a shoved aside, second-best reject. Whatever happened with Trevor, she’d always be grateful for that.

T
HE
C
ATFISH’S NEXT
road trip came at the perfect time, in Trevor’s opinion, because he didn’t know how much longer he could keep his hands off Paige. “Baseball’s Hottest Outfield” was scheduled for an appearance at a fundraising event for breast cancer research, but Paige wasn’t coming. Crush had switched her to the accounting department.

He ought to thank the man. His control was hanging by a damn thread.

During the swing through Las Vegas, Fresno, and Reno, he tried his damnedest to resume “life before Paige.” In Vegas, he hit the craps table, lost track of time, and barely made it to the game the next evening. Operating on no sleep, he struck out twice, but hit his fifteenth homer of the season, so didn’t get too much heat from Duke. In Reno, he took three sorority sisters out for a steak dinner. In Fresno, he punched out a guy who called Dwight the N-word and nearly got arrested.

But he didn’t take any girl back to his hotel room, and the fight didn’t even earn a suspension from Duke. The manager slipped the cop some Dodgers box seat tickets that he kept on hand for special occasions like this.

Face it—adding to the legend of Trevor Stark had lost its allure. Who would ever have thought that instead of the play-hard lifestyle, he’d prefer to hang out with Paige? Maybe cuddle up on a couch with a DVD. Feed popcorn to the one-eyed cat. Who knew? Normal stuff. The sort of normal he’d never had, and hadn’t known he wanted.

Of course he also wanted her physically. If she knew how much, she’d probably run for cover.

But Paige didn’t seem scared. She kept texting him goofy text messages before the games. One of his favorites included a selfie of herself with a printout of a spreadsheet and a panicked, crazy-eyes face. It made him smile every time he thought of it, even at home plate, which completely confused the opposing pitchers. She also sent a picture of her cat Jerome spread-eagled across her belly, looking like the king of the castle.

He actually felt jealous of that cat.

Every text, every photo, felt like a firefly in a cave, lighting up the dark emptiness he’d lived with for so long.

One night, while channel-surfing in his Fresno hotel room, he caught a glimpse of Nessa Brindisi’s show. He watched for a while, clinically admiring her curvaceous, alluring on-air personality. She was a knockout, no doubt about it. The Sophia Loren of the cooking world. But he’d take Paige’s long-legged grace and freshness any day, not to mention her mesmerizing smile and caring nature.

At the end of the show an ad appeared. “Join us for a very special event! Getting Married is Easy with Nessa Brindisi! Join Nessa and Hudson as they prepare for the biggest wedding the Food Network has ever known. From centerpieces to catering companies, from hair stylists to veils, be part of Nessa and Hudson’s special
day in an all-day program, right here, August twentieth.”

August twentieth . . . that was the day they were scheduled to return to Kilby.

Oh hell, did Paige know about this? Should he tell her? What sort of asshole was Hudson Notswego? Didn’t he realize how much pain he was causing Paige, his ex-wife and former friend? He clicked off the TV and lay back, hands linked under his head. His primitive side longed to rip Hudson a new one, but he knew that wasn’t in the works. He’d probably never cross paths with the guy. The most important thing right now was Paige, and what she needed. Maybe he could take her out that night. Distract her with some hot flirtation and anything-but-steak.

It would be hell on his willpower, since he was still determined to keep his hands off her. He’d just have to suffer. Paige was more important.

He shot her a text.

Will you go out with me on August 20?

August 20? That’s very specific.

He winced. Smooth, Trevor, very smooth.
That’s the night we get back to Kilby. Are you free?

You’re not supposed to ask if a woman is free. You’re supposed to just ask her out.

I thought I did. Did you miss that part, Ms. Emily Post?

I didn’t miss it. Just trying to get over my shock. Besides, the last time you asked me out, you stood me up.

Extenuating circumstances.

How am I supposed to trust you now?

What’s the point of being Baseball’s Hottest Outfield if I can’t even get a girl to go out with me?

I’m sure you haven’t had any trouble in that area.

Oh crap, had she seen photos from Reno? Of course
she had. One of them had surfaced on the team Facebook page.

You’re the only one I want to go out with.
That was definitely true. He’d yawned his way through dinner with the sorority girls.
Please? I want to see you. I have something important to discuss. Kind of personal/emotional.

If that didn’t get her, he had no chance.

You’re so full of shit
.

Grinning, he tapped back.
Don’t turn me down
.
Rejection’s hell on my batting average, and the Catfish need me to get into the playoffs.

You’re shameless. Fine. Where do you want to meet?

My rig is parked at the stadium. We’re getting in around 7. I’LL DRIVE.

Really, with no sideview mirror? Is that safe?

Very cute. You’re going to pay for that, sassy.

For the first night in a long while, he didn’t dream of knives and violence, or his other recurring nightmare, the time the Detroit gang had broken him out of juvie and inflicted their own punishment with a branding iron on his back.

Instead, he went to sleep dreaming of all the ways he could make Paige pay for her sauciness. They all involved both of them naked in bed.

W
ith Jerome draped over her neck like a scarf and a pitcher of root beer in one hand, Paige tracked down her father at the swimming pool behind the ranch. The pool area, which featured a full bar and barbecue grill, along with glossy orange trees blooming in planters, had been the site of many legendary all-star parties, none of which she’d attended. This year’s had taken place just before she’d fled Italy with her tail between her legs. If she’d gone to that party, would she have met
Trevor? Would he have been in party mode, and would she have disliked him on sight?

Crush was swimming slow laps, gliding through shimmering blue water. She perched on the edge of a chaise lounge and settled the purring Jerome in her lap. With a splash, he broke the surface of the pool, water gushing off him. “Hi honey.”

“Thirsty?”

“You want something.”

Trust Crush to make the most cynical assumption—and to be right in this case. “I’d like to throw one of your famous fund-raisers here. To benefit the tutoring program I’ve been working with. I’ve already lined up some of the Catfish, and the kids are willing to act as wait staff. I think it could be really great. You don’t have to do a thing, I’ll take care of it all.”

Crush pulled himself onto the edge of the pool and snagged a towel. “Sounds good. I think it’s a great idea. I’ll do you one better. I’ll cover the catering costs if I can pick the date.”

Paige grinned at him. “You’re such a softie at heart, aren’t you? Sure, it’s a deal. What date do you have in mind?”

The answer was nearly buried in terry cloth as Crush dried his hair. “August twentieth would work well.”

“Excuse me?” It couldn’t be a coincidence. Impossible. She jumped to her feet, sending Jerome thudding onto the terra-cotta tiles. He meowed in protest. “Have you been spying on my texts?”

“What?” He dropped the towel and narrowed bright hazel eyes at her. “Why would I do that?
How
would I even do that? I can barely operate my own phone.”

“Why’d you choose that date in particular?” He tried hiding in the towel again, but she plucked it away from him. “Is it because I’m going out with Trevor that night?”

“With Trevor?” An odd expression crossed his face. Not anger or unhappiness, as she would have expected. It seemed more like relief. And definitely surprise.

“So you didn’t know about that. But you picked August twentieth out of all possible dates. What’s going on? Why is August twentieth suddenly so important to everyone?”

“Trevor didn’t say anything?”

“Dad, if you don’t tell me right now I’ll . . . I’ll sic Jerome on you.” Since Jerome was currently in a one-eyed staring match with a fallen orange next to a planter, it wasn’t much of a threat. But it worked nonetheless.

“It’s the date of the wedding,” Crush said reluctantly.

A chill flashed through her. “What wedding?”

“On the Food Network.” He got to his feet and wrapped himself in his robe. “A special edition of Nessa’s show. I was kind of hoping we could ignore the whole thing.”

“They’re getting married on the show?” A sort of numb sensation stole over her. Would the embarrassment never end? She shivered in the hundred degree heat.

“Their publicist is some kind of sadist, I think. I’m sorry, Paige.”

She fixed her gaze on Jerome, who stretched out a wary paw to bat the orange. It rolled an inch to the right, which was clearly a call to battle for her cat. He crouched down and stared at it balefully. Had she ever really
known
Hudson? The nice guy she’d befriended in college wouldn’t get married on a TV show. Or maybe he would, if it benefited his basketball career. That had always been the most important thing to him. She’d made it into the most important thing in her life too.

She lifted her chin. “It’s all right, Dad. I’m a big girl. I can handle it. Why does everyone think I can’t?”

“Ah, kiddo. If you need to cry, go ahead and cry. Forget that ‘no crying in baseball’ thing.”

“I
don’t
need to cry.” And if she did, it wouldn’t be around Crush. He didn’t handle tears well at all. “Hudson is welcome to get married whenever and wherever he wants. But we can’t schedule the party for that night. I have plans.” She headed for Jerome, who was still locked into his mind-meld with the stray orange.

“With Trevor Stark.”

“Yes, with Trevor.” Trevor must have heard about the wedding, that’s why he’d asked her out on that date. She didn’t know if that was irritating or . . . sweet. Maybe both, with an edge to “sweet.”

“What do you really know about Trevor?” Crush called after her. “Doesn’t talk much about his past, does he? Most of these guys, you get to know them. Trevor Stark? I have no idea.”

Paige bent down to collect Jerome. She couldn’t leave him alone outside. Coyotes frequently wandered across the ranch searching for prey or water. “Stay out of it, Dad.”

“I know he’s got women after him all the time. Is he the kind of man you can trust, after Hudson?”

She picked up Jerome, who instantly went floppy like the ragdoll he was. Everything her father said made sense. But Crush hadn’t seen Trevor’s protectiveness over Nina. Or the way he’d been with the kids at the Boys and Girls Club. Or the look in his eyes after he kissed her, like a starving man glimpsing heaven.

Foolish or not, she was drawn to Trevor like the moon to earth, and nothing her father said would change that.

“Why don’t you worry about your own social life, Dad? Mayor Trent, for instance. There’s something between you, I saw it. You should invite her over to dinner.”

“Don’t talk about that woman to me.” Muttering under his breath, he headed toward the pool house. Paige grinned to herself. Distraction accomplished.

Before he got there, he paused. “There’s one more thing. I think your boy Trevor might have a record.”

“What?”

“Just a suspicion, and if he does, it’s as a juvenile. Nothing adult. But he’s got no stats from any high school. As far as baseball goes, he appeared out of nowhere in that independent league. That’s very unusual. Most guys were stars in high school, then maybe college. Trevor’s about to become a San Diego Friar, and I don’t even know who taught him the basics.”

When Paige displayed no reaction to that information, he disappeared into the pool house.

Thoughts racing, she buried her face in Jerome’s warm, orange-scented fur. Should she tell her father that Stark wasn’t Trevor’s real last name? That was probably the reason for the gap in his baseball history. Simple as that.

But what if he did have a record? Would he tell her about it? Should she ask him? Or would that lock down all his walls for good?

A
t 7:00
P.M.
on the night of August 20, Paige got a text from Trevor. She was wrapping up some last-minute payroll details in the accounting offices—once again confirming her conviction that the numbers side of the business was not for her.

Dropping some stuff in my locker, be right out. Escalade is unlocked, AC on. Do you like sushi?

Sushi? She made a face. Give her a good Texas steak over sushi any day of the week—but she couldn’t tell him that, not after she’d made fun of his steakhouse escapades.

She sent him a quick text back.
Be right there.
Then she shut down the computer and grabbed her backpack. A quick double-check in the bathroom—her carefully chosen “not trying too hard” outfit still worked. Cowboy boots, flirty red dress with lime-green polka dots, and a denim jacket over it. She dabbed on more lip gloss, tried to tame her hair but quickly gave up and left it tousled, then hurried down the staircase that led to the parking lot.

A few vehicles were still filtering out of the lot, but otherwise it was emptying out fast. She spotted Trevor’s blue Escalade, parked close to the players’ exit, its lights on, as if waiting for her. He must still be in the clubhouse, since there was no sign of him.

Slipping into the passenger seat, she welcomed the cool air, relief from the oppressive heat still lingering outside. She settled back in the leather seat and noticed a Post-It on the glove compartment.

Paige—Look inside—T.

As she gingerly opened the latch, a heavenly smell filtered into the Escalade. A tangle of branches covered with sweet-smelling pink flowers filled the glove box.
Apple blossoms.
He’d told her she smelled like apple blossoms. She smiled, inhaling the heavenly scent, and lost herself for a moment in the evocative images it inspired. Spring nights filled with fireflies, climbing a tree with her journal, dreams, possibilities, crushes . . .