Pitch Perfect: Boys of Summer, Book 1 (6 page)

Tucker got tired of listening to his internal monologue and settled on the first thing he could think of.

“Do you miss Chicago much?”

Emmy tugged her thin coat around her shoulders, fending off the nighttime chill that had crept into the air. Palm fronds still dry from winter rustled overhead, whispering dirty little secrets in the darkness.

“I’m not sure yet. Everything happened so quickly, getting the call. I barely had time to dump all my boxes at the new place before we had to fly out here. Kind of hard to figure out if I miss anything, you know?”

Tucker had spent such a long time living in the same city he didn’t think he could relate to her cavalier attitude about being uprooted.

“Actually, scratch that. I miss Giordano’s.”

No stranger to Chicago, Tucker chuckled. “The pizza place?”

Emmy nodded enthusiastically. She seemed to forget her chills for a moment and started speaking animatedly with her hands, letting her jacket flutter open in the breeze. “I used to go in—before I worked with the Sox mind you—and watch games at the bar. That damn pizza takes forty minutes to make.”

“I know.”

“So I’d sit around shooting the shit with the bartenders, talking smack about visiting teams.” She gave him a soft smile, her eyes dancing in a mischievous way that made him want to hug her. Or punch her in the shoulder like he was in sixth grade. Instead he dropped a step behind and let her lead, afraid he might spook her if he gave in to his beer-tinted urges.

“Is there anything you like that isn’t baseball related?”

Emmy’s frown made him regret the question. She gathered her lapels together and crossed the street, not waiting for the walk sign to change. “Is there anything
you
like not baseball related?” she fired back, like she was teasing but still sounding a bit peeved.

“Not for the last decade.” Tucker jammed his hands into his pockets and met her pace easily. “Unless you count
Guitar Hero
.”

She laughed, and he felt stupidly proud of himself for making it happen. “You need to be careful.
Guitar Hero
is notoriously dangerous for pitchers. You don’t want to be the next Joel Zumaya.” She was referring to the former Detroit Tigers pitcher who was sidelined with an injury he got playing the video game.

“I lack his dedication to the solos.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I need you throwing knuckle-curves, not mastering ‘Freebird’.”

“I was never good at ‘Freebird’ anyway. That song goes on forever.”

They’d cleared the distance from the bar to the nearby Lakeland Villas along Edgewater Beach in short order, and Tucker was wishing he’d walked slower.

“So are you from Chicago originally, or did you move there for the Sox?”

“My Cubs loyalty didn’t give away my seedy Windy City roots?”

“Probably should have, but you never know what kind of weird stuff a girl can get into when she moves to a big city.” He’d intentionally slowed down to draw out the trek a bit longer.

“Born and raised. I’m surprised you haven’t made the connection yet. Smart guy like you should know baseball history.” She was rifling through her purse for keys and barely paying attention to him as she spoke.

“Connection?”

“Kasper. Of the Chicago Kaspers.” Shyly she raised her eyes and blushed. “Damn. I wasn’t going to say anything, and here I am scolding you for not knowing. Nice work, Emmy.”

“Emmy…” Tucker paused thoughtfully, running a hand through his hair. “Kasper. Kasper.” His eyes widened. “Holy shit. You’re Vince Kasper’s kid?”

“Ever since I was born.”

“I always thought he had a son for some reason.”

“Probably because my real name is Emmett.”

“It is not.”

She screwed up her face in a way that was entirely too adorable and yanked her keys from her purse with a triumphant
whoop
. She picked up her story where they’d left off. “He named me after Emmett Watson, this old-school sports writer. I guess Ruth and Sandy would have been too obvious?”

“Maybe you should be grateful he didn’t name you Nolan,” Tucker suggested, invoking the name of pitching legend Nolan Ryan.

“Nolan’s real first name was Lynn. I’d have taken that over Emmett.”

“Emmy is nice though.”

“Thanks.” They were standing in the courtyard of the Lakeside Villas, next to a stucco fountain. “That’s me.” She pointed to a squat little cottage painted salmon pink. “You’ve got a definite baseball name too, don’t you? Were your parents plotting that from day one?”

“Nah.” He followed her up to the tiny porch in front of her cottage and watched her fidget with her key ring, noting the Sox logo dangling from a metal clasp. “We need to get you a new keychain.”

“What?” She followed his gaze downwards and then laughed again. “Oh God, I guess so. Good thing I didn’t pull these out in the clubhouse.”

“Can’t have you cursing us from the get-go. This is supposed to be a
winning
season.” He took a step towards her and reached for the keys. Tucker’s touch on her hand was tentative. He didn’t want to overstep some personal boundary and make Emmy uncomfortable, but he didn’t think he could stand within three feet of her and not touch her. It would have driven him crazy.

She didn’t withdraw when his fingers grazed her palm, and handed the keys over willingly when he took them. He kept his gaze on her face until she glanced up, and neither of them looked away as he twisted the old silver keychain off the ring.

“You guys take your superstitions seriously,” she said. He could tell she was trying to make a joke, but her voice had lost its light humor and was in a huskier register.

“It’s hard to say what might bring you luck.” His own voice was lower too, barely above a whisper. Returning the keys to her, he traced the grooves in her palm with his fingertips, circling the heel of her hand. Emmy gave a shiver, but he didn’t think it had anything to do with the spring air.

Emmy leaned in, her jacket fanning open, and the warmth of her body called to him across the inch of space separating them. The sweet smell of her skin caught in the breeze, making him want to close the gap between them.

“I wouldn’t want to be bad luck.”

“No.” Tucker lifted his hand, drawing it over her arm and up to her shoulder, which he gave a small squeeze—a gesture that eased his tension whenever he was on the receiving end of it. When she didn’t pull away, he touched the back of her neck, cupping her head in his palm, his fingers brushing back strands of her soft hair.

“Tucker…” There might have been something more to her sentence—an invitation perhaps—but it was lost. She said nothing except for his name. Her big hazel eyes were round, and he couldn’t stop staring at them as he lowered his head for a kiss.

Her eyelids fluttered shut, and his did the same as his lips grazed hers. Emmy sighed, opening her mouth to him and bracing one palm against his chest. He held her head with one hand and brought his other to her face, rubbing his thumb over her cheekbone. Her lips tasted faintly of beer and lime, a flavor so uniquely
summer
it made him think of hot baseball stadiums and roaring crowds.

He gave himself over to the kiss, pushing his body against hers and curving his back so he wasn’t stooped over her. Emmy’s hands scooted under his jacket, fingernails running over the thin linen of his shirt. Everywhere he touched her body was like a pulse of heat, warming him and flooding him with life.

Her mouth opened, and he brushed his tongue over her swollen lower lip. She made a small purring noise that made him flush, getting him hard with almost no effort on her part. The heat of her lower body radiated against him, chasing away any lingering chill of the evening. Backing her against the wooden railing on the small porch, he deepened this kiss, needing more from it but not knowing what. When his tongue stroked hers, Emmy went rigid, and her hands were suddenly gone from his back, forcing him away instead.

Tucker let her push him off, stepping backwards in a lust-filled haze, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. His cock throbbed, not satisfied with the unexpected turn of events.

“We can’t,” she said breathlessly, smoothing her hair and straightening her jacket. “I’m so sorry, Tucker. I shouldn’t have…”

“Sorry,” he mumbled in return.

“No, it was my fault.” The keys in her hand jangled as she tried to get a hold of them properly and unlock her door. “I didn’t… I mean…we work together, and…”

“Yeah.”

“And I have a boyfriend,” she admitted, her gaze dropping to the floor, unable to look directly at him. “It’s… I… I’m
really
sorry.”

Tucker shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, trying to think about church sermons from his youth, or his grandmother’s ingrown toenails. Anything to distract him from the pink glow in her cheeks and the fullness of her lips from their kiss.

“Friends?” she suggested.

“Sure.” He offered her a halfhearted smile and was already backing away. Tomorrow he’d think about how humiliating her rejection was. Right now he needed to make a clean getaway and take matters into his own hands. “Friends.”

Tucker didn’t have a lot of female friends, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t wise to be buddies with a woman who could give him a raging hard-on from just a French kiss.

Yeah. They could
totally
be friends.

Chapter Eight

Home Opener, Chicago at San Francisco, Record 0-0

April in San Francisco was the optimal time to play baseball.

Unlike most of the country still shaking off the dregs of winter and fighting against early spring showers, San Fran was mild and dry, the perfect weather for outdoor baseball on the Bay.

Emmy had spent much of the week after spring training getting her office into shape and prepping her team for the upcoming season. There were several players with injuries to attend to before the season opening game, giving her little time to dwell on Tucker.

They’d been polite to each other at best. Talking to him had been unavoidable—half her job seemed to be babysitting his arm—but there hadn’t been any friendly chitchat or flirting.
Definitely
no flirting.

It hadn’t mattered much. Try as she might, Emmy couldn’t keep from feeling excited-schoolgirl tingles whenever she touched Tucker, and touching him was a necessary evil of her job. And those tingles turned to
naughty
-schoolgirl tingles when he touched her back.

The memory of their kiss haunted her during the weeks they’d spent in Florida, and it hadn’t stayed in the Sunshine State when they left. Everywhere she went in the Bay Area she was assaulted with Tucker Lloyd. Street vendors sold knockoff jerseys with his number 13, and his face smiled out at her from storefront windows.

The little bodega down the street from her apartment building had a full-sized Tucker Lloyd cardboard cutout next to their cashier’s counter. He smiled brightly at her whenever she bought Oreos and cheap wine.

Apparently she was going to have a long season of pretending she wasn’t dying to make out with Tucker Lloyd again. Part of her wanted to steal the cardboard cutout and keep it in her apartment.

Emmy left her staff in the locker room, grabbed her Felons windbreaker and jogged up the hall and out into the crisp open air of the dugout. The team had just taken the field for batting practice, and she wanted to make sure no one ran into any trouble before the game began. The sun was bright and cheery, no sign of the fog that typically blanketed the city.

Tying her hair back into a low ponytail, Emmy stopped in the dugout and leaned against the fence to watch the batters line up and take hits off the small-boned batting coach. Around the bleachers of the old art deco field, eager fans waited for fly balls to come their way. Some had arrived two hours early when the gates opened so they could see the guys warm up.

Orange T-shirts were like hunting vests, milling through the aisles and into the concession areas. People wore black-and-white-striped jumpsuits in honor of the Felons mascot, Al Catraz, a giant cat dressed in prison gear.

“I love opening day,” a voice cut in from behind her.

Hiding the leap in her pulse by not jumping out of her skin, Emmy peered over her shoulder and gave Tucker a half smile. “Nothing quite like it, is there?” she said.

“It’s all the hope, you know?” He came and stood next to her at the fence, dropping his long arms over the top and watching Alex smash a ball into shallow right field. “Opening day is the only time in the season you’re guaranteed to have a perfect record.”

Emmy grinned. “My dad used to say something like that. He said day one is the last time you’re sure to have a zero in the losses column.”

“Well, let’s hope we keep it a zero a little longer.” He gave her a wink, and a familiar warmth bloomed in her chest.

It should be illegal for a man to be that beautiful when he smiled. His one blue eye looked astonishingly bright in contrast to the chocolate brown of the other.

“How’s the arm feeling?”
Keep it professional, Em.

Tucker rotated his shoulders loosely without moving his arms off the fence. “Feels good. Ready. Guess we’ll have to see, won’t we?”