That Thing Called Love (8 page)

And that it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Then a strong arm snaked around her waist and jerked, bringing her not only upright again but smack against Jake’s chest with an impact that flattened her breasts against his diaphragm, punched half the air from her lungs and set the bottles and jars in the box on his shoulder to rattling. His muscles shifted as he braced himself and readjusted his cargo.

She went still as a mouse sensing a cat, her system on sensory overload.

Because there was just...oh, man.

So. Much.
Heat.

It was the only thing that registered for a minute—the warmth that radiated through his shirt, the hot rub of his bare forearm dislodging the hem of her baby T-shirt, which had barely been kissing her midrise waistband as it was, the slow, blistering slide it took against the newly exposed skin at the small of her back.
Oh, man. Oh man, oh man, oh man.

He stilled as well, and she held her breath as he tipped his chin in to look down at her.

“I couldn’t have set this up better if I’d tried,” he said in a low, rough voice. “It’s sort of like a skit out of the Three Stooges, isn’t it?”

Her face flamed. Oh, God. It wasn’t bad enough that she was attracted to the last man in the world she should be tempted by? Oh, no. She’d had to go and compound that lunacy by thinking of hot sex on rumpled sheets with him, while
he’d
clearly looked at her and thought extreme slapstick.

It was all she could do not to deflate like a punctured balloon. Because, how lowering was that?

Carefully extricating herself, she dredged up a halfhearted smile and a light tone. “I’m not sure if that makes me Curly or Moe.” Once on her feet, with Jake safely out of heat-throwing distance, she tugged her traitor T-shirt back in place and forced herself to meet his gaze. “Austin’s game starts at four,” she said. “You might want to get there early if you plan on sitting with Tasha and me.”

He nodded. “I’ll do that.”

Yay. Just...yay.
“Well. I guess I’ll see you later, then.”

And gathering her tattered dignity around her, she let herself out of the cottage, carefully closing the door behind her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

W
HEN
J
AKE
WALKED
INTO
the ballpark that afternoon, it was like funneling through a time warp. He stopped to take it in, a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. Because, damn. The place hadn’t changed at all. He’d put money on his ability to close his eyes and describe, down to the smallest detail, every element of the diamond, the field and the surrounding area.

He wasn’t prepared for the immediate spike of contentment that gave him. Some of the happiest moments of his youth had played out on this field. When things at home had been messed up or he’d had a particularly bad run-in with the then-detested Max, he’d always been able to lose himself in every glorious inning of baseball. He loved the game, pure and simple, from the team camaraderie—in what he knew couldn’t be but he remembered as perpetual sunshine—to the spurt of speed he demanded from his body after a ball cracked off his bat, to the meaty wallop of fielding a full-grain, leather-covered Rawlings with his mitt, to developing and improving his throw.

The aromas that went with this game like PB went with J were an express train to the past. The scent of freshly mown lawn that filled the air now, along with the bouquet of grilled hot dogs from the snack shack, and the fainter waft of chalk used to define the base and foul lines, were the smells of his youth.

Both teams were warming up and, seeing the familiar green-and-gold home-team colors on the infield, Jake looked for Austin. He located him in position between second and third base, fielding a thrown ball, then pivoting and throwing it to the first baseman. The stands were beginning to fill as well, and Jake headed for the home seating, looking for Jenny.

He saw her friend first, probably because Tasha was a great deal taller, making her easier to spot. Once he identified her, however, he found Jenny right alongside her.

Which did
not
make his heart skip a beat.

Reaching the bleachers, he saw that the two women had saved a space next to Tasha and, excusing himself as he climbed over seated parents, he picked his way up to near dead-center, where they sat. “Hey,” he said, reaching them. “Thanks for keeping a spot for me.”

“Not a problem,” the strawberry blonde said, patting the seat next to her hip. “I’m Tasha. You can save mine in return. I’m going to grab a dog and hit the ladies’. Not necessarily in that order,” she added wryly as she rose to her feet. She looked at Jenny. “You want anything?”

Jenny shook her head. “Nah, I’m good.”

Tasha turned her attention to him. “You?”

“I could go for a dog,” he said, stowing his camera bag beneath the bench. “And maybe a Coke, if you’ve got enough hands.”

“Note the pockets, Bradshaw. I’m a come-prepared kinda woman. While you—” She gave him the once-over before nodding decisively. “You look like a load-it-up-with-everything kind of guy.”

“I guess looks don’t lie.” He fished his wallet out of his pocket, pulled out a twenty and handed it over. “Get yours out of that, as well.”

She gave him a deadpan expression. “Hey, big spender.”

“They don’t call me Gentleman Jake for nothing.”

Tasha looked at Jenny. “You sure you don’t want anything, now that Mr. Gotrocks here is footing the bill?”

“What the hell,” the little brunette said. “I might as well shoot the moon. Get me a Diet Coke.” She met Jake’s eyes for the first time since he’d arrived. Granted him a lopsided, closed-lips smile that lifted her right cheekbone into prominence. “We wouldn’t want you to have too much change jingling in your pockets.”

He nodded. “I know, right? You want a dog to go with that?”

“Nah. I’m saving myself for Tasha’s pizza after the game.”

He tried to look pitiful. “I haven’t had a chance to try that yet.”

“Tough luck for you,” Jenny said with patent insincerity.

But Tasha said, “Then you should join us,” and gave her businesslike watch a glance. “I better go get our stuff if I want to be back before the game starts.”

Jake settled in after she left, pleased with the invitation.
Hint heavy-handedly enough and ye shall receive.
He probably oughta care that he’d horned in on their postgame plans, but he refused to feel guilty about it. Hell, he had to try—the team’s pizza fest was an additional opportunity to get a little closer to Austin.

Or, more realistically, another opportunity for his son to shut him down yet one more time. But risking a repeat of his previous results be damned. He had to make his openings where he could.

He turned to Jenny, whom he’d been trying real hard, since joining the women on the bleachers, not to look at too closely. Unable to help himself, he studied her now.

She’d changed into a little pale pink and olive-drab wide-striped T-shirt or sweater or whatever the hell a female would call it. All he knew was that it was made of a material thin enough for the casual observer to see the outlines of a pink bra beneath it, and that two bands of the olive-drab fabric crisscrossed from the wide, scooped neckline in front to the wide scoop in back.

And that its hem didn’t even pretend to meet the hip band of her jeans.

The latter caught his attention in particular. He still retained a tactile memory of the softness of her skin where his inner forearm had slid across it when the top she’d worn this morning had ridden up.

But he wasn’t gonna think about that.

He cleared his throat and turned to her. “Where do the Bulldogs stand so far this season?”

“Two wins, one tie,” she replied, looking out over the field. “They’re shaping up to be a good team.” Pulling her gaze away from whatever had captured it, she turned to him. “Their tie was with the Warriors, who’ve been the top-ranked team to beat the past two years.”

“Yeah, I saw the Dogs at practice. Austin’s particularly good.”

Her face lit up. “You think so? I mean, I do, as well...but I didn’t know if that was simply my prejudice showing.”

An unaccountable irritation flashed through him. “And you think I couldn’t possibly be prejudiced in his favor as well?”

His demand wiped the smile from her face. “I didn’t say that—although why
would
I think you’d be? You haven’t exactly been a big presence in his life. But what I meant was that you probably have a better idea of what constitutes a good baseball player than I do.” She made a face. “The only time I ever even picked up a bat was at a company picnic game—and that was probably eight years ago. My core experience with the sport has been watching Austin play over the years.”

Put like that... He shifted on the bench. “I apologize if I jumped to conclusions.”

She essayed a shrug that put him in mind of his teenage son. It was a nonverbal
Whatever.

They managed to exchange idle chitchat for the next several minutes, but Jake was relieved to see Tasha return with a cardboard carton holding their food and drinks. He widened the space he hadn’t even realized he’d narrowed between himself and Jenny.

What was up with that? It had to have something to do with being back at the ballpark. Damn place made him feel like a high school stud looking to score.

Tasha jerked her chin toward her friend as she picked her way up the bleachers. “Scoot back over,” she ordered when she was a single riser and several parents to his left. “You’ll be one less person I have to climb over.”

Bad idea.
Baaad
idea! He could appreciate that her route through the families and friends packed together on the benches was easier the way she was coming. But there was still that pull thing to contend with, and why tempt fate before he could do something about the been-a-whiles?

“How about I step up onto the seat to give you room to get by.”

“Nah, just scoot over.” She grinned as she edged nearer. “We don’t get a lot of good-looking single guys at these games as a rule. It only seems fair that you sit in the middle.” She looked past him at her friend. “That works for you, right?”

The petite brunette at his side didn’t come right out and say, “No, you can have him.” But the sound she made in her throat wasn’t exactly a rousing endorsement, either. Reluctantly, he slid down the bench in her direction.

Tasha squeezed through the remaining spectators separating them, inched past the woman who had been sitting next to him until a second ago, and plopped down alongside him. Leaning forward, she handed Jenny her can of soda, then gave him his and extended the molded cardboard container to him. “That one’s yours,” she said with a dip of her chin, then sat back to unwrap the foil from her own hot dog and open her can of pop.

She dug her elbow in his side. “Move over a little. It’s been a while since I’ve rubbed shoulders with such a wide set, and they’ve got me practically in Maryanne’s lap,” she said, indicating the woman whose place she’d taken. “I need some elbow room.” When he didn’t promptly fall in line with her directive, she gave him a nudge of her own shoulder. “Move, Bradshaw!”

His response to the command was purely reflexive, and he raised his butt up to scootch down the bench. Tasha instantly crowded him, claiming more real estate than he’d intended to relinquish. The next thing he knew, he was pushed up against Jenny from knee to shoulder.

And, swamped with sensation, he could only think hazily,
What is this, goddamn
Groundhog Day
?

Dammit, being plastered against this woman was not in his best interests. Only by making a joke this morning had he escaped the nearly overwhelming urge to slide his hands up beneath her top to cop a feel of her warm, bare skin, or down over her jeans to cup that sweetly rounded ass. He’d had to clamp a lid on an unwelcome craving to take a big juicy bite out of her.

Now here he was on the same damn day, breathing in the same scent of her shampoo, conscious of her feminine warmth, her softness pressed against his own harder muscle and bone. He looked down.

Only to have his dick give a mighty twitch at seeing her doing some pressing of her own.

Oh. No.
Erroneous information, pal.

She was leaning around him. “Tasha, quit hogging all the space,” she said. “Maryanne’s not the only one who’s suddenly got someone practically in her lap—and Jake weighs a lot more than you do.”

“Oops.” Tasha inched over. “Sorry, babe.”

He couldn’t believe how grateful he was for the breathing room. And if that wasn’t bat-shit crazy, he didn’t know what was. As sexual titillation went, a little fully clothed, public press-and-rub of body parts that no one in their right mind would ever term erogenous was strictly bush league—and G-rated bush league at that. Which sort of begged the question, didn’t it?

What the hell was he doing sitting here in the wake of said unimportant body press, sporting a dick that had pulsed itself to the early stage of an erection? Not even the been-a-whiles covered a response this juvenile.

He knocked back half of his soda in one long gulp.
Daaaamn.
If it wasn’t the lack of recent sex, then it had to be the world of memories, the sensory overload, brought on by finding himself at his son’s baseball game on the field where he’d spent every spring of his school years.

Why
that should matter, he couldn’t say. It had been a long time and a lot of miles since his high school days.

A
lot
of miles. He raised his hot dog to his mouth.

Still. His responses, his mind-set, sure seemed to lean in that direction.

He stilled, the hot dog poised at his open mouth. Christ. Because, a lot of distance or not, that was what he’d felt like. Not the sexually responsible man he’d been for the past thirteen-plus years, but a high school kid getting his rub-on against a girl simply because she smelled good and felt better.

And look how well
that
had worked out for him. Snapping his teeth closed, he tore a vicious bite out of the dog.

Intellectually, he knew one thing had nothing to do with the other. And yet—

Damned if he would ever allow himself to get caught in a trap like that again.

* * *

“G
OOD
GAME
. G
OOD
GAME
. Good game.” It was all Austin could do not to laugh like a lunatic as he and the rest of the Bulldogs filed in a line past the players on the opposing team, slapping hands and chanting the postgame wrap-up ritual with each man. ’Cause, jeez. It had been good game quadrupled. They’d kicked some serious
ass
today, winding up the final inning with a score of six to two.

He didn’t even mind that his old man had come. Okay, maybe he was the
smallest
bit glad that he had.

Because the guy had been crazy enthusiastic. He knew his baseball and totally got it when Austin’s team did something good, even if the fielding strategy of the moment didn’t result in a base gained or a point scored. He’d yelled his support over every single play the Bulldogs had pulled out of their hats, and whipped the surrounding parents into a cheering frenzy. He got them to chanting, “Hey, batta, batta, batta,” with each new batter up. That was probably some old nineties thing, but he had to admit, it was a little cool.

What was maybe cooler, though, was the way Jake had vocalized a singsong “Sling it in there, oh babe, oh babe!” every time
he
had winged a ball toward a baseman, then yelled, “Way to go, Austin!” And the three times his plays had failed, he’d called, “Good try!”

Then there was the photography.
That
was in a category all its own.

At the bottom of the third inning, his old man had climbed down from the stands with a big deal-looking camera slung around his neck. And,
man,
he’d been all over the place, the camera apparently an extension of his eye, one hand supporting the long lens. Whenever Jake—as Austin had caustically begun referring to him when he was forced to name him at all, since he was damned if he was going to call him Dad—was anywhere near, he was accompanied by a constant click-whir, click-whir.