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“Are you asking if she’s pretty?”
He turned to face her directly and noted the humor sparkling in her eyes. “All right. I’m humbling myself. I want to know everything you can tell me.”
“I’ve never seen her without sunglasses, but from what I can tell, she’s passably attractive in that woman-jock kind of way.”
Jack leaned back, resting an ankle over the opposite thigh. “You’re enjoying the hell out of this, aren’t you, Stace?”
Her glee-filled laugh made him frown.
“I’ve just never seen you thwarted,” Stacy said, the grin not leaving her face. “Or frazzled. To be honest, it fascinates me. In all the time we were married, I rarely saw you not in control. Impatient maybe, but in control. Not that I saw a whole lot of you, given your obsession with work.”
“I’m changing,” he said, gritting out the words.
“Yes, you are. Okay, I can tell you this much. Her hair is almost as military short as you used to wear yours. It’s kind of palomino blond, looks pretty straight around the edge of the cap. Her front teeth are white and even. I didn’t ask her to open her mouth—”
“Stacy,” he warned.
“Well, gosh, Jack. If I’d known I was supposed to be inspecting her like a horse at auction, I would have attempted to get more information.”
“Do you have any idea why she’s singled me out?”
“Could be your hunky body.”
Jack snorted. “Yeah. All five-eleven, one hundred and eighty pounds of me.”
“And she’s about five-four. Perfect height difference. In bed and out,” she added.
He straightened. “I’m not interested in her as a bed partner.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I’m curious. And I don’t like unanswered questions.”
“Ha! You’re attracted. You’ve never been challenged by a woman before, and it intrigues the heck out of you.”
He sipped from his mug of beer before responding. “Maybe.”
At a signal from her husband, Drew, the team’s third baseman, Stacy stood. “We’ve got to relieve the babysitter. Good luck Monday.”
“Thanks. Give Dani a kiss from me.”
Mickey’s decision to rent the cabin she now occupied had been based on several factors, the first being the town itself, Gold Creek, which was a forty-five-minute drive from the community college where she would soon be teaching algebra. Nestled in the foothills of Northern California’s mother lode country, Gold Creek was large enough to offer reasonable anonymity and small enough to feel like a home, not just a place.
Another lure was the stream that backed the property about fifty yards from the cabin. More than a trickle, less than a fisherman’s paradise, its appeal lay in the soothing sounds of nature, at rest and at play. Having lived her thirty-two years in the city, the adjustment had been a challenge, especially since she couldn’t hear traffic or sirens or even children playing. Her only neighbor within earshot was her landlord, who owned a huge log house just out of sight from her smaller version, his guest house.
The cabin itself shone in the natural setting like a topaz in gold. Newly remodeled by the owner, it was a house designed for easy living, amounting to a large studio apartment, with rooms hinted at by creative use of furniture or cabinets. A big pine bed sitting atop a raised platform pretended to be a bedroom, the bed cocooned by curtains on a ceiling runner, blocking it from the living quarters, although she never bothered pulling the curtains. She looked forward to winter, when she could enjoy watching the fireplace while she lay cozy in her bed. The bathroom, a rustically elegant large room containing not only a shower but a whirlpool tub as well, was tucked away on the sunset side of the building.
But the deciding factor in her choosing the cabin had been the window seat. Built into the back wall overlooking the stream and pine trees, it was a huge half circle of crystal clear glass that started two feet from the floor and ended at the ten-foot knotty pine ceiling. The pillows stacked on the oversize wooden seat invited snuggling. It had become her refuge, the place where she prepared her syllabus for class, wrote letters, daydreamed, escaped nightmares and faced her aloneness.
She burrowed there an hour after the game, watching the early-August sky darken and wondering what to do about Monday. She hadn’t wanted to get involved, with anything or anyone. This would force involvement when for the first time in her life she so wanted to be wholly responsible for herself.
She’d lost so much, and she needed to be free to grieve. She’d also given up a lot to embark on this quest for self-forgiveness and acceptance.
Eyes closed, she leaned her head against the window frame and pictured the tall, dark man whose ponytail proclaimed him a rebel. She didn’t want to find him attractive, or desirable, or even interesting—but he’d challenged her when she’d been a verbal tyrant to him, and that intrigued her.
She didn’t want to be drawn to him, and she wondered how she could stop the wheels she had unintentionally set in motion.
Two
Okay, his pride was stung. He admitted that much to himself. Jack glanced at his watch again and frowned. Ten after six. He’d made assumptions from a minuscule amount of contact. Assumption number one, she was gutsy. Two, she genuinely wanted to help improve his game. Three, and he acknowledged this as wishful thinking, she was drawn to him in a way she could neither understand nor control.
Over the past four days, he’d gradually come to feel flattered at her interest. Now—at eleven minutes after six—he realized his mistake. He brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his generic gray polyester baseball pants and ignored the unfamiliar feel of cleats under his feet. A pair of lightweight leather gloves burned through his back pocket. He had invested time and money preparing for his lesson, and she had the nerve not to show up?
He crouched at first base, or rather where first base would be if a game were on. Scooping up a handful of dirt, he rubbed the gritty stuff between his fingers as he debated how long to give her.
Plop! He looked up as a heavy white square cushion with a rigid tube attached landed beside him, shooting up a halo of dirt.
“Ram that into the pipe at second,” she called. “Can’t practice without a base.”
Jack fought to control his relief, which came swift and unapologetic at the teacherlike sound of her voice and the sight of her ever-present L.A. Seagulls cap. He trotted down to second and shoved in the square, then walked back. “I’d about given up on you,” he said toward where she stood leaning against a railing, obviously as close as she planned to get to him.
“I debated,” she admitted. “I decided your team needs you to learn this.”
“So, you’re doing it for the team, not me?”
“I’m doing this for baseball, Ponytail.”
He repressed a chuckle. “Ah. I’ve lowered the standards of the whole game, have I?”
“I think there’s hope, or I wouldn’t be here.”
He wandered closer, noting how she tugged her cap down defensively the nearer he got. When he saw she was about to take flight, he stopped. “I can’t keep calling you The Mouth. What’s your name?”
She seemed to grab a smile back just before it could escape. “Coach.”
He shook his head slowly. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Ready to get to work, Ponytail?”
“I think I’m going to regret this,” he muttered as he returned to first base and awaited her instructions.
“First of all, move to the outfield so you can practice on the grass. When you’ve teamed how to slide where you can’t kill yourself, you’ll move onto the dirt.”
“You gonna just stand there and yell instructions to me?” he called over his shoulder as he jogged out to the grass.
“Yep.”
“How do I know you can do this if you don’t demonstrate it?”
“A person doesn’t have to be able to do in order to teach, Ponytail.” She walked parallel to him, one hand on the railing, stopping when he did. “Close your eyes. Visualize what I’m describing. Go through it in your head. If a part isn’t clear, we’ll do it again until it is. Don’t hesitate to stop me and ask questions. Okay?”
Jack closed his eyes. “You want to know if I can touch my nose with my finger?”
Her sigh was both loud and dramatic. “Let me guess. You’re in law enforcement.”
“Close. Lawyer.”
She groaned audibly. “And I said you could stop me anytime and ask questions. We won’t get out of here until dark.”
He grinned. “We have to be out of here by about 6:50. League takes over then.”
She looked at her watch. “Okay, we’ve got half an hour. Let’s go. Close your eyes.” She talked him through the steps, meticulously explaining the reasons for every action, then made him practice again and again on the grass until he could consistently slide while keeping his torso almost upright, trailing his left hand, his left leg tucked under him.
“You’re ready to move onto dirt, Ponytail.”
“Am I?” Every muscle complained as he walked to first base.
“Ready as you’ll ever be.”
“Somehow I don’t find that comforting, Coach.” He liked the sound of her laugh, a little wicked, a little playful. “You think I can master this in one lesson?”
“Sure. Remember to keep your right foot up so you don’t catch your spikes, then hit the bag with your heel, push off with your left leg, and you’ll be standing.”
“Can’t I just slide into it?”
“It’s going to depend on how much time you think you have. If you can stay on the ground and sort of slide around the base and catch it as you go by, that’s okay. Usually, there isn’t enough time. And, of course, if you’re needed to break up a double play—”
“One step at a time, Coach.”
Concentrating, he stood for a few seconds just staring at second base, then he took off at a dead run and dropped into a slide when she yelled, “Now!”
His cleat caught the edge of the bag and held before he could push himself upright, the impact jarring him from toe to head. He lay there swearing for fifteen seconds before her voice penetrated the buzz in his ears.
“Try it again.”
“I don’t think I can even walk.”
“You just learned what not to do, Ponytail. This time keep your foot up a little higher.”
Jack rolled over and pushed himself up, fighting the pain vibrating through his body. He hobbled back to first. “How is it you know so much about this game?” he asked.
“Baseball is my life.”
Her droll tone drew a laugh from him.
“You’re doing great, Ponytail.”
At her praise, a resurgence of energy numbed his pain. “You’re a good teacher.”
“Thanks. So, do you have a law practice here in town?”
He shook his finger at her. “No fair. I won’t answer personal questions if you won’t.”
She tipped her head to one side. “I’ll bet you’re dynamite.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re willing to work harder than the average person. You wouldn’t be content being anything less than best.”
They stared at each other, making some kind of connection that Jack couldn’t describe, only feel. He turned away when some people entered the stadium.
“Twice more,” she announced. “Then we’ll call it a night.”
Each attempt got easier and better. He yanked up the base after the last slide and headed toward her.
“Keep it,” she said, backing away. “Use it to practice.”
“Will you work with me again?”
“You don’t need me.”
“Will you come watch the game Thursday?”
She hesitated. “I’ll be there,” she said finally. “One last word of advice.”
“Yeah?”
“Have you got a hot tub or Jacuzzi?”
“Yeah.”
“Go home and soak. Take a couple of Ibuprofens. Or by tomorrow morning you won’t be able to move.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.” He wanted to see her eyes, which couldn’t lie like words could, but she never stopped hiding. His gaze lingered on her lips, then blazed a trail down her throat and beyond, taking a detour at the nicely rounded breasts her loose T-shirt couldn’t hide. Baggy shorts revealed slender thighs and drew attention to her legs, lightly muscled and delicately tanned. When he sent his gaze on a return trip, he sensed her cataloging him, as well. His muscles tightened in response.
People milled around them, in the stands and on the field, but he paid little attention to them, his gaze locked with hers.
He found his voice only after someone asked him to move. “See you Thursday, Coach.” Hefting the base over his shoulder, he watched her jog up the stairs and out of the stadium. “Thursday,” he repeated to himself. Three days. It might as well be a month.
From the dugout, Jack surveyed the stands. She usually arrived fifteen minutes or so after the game started—to avoid pregame conversation with anyone, he guessed—but he thought she might be there for the entire game this time, to watch his progress.
His ex-wife’s husband plopped onto the bench beside him.
“Have you met your tenant yet?” Drew asked.
“Nope. I was in Chicago the weekend he moved in, but I left a note telling him to give me a call. Since I hadn’t heard from him, I walked over the other day to introduce myself but his truck was gone.”
“What’s the guy’s name again?”
