From Left Field: A Hot Baseball Romance (Diamond Brides Book 7) by Mindy Klasky
Authors: Mindy Klasky
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danger, and she was going to fight him tooth and nail until she got exactly what she wanted.
He grabbed the bottle and led the way into the family room. She followed before she’d even made a conscious choice to let her feet move. Without waiting for permission, she collapsed onto the couch, slipping her shoes off with her toes. She pulled her knees up to her chest and cradled her glass against her shins as Adam settled on the far end of the couch. He winced as he stretched his legs out in front of him.
“Hard game?” she asked.
“That missed catch yesterday,” he said darkly. He rotated his shoulders, stretching against an obvious twinge, and then he sipped the Macallan like it was medicine. “It won’t kill me.”
She knew when it was time to change the topic of conversation. And it was best to dig out one of the things they always shared, one of the standby questions that let her remember who she was, who he was, why they’d been friends for decades. If she pretended hard enough that everything was normal, that everything was the way it had always been, then maybe the crazy trembling feeling beneath her ribs would finally fade away. Because it felt a little like the stomach flu, and she didn’t want to live the rest of her life with that type of misery.
“So,” she said. “Tell me more about Florida. You weren’t breaking hearts this year. But I kept reading in the paper about Drew Marshall. Weren’t you the one who broke the news of his engagement to the press?”
He relaxed back against the couch. “Funny thing, that.”
And he started to tell her the story. She laughed when she was supposed to. She sipped her whisky while he entertained her. She accepted his offer of another healthy pour, more than she should have, but she didn’t want to give herself any reason to cut short the night and head back home.
But no matter how much she listened, how often she launched into her own entertaining stories, how many times she painted the orange and spice of the Scotch against the back of her throat, she couldn’t still the fluttering sensation around her heart.
~~~
“God,” Adam said, glancing at the clock on the DVR. It was 3:30 in the morning. If he’d guessed, he would have said it was a couple of minutes past midnight.
“You’re a bad influence on me, Mr. Sartain.” Haley leaned forward and put her glass on the coffee table with a tell-tale precision.
He looked back at the bottle of whisky. They had made a dent in it. He’d poured the first two glasses, but she’d had a heavy hand herself, pouring the third.
He reminded her, “ I’m not the one who showed up bearing gifts.” He pushed himself to his feet. He wasn’t drunk—it took more than a few shots spread over several hours to do that. But he had to admit he was feeling the effects of the alcohol—wonderful effects, he thought, as he realized the throbbing in his side had faded to a dull ache.
He offered Haley a hand. “There you go,” he said, stepping back as he pulled her to her feet.
Either he pulled too hard, or she was a lot more unsteady than he was. In any case, she tumbled toward him. He just caught a look of surprise on her face, and then she was pressed against his chest, her arms wrapped around him like he was the last tree standing before she went hurtling off a cliff. “Oh!” she breathed, as he automatically clutched her close.
She smelled like Scotch. But she smelled like Ivory soap too, and there was something else, something warm and soft, like fresh-cut grass, rising from her hair. He lowered his head and took a deep breath, liking the scent of her.
She was soft in all the right places, and her head was just the right height to tuck into the hollow of his collar bone. He could feel the body beneath that shapeless sweatshirt; he could run his hands down her back and feel the lines of her bra.
His cock twitched, and he leaped back a full pace, barely keeping his arms extended to hold Haley upright. He
He grabbed the bottle and led the way into the family room. She followed before she’d even made a conscious choice to let her feet move. Without waiting for permission, she collapsed onto the couch, slipping her shoes off with her toes. She pulled her knees up to her chest and cradled her glass against her shins as Adam settled on the far end of the couch. He winced as he stretched his legs out in front of him.
“Hard game?” she asked.
“That missed catch yesterday,” he said darkly. He rotated his shoulders, stretching against an obvious twinge, and then he sipped the Macallan like it was medicine. “It won’t kill me.”
She knew when it was time to change the topic of conversation. And it was best to dig out one of the things they always shared, one of the standby questions that let her remember who she was, who he was, why they’d been friends for decades. If she pretended hard enough that everything was normal, that everything was the way it had always been, then maybe the crazy trembling feeling beneath her ribs would finally fade away. Because it felt a little like the stomach flu, and she didn’t want to live the rest of her life with that type of misery.
“So,” she said. “Tell me more about Florida. You weren’t breaking hearts this year. But I kept reading in the paper about Drew Marshall. Weren’t you the one who broke the news of his engagement to the press?”
He relaxed back against the couch. “Funny thing, that.”
And he started to tell her the story. She laughed when she was supposed to. She sipped her whisky while he entertained her. She accepted his offer of another healthy pour, more than she should have, but she didn’t want to give herself any reason to cut short the night and head back home.
But no matter how much she listened, how often she launched into her own entertaining stories, how many times she painted the orange and spice of the Scotch against the back of her throat, she couldn’t still the fluttering sensation around her heart.
~~~
“God,” Adam said, glancing at the clock on the DVR. It was 3:30 in the morning. If he’d guessed, he would have said it was a couple of minutes past midnight.
“You’re a bad influence on me, Mr. Sartain.” Haley leaned forward and put her glass on the coffee table with a tell-tale precision.
He looked back at the bottle of whisky. They had made a dent in it. He’d poured the first two glasses, but she’d had a heavy hand herself, pouring the third.
He reminded her, “ I’m not the one who showed up bearing gifts.” He pushed himself to his feet. He wasn’t drunk—it took more than a few shots spread over several hours to do that. But he had to admit he was feeling the effects of the alcohol—wonderful effects, he thought, as he realized the throbbing in his side had faded to a dull ache.
He offered Haley a hand. “There you go,” he said, stepping back as he pulled her to her feet.
Either he pulled too hard, or she was a lot more unsteady than he was. In any case, she tumbled toward him. He just caught a look of surprise on her face, and then she was pressed against his chest, her arms wrapped around him like he was the last tree standing before she went hurtling off a cliff. “Oh!” she breathed, as he automatically clutched her close.
She smelled like Scotch. But she smelled like Ivory soap too, and there was something else, something warm and soft, like fresh-cut grass, rising from her hair. He lowered his head and took a deep breath, liking the scent of her.
She was soft in all the right places, and her head was just the right height to tuck into the hollow of his collar bone. He could feel the body beneath that shapeless sweatshirt; he could run his hands down her back and feel the lines of her bra.
His cock twitched, and he leaped back a full pace, barely keeping his arms extended to hold Haley upright. He
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