Perfect Pitch by Mindy Klasky

attend her fancy music camp. The kid had to learn some discipline. When DJ was his age, he’d already been throwing from a mound. He’d even started working on his curve ball, despite his father’s admonitions to protect his arm.
    DJ might have disappointed his own father, but he wouldn’t let that happen to his son. Trey was going to have a Hall of Fame career that would make the legendary Dan Thomas sit up and pay attention—if that was the last thing DJ did.
    Samantha— Sam —wasn’t a fool. She followed his lead and let the tension drift away, focusing instead on Trey’s excitement. She declined her own slice of pie, but DJ felt a proprietary pride when she helped herself to a few bites from his plate. She sipped her chamomile tea like it was some sort of fancy after-dinner drink.
    Trey kept things light and easy as they finished their meal. DJ was reluctant as he paid the bill—but only because he didn’t want the evening to end. He’d had more fun sitting here than he had in months of spring training.
    And it wasn’t just the superior food. He’d seen the interest kindle in Sam’s eyes when he’d told her she was in charge. He’d registered her initial surprise, but he’d be damned if she hadn’t started to think about a few ways to use the power he had willingly placed in her hands.
    Or maybe that was just his wishful thinking.
    Wishful thinking was more than a little distracting as he drove Sam home. She offered directions tentatively, her voice soft enough that he had to lean toward her more than once. He suspected she wasn’t used to bringing strangers to her doorstep.
    Pulling into her driveway, DJ automatically surveyed the neighborhood. This was a quiet part of town; the small homes were neat and tidy, with their clapboard siding and well-maintained lawns. Alleys must cut behind the houses; the only car on the street was a black SUV, a couple of doors down.
    DJ shoved the gearshift into Park and said over his shoulder to Trey, “You wait here, buddy.” He had crossed around the car to Sam’s door before she could protest that he didn’t need to bother.
    He stayed close to her as they walked along the narrow flagstone path to her front door. The porch light was off; she hadn’t planned on getting home after dark. Under the moonlight, her copper hair gleamed like a slow-flowing river. He folded his fingers into an easy fist, reluctantly resisting the urge to gather up the strands, to cup his palm against the back of her neck.
    “Hey,” she said, when they stood at the top of the three neatly-laid brick steps.
    He waited.
    “I didn’t mean to upset you back in the restaurant. You know more about what’s right for Daniel than I ever could.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” he said automatically. She hadn’t meant any harm. She just didn’t know the whole story, didn’t know how many years DJ had spent trying to make his own father proud.
    “Um, thanks for dinner.”  
    Dammit! He recognized that tone in her voice. She was nervous. Uncertain. And the worst thing was, he didn’t know how he could make things right between them.
    If she’d been any other woman, he would have made his feelings perfectly clear. He would have tangled his hands in her hair, slanted his lips over hers, given her the type of kiss he’d wanted to give her since the first minute Ormond tossed that newspaper onto the bench in the locker room.
    But he’d already told her the ball was in her court. If he even shook her hand, he’d be breaking the contract he’d put between them.
    But then, impossibly, she was moving closer to him. One hand brushed against his jaw, the long fingers tracing another eloquent, unnecessary apology. When he caught his breath, swallowing the honey and cinnamon scent of her, she closed the distance between them. She tilted her head up, sweetly, chastely, and he pressed his lips against hers, as cool and respectful as he’d managed to be before the game, in front of all those