And suggestive.

His shirt was stretched taut across his shoulders, and with his arm raised she could see the delineation of the muscles along his forearm, which should have been no big deal, so why she looked, then kept looking, she had no clue.

But God, he smelled good, and was still smiling in reassurance. And before she could register the thought process, she leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. A thank-you-for-caring kiss—except that he turned his head to look at her and . . .

Their lips collided.

Gently connected.

Held . . .

A beat of shock reverberated through her system. She waited for the awkwardness to hit, but that wasn’t what hit at all as he pulled back a fraction and stared at her, clearly as completely thrown as she.

“In or out,” a woman behind them said, sounding irritated—until she got a look at Pace. “Hey. Hey, are you . . . Pace Martin? Ohmigod, you are! You’re him!” Irritation gone, she flashed a wide grin. “You had an amazing season last year, what was it? Twenty-four and six?”

“Something like that.”

“Twenty-four wins.” She sighed in pleasure. “With, what, almost two hundred strikeouts, right?”

“Not quite that many,” he said modestly.

“Well, it was a fantastic run, whatever it was!” She turned to Holly. “He led the National League in wins, ERA, and strikeouts on his way to the Cy Young Award!” She grinned at Pace. “And you had the NL’s record in strikeouts the year before, too, don’t think I forgot that! We’ve got a bet going that you’re good for at least 225 strikeouts this year. We love you in our house.”

“Thank you.”

She grinned, then gasped. “Ohmigod, you have to sign something for me.”

Holly watched, head spinning, as the woman searched her pockets and came up with a pen but no paper. “It’s okay,” she gushed. “Just sign me.” With that, she tugged her tank top off her shoulder, low on her breast, which nearly, but not quite, popped out. “Here,” she demanded, tapping herself with her finger, flesh bouncing all over the place. “Right here.”

Pace didn’t even blink as he obligingly leaned in to sign the woman’s breast.

“My husband is the hugest fan,” she said to the top of his head, beaming. “He’s going to go nuts when he sees this!”

Pace handed her back her pen and held the door open for both women to precede him in.

Inside, the happy fan rushed off.

Holly looked at Pace. “She knew your stats. By memory.”

“Some do.” He took her arm, but she dug in her heels.

He looked at her from those dark brown eyes fringed by darker, thick lashes and waited.

“You sign a lot of br**sts?”

“Body parts are a fairly common request,” he admitted.

“It’s an interesting life you lead, Pace.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I really don’t need a doctor.”

“Humor me. And when the doc tells me you’re fine, I won’t feel bad dumping you back at your car and pretending this past hour never happened.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “But only if you promise to sign a body part afterward.”

Chapter 6

There are three things in my life which I really love:

God, family, and baseball. The only problem—once

baseball season starts, I change the order around a

bit.

—Al Gallagher, 1971

That night Pace skipped his usual five-mile run to give his body a rest. He also skipped the Dr Pepper he wanted more than his next breath and drank water as he packed for the three-game run in Philly.

Since prepping for travel was as familiar as breathing, his mind wandered as he threw clothes into his bag. Holly was going to be fine. He’d made sure of it before driving her back to her car. He hoped—in spite of her having the most compelling eyes he’d ever had the discomfort of being leveled by, and in spite of that very intriguing hot kiss they’d shared—to never see her again.

But he was fairly certain he wouldn’t get that lucky. She wanted his secrets, and given that her picture was probably in the dictionary next to tenacious, not to mention stubborn and ornery, she wouldn’t be discouraged by a ball to the forehead.

She was going to be a pain in his ass, and he knew it. But she was also sharply funny and sharply smart, and damn if when she’d pitted her wits against his, he didn’t forget to feel sorry for himself—something he appeared to have down to a science tonight, thanks to the news from his doctor.

When his cell phone rang, he considered ignoring it, but the display revealed it was Gage, and it was never smart to ignore the manager. Not if he wanted to play, and he was scheduled for tomorrow. “Hey, Skip.”

“I hear you clocked a reporter in the head.”

Pace dropped to his bed and stretched out, staring at the ceiling, picturing Holly and her pretty hair and amazing eyes, and how she’d felt in his arms when he’d scooped her off the grass after taking River’s pitch.

And then there’d been that kiss . . . “Not exactly. Is she suing or something?”

“Or something.” Gage was a hands-on TM. He loved the game, he loved the guys, and because of it there was little of the usual management-versus-the-players attitude on the Heat. At thirty-four years old, their “Skipper” as they called him was the youngest MLB team manager in the country and possibly the hardest working, a fact that everyone on the Heat wholeheartedly appreciated. Gage was loyal to a fault, calm at all times, and utterly infallible when it came to supporting the Heat in every possible way, including, apparently, helping one of his players get out of a mess created by his own stupidity. “What the hell happened, man?”