“Well, there’s the love that hits you after a few drinks and laughs, the one that says take this woman to bed for the rest of the night.”

Her mouth curved. “That’s lust.”

True. “Then there’s the kind after you’ve already slept together and you’re still not over it. That kind of love takes several dates to get over.”

“Again. Lust.”

“Man, you really are a cynic,” he murmured. “How about when you’re with the same person for a while, a long while, and you still want to be with them naked? What’s that?”

“A rut.”

He laughed. “Okay, smarty pants, what constitutes love then?”

She lifted her nose in the air and started walking again, somehow in spite of the game, the kissing, the hike, the stalker, still looking completely, carefully put together. “I’ll have to let you know,” she finally said.

“Maybe you should write a series on that.”

She smiled at him as they came to the now nearly empty parking lot. “Interesting idea.” She looked around. They’d missed the mass exodus. “Do you think she’s gone?”

“Tia? Hard to tell.” His car was in the front row, in one of the reserved spots in all its apple red glory, but he passed by it, intending to walk Holly to her car. “Where did you park?”

“All the way in the back.”

They hoofed it out there, and she came to a stop in front of her beat-up Subaru.

“You need a better-paying job,” he said.

“Hey, this baby explored the ghost towns of California and lived to tell the tale. I can’t dump her now just because she’s not pretty.”

“What about dumping her because she’s looking as unreliable as hell?”

She pulled out her keys. “Thanks for the interview.” She cocked her head and looked at him. “I’m going to be honest with you here, Pace.”

Uh-oh. “Is it going to hurt?”

“Maybe.” She paused. “I’m interested in pursuing the drug angle.”

“Ah, hell.” He sighed. “It is. It’s going to hurt.”

“I want to write about what happened to Jim and Slam, and what happened to Henry and Ty.”

“You’ve got apples and oranges. Jim and Slam tested positive for drugs. Henry and Ty didn’t.”

“The pills—”

“Vitamins. Tucker’s, actually.”

“You take them, too, right?”

“Sometimes. When I remember. You’re not going to find anyone using on the Heat.”

She looked at him a long moment, then nodded. “Thanks for tonight.”

“But . . . ? Because I definitely sense a but at the end of that sentence.”

“But,” she agreed. “I’m going to write about what I want to write about.”

He thought about what she’d told him about her last boyfriend and how that had ended, and understood that this was the same sort of situation—her work came first, always, a fact he reluctantly understood, even respected, though he didn’t necessarily like it.

She tossed her purse and her keys into the passenger seat of her car and turned back to him. “I should tell you, I have a secret of my own.”

“You do?”

“I seem to have this little crush.” Her gaze warmed. “Three guesses.”

There she went, being direct again. If she was angry or hurt or mad, or whatever emotion she was feeling, she put it out there for the whole world to see. No games. No subterfuge. No guesswork. She was open and honest and blissfully candid. And though it was crazy, he was crazy, he put his hands on her hips and pulled her in. Needing to assuage the ache low in his gut, the ache that said that the one thing that had been his entire life was no longer enough, that he needed more, he stepped into the only person he wanted to give it to him. Heat coiled low in his belly as he said, “I have a crush, too, along with my own secret.”

“Which is?”

“You, Holly Hutchins, scare the hell out of me.”

“Ditto,” she whispered, not looking scared at all as she slid her fingers into his hair, tugging him down to put her mouth to his in a hard, smoldering kiss that managed to convey frustration, affection, and a mind-staggering heat. Far before he was ready, she let him go, and with a little smile, got into her car and drove off.

Chapter 14

Baseball is a fun game. It beats working for a living.

—Phil Linz

The Heat flew to Florida for a two-game series against the Marlins. When the private plane they usually chartered was grounded for maintenance at the last minute, they had to fly commercial, which meant much of management was left behind in order to get the entire team and the coaches there in time.

Everyone grumbled nervously without Holly there to kiss Pace, who felt good enough to start. He did okay, but Gage pulled him after three innings to save him for the Mets.

Pace sat on the bench and watched Ty struggle to keep their lead.

They lost seven to six.

The next day Holly’s article came out, this one opening the door for the fans to the last mysterious frontier left in America—the Major League Baseball clubhouse.

She described it as a self-contained world where players lounged, bonded, ate, and occasionally fought, but she wrote that one undeniable thing about any clubhouse remained: the chemistry inside it made or broke a team.

Once again, she was right, and eloquent, and this time she landed a live interview on SportsCenter, which had been following her summer series with great interest. Pace and Wade sat in their hotel room and watched as on live TV she came off as sharp, funny, and—