Chesapeake Blue
Page 39
And took a hard cut at the first pitch.
The crowd surged to their feet on a roar. Aubrey shot toward first like a bullet banged from its gun. Then the crowd deflated, and she jogged back to the plate as the ball curved foul. The crowd began to chant her name again as she picked up the bat and went through the same routine. Two swings, wiggle the bat, wiggle the butt and set for the pitch.
She took it, checking her swing. And when the ump called strike two, she rounded on him. Seth could see her lips move, could hear the bite of her words in his head.
Strike, my ass. Any more outside, that pitch would have been in Virginia. Just how big a strike zone you want to give this guy?
Don't refer to the dubious sexual practices of his mother, Seth warned her mentally. Don't go there and get tossed.
Whether she'd learned some control in the last couple years or his warning got through, Aubrey skinned the ump with one baleful look, then stepped back in the batter's box.
The chant rose again, feet began to stomp on wood until the bleachers vibrated. In Seth's lap, little Bart squeezed what was left of the dog and bun to pulp and shouted, "Slam the bastard." And she did. Seth knew the minute the ball met her bat that it was gone. So, obviously, did Aubrey because she held her position—shoulders front, hips cocked, front leg poised like a dancer—as she watched the ball sail high and long.
The crowd was on its feet, an eruption of sound as she tossed her bat aside and jogged around the bases.
"Goddamn fricking grand slam." Junior sounded as if he was about to weep. "That girl is a fricking peach."
"Fricking peach," Bart agreed and leaned over from Seth's arms to plant a sloppy kiss on Junior's cheek. THE ROCKFISH went scoreless in the seventh, shut down on a strikeout, and a spiffy double play started by Aubrey at short. Seth wandered down toward the dugout as the fans began to drift toward home. He saw Aubrey standing, glugging Gatorade straight from the jug.
"Nice game, Slugger."
"Hey." She tossed the jug to one of her teammates and sauntered over to Seth. "I didn't know you were here."
"Came in bottom of the sixth, just in time to see you kick Rockfish ass."
"Fast ball. Low and away. He should've known better. I thought you were painting the flower girl today."
"Yeah, well, we had a sitting."
She cocked a brow, then rubbed at her nose as Seth stared at her. "What? So, I've got dirt on my face."
"No, it's not that. Listen, I need to talk to you."
"Okay, talk."
"No, not here." He hunched his shoulders. They were surrounded, he thought. Players, spectators, kids. Dozens of familiar faces. People who knew both of them. My God, did other people think he and Aubrey…?
"It's, ah, you know. Private."
"Look, if something's wrong—"
"I didn't say anything was wrong."
She huffed out a breath. "Your face does. I rode in with Joe and Alice. Let me tell them I'm catching a lift home with you."
"Good. Great. I'll meet you at the car."
He shifted the blanket and painting to the backseat. Leaned on the hood. Paced around the car. When Aubrey walked toward him, a mitt in her hand, a bat over her shoulder, he tried to look at her the way he would if he'd never met her before.
But it just wouldn't work.
"You're starting to get me worried, Seth," she said.
"Don't. Here, let me put those in the trunk. I've got my stuff in the back." She shrugged, passed off her ball gear, then peered into the backseat. "Wow." Transfixed, she yanked open the door for a better look at the watercolor. "No wonder you've been so hot to paint her. This is wonderful. Jeez, Seth, I never get used to it."
"It's not finished."
"I can see that," she said dryly. "It's sexy, but it's soft. And intimate." She glanced up at him, those pretty green eyes meeting his.
He tried to gauge if he felt any sort of a sexual jolt, the way he did when Dru's darker ones leveled on his face.
It was almost too embarrassing to think about.
"Is that what you're after?"
"What?" Appalled, he gaped at her. "Is what what I'm after?"
"You know, soft, sexy, intimate."
"Ah…"
"With the painting," she finished, feeling totally confused.
"The painting." The terror in his belly churned into faint nausea. "Yeah, that's it." Now her face registered mild surprise when he opened the car door for her. "We in a hurry?"
"Just because you hit grand slams doesn't mean a guy shouldn't open the door for you." He bit the words off as he rounded the car, slammed in the other side. "If Will doesn't treat you with some respect, you ought to ditch him."
"Hold on, hold on. Will treats me just fine. What are you in such a lather about?"
"I don't want to talk about it yet." He pulled out, started to drive. She let him have silence. She knew him well enough to understand that when he had something in his craw, he went quiet. Went inside Seth to a place even she wasn't permitted. When he was ready, he'd talk.
He pulled into the lot of the boatyard, sat tapping his hands on the steering wheel for a moment. "Let's walk around to the dock, okay?"
"Sure."
But when he got out, she continued to sit until he came around and wrenched the door open. "What're you doing?"
"Merely waiting for you to treat me with the proper respect." She fluttered her lashes and slid out of the car. Then, laughing at him, pulled a pack of Juicy Fruit from her back pocket, offered it.
"No, thanks."
"What's up, Seth?" she asked as she unwrapped a stick of gum.
"I need to ask you for a favor."
She folded the gum into her mouth. "What do you need?"
He stepped onto the dock, stared out at the water, and at the osprey resting on a post before he turned back to her. "I need to kiss you."
She lifted her palms. "That's it? God, I was wondering if you had six months to live or something. Okay. Jeez, Seth, you've kissed me hundreds of times. What's the big deal?"
"No." He crossed his arms over his chest, then ran his hands over his hips and finally stuck them in his pockets. "I mean, I need to kiss you."
The crowd surged to their feet on a roar. Aubrey shot toward first like a bullet banged from its gun. Then the crowd deflated, and she jogged back to the plate as the ball curved foul. The crowd began to chant her name again as she picked up the bat and went through the same routine. Two swings, wiggle the bat, wiggle the butt and set for the pitch.
She took it, checking her swing. And when the ump called strike two, she rounded on him. Seth could see her lips move, could hear the bite of her words in his head.
Strike, my ass. Any more outside, that pitch would have been in Virginia. Just how big a strike zone you want to give this guy?
Don't refer to the dubious sexual practices of his mother, Seth warned her mentally. Don't go there and get tossed.
Whether she'd learned some control in the last couple years or his warning got through, Aubrey skinned the ump with one baleful look, then stepped back in the batter's box.
The chant rose again, feet began to stomp on wood until the bleachers vibrated. In Seth's lap, little Bart squeezed what was left of the dog and bun to pulp and shouted, "Slam the bastard." And she did. Seth knew the minute the ball met her bat that it was gone. So, obviously, did Aubrey because she held her position—shoulders front, hips cocked, front leg poised like a dancer—as she watched the ball sail high and long.
The crowd was on its feet, an eruption of sound as she tossed her bat aside and jogged around the bases.
"Goddamn fricking grand slam." Junior sounded as if he was about to weep. "That girl is a fricking peach."
"Fricking peach," Bart agreed and leaned over from Seth's arms to plant a sloppy kiss on Junior's cheek. THE ROCKFISH went scoreless in the seventh, shut down on a strikeout, and a spiffy double play started by Aubrey at short. Seth wandered down toward the dugout as the fans began to drift toward home. He saw Aubrey standing, glugging Gatorade straight from the jug.
"Nice game, Slugger."
"Hey." She tossed the jug to one of her teammates and sauntered over to Seth. "I didn't know you were here."
"Came in bottom of the sixth, just in time to see you kick Rockfish ass."
"Fast ball. Low and away. He should've known better. I thought you were painting the flower girl today."
"Yeah, well, we had a sitting."
She cocked a brow, then rubbed at her nose as Seth stared at her. "What? So, I've got dirt on my face."
"No, it's not that. Listen, I need to talk to you."
"Okay, talk."
"No, not here." He hunched his shoulders. They were surrounded, he thought. Players, spectators, kids. Dozens of familiar faces. People who knew both of them. My God, did other people think he and Aubrey…?
"It's, ah, you know. Private."
"Look, if something's wrong—"
"I didn't say anything was wrong."
She huffed out a breath. "Your face does. I rode in with Joe and Alice. Let me tell them I'm catching a lift home with you."
"Good. Great. I'll meet you at the car."
He shifted the blanket and painting to the backseat. Leaned on the hood. Paced around the car. When Aubrey walked toward him, a mitt in her hand, a bat over her shoulder, he tried to look at her the way he would if he'd never met her before.
But it just wouldn't work.
"You're starting to get me worried, Seth," she said.
"Don't. Here, let me put those in the trunk. I've got my stuff in the back." She shrugged, passed off her ball gear, then peered into the backseat. "Wow." Transfixed, she yanked open the door for a better look at the watercolor. "No wonder you've been so hot to paint her. This is wonderful. Jeez, Seth, I never get used to it."
"It's not finished."
"I can see that," she said dryly. "It's sexy, but it's soft. And intimate." She glanced up at him, those pretty green eyes meeting his.
He tried to gauge if he felt any sort of a sexual jolt, the way he did when Dru's darker ones leveled on his face.
It was almost too embarrassing to think about.
"Is that what you're after?"
"What?" Appalled, he gaped at her. "Is what what I'm after?"
"You know, soft, sexy, intimate."
"Ah…"
"With the painting," she finished, feeling totally confused.
"The painting." The terror in his belly churned into faint nausea. "Yeah, that's it." Now her face registered mild surprise when he opened the car door for her. "We in a hurry?"
"Just because you hit grand slams doesn't mean a guy shouldn't open the door for you." He bit the words off as he rounded the car, slammed in the other side. "If Will doesn't treat you with some respect, you ought to ditch him."
"Hold on, hold on. Will treats me just fine. What are you in such a lather about?"
"I don't want to talk about it yet." He pulled out, started to drive. She let him have silence. She knew him well enough to understand that when he had something in his craw, he went quiet. Went inside Seth to a place even she wasn't permitted. When he was ready, he'd talk.
He pulled into the lot of the boatyard, sat tapping his hands on the steering wheel for a moment. "Let's walk around to the dock, okay?"
"Sure."
But when he got out, she continued to sit until he came around and wrenched the door open. "What're you doing?"
"Merely waiting for you to treat me with the proper respect." She fluttered her lashes and slid out of the car. Then, laughing at him, pulled a pack of Juicy Fruit from her back pocket, offered it.
"No, thanks."
"What's up, Seth?" she asked as she unwrapped a stick of gum.
"I need to ask you for a favor."
She folded the gum into her mouth. "What do you need?"
He stepped onto the dock, stared out at the water, and at the osprey resting on a post before he turned back to her. "I need to kiss you."
She lifted her palms. "That's it? God, I was wondering if you had six months to live or something. Okay. Jeez, Seth, you've kissed me hundreds of times. What's the big deal?"
"No." He crossed his arms over his chest, then ran his hands over his hips and finally stuck them in his pockets. "I mean, I need to kiss you."
