Second Thoughts: A Hot Baseball Romance (11 page)

Jamie stared out the window as Nick negotiated the quiet Raleigh streets. She knew she should be chatting. She should at least pretend to be light-hearted, amused at being stood up. After all, what did she have invested in RoadWarrior? Why did she care if the jerk decided not to keep their plans?

But she
did
care. She cared, because she’d begun to think there might be something real between them. RoadWarrior had given her good advice; he’d seemed to pay sincere attention as she worked out her problem with Nick. She’d looked forward to his messages, to the way he made her smile. And she’d revealed a lot of herself—far too much—on Wednesday night, when she’d described how he made her feel, when she’d told him about slipping out of her panties and putting her fingers…

She stopped that line of thinking with a solid shudder.

God, she’d been desperate. It must have been because she was seeing Nick again, because working with him at Rockets Field made her relive, over and over, those heart-shattering moments when he’d walked out of her dorm room. With RoadWarrior, she’d told herself she’d found a guy who really understood her, who was worth reshaping her life, who was important enough to shift the balance of her professional life, and her family life, and the life she shared with her friends.

Friends like Ashley. Thank God Ashley had taken Olivia for the evening. It would be too hard to come home after this embarrassing defeat, to be smiling and cheerful for her daughter, to pretend that she’d had a wonderful time and everything was right in the world. For just one night, Jamie was looking forward to collapsing on her couch. She could open a bottle of wine and drink as much as she wanted. She could go to bed without brushing her teeth. She didn’t need to set a good example for anyone.

She steeled herself with a deep breath, then gave Nick the directions for the last few turns to her house. He drove the way he did everything else—with calm competence. His hands were relaxed on the wheel; he was quietly in charge, in control. He didn’t try to rush through an intersection on a yellow light; instead, he braked to a smooth, easy stop.

She glanced at his profile, at the familiar lines made more exotic by the addition of that beard. The facial hair made him look wild, like a man who might throw caution to the winds. She thought about how those rough curls would feel against the palm of her hand, and she tightened her fingers in reflex.

“There,” she said, nodding toward her small clapboard house. “Third one on the right.”

He pulled into the driveway and slipped the car into Park. Before he could go through the charade of walking around, of opening her door, she let herself out. “Thanks,” she said, barely leaning over to catch his gaze.

He licked his lips and ran a spread-fingered hand through his hair. Her belly tightened. That was what he’d done, just before he’d dumped her. Licked his lips and pressed them together. Left tracks in the tangles of his hair.

She didn’t want to hear whatever he had to say. Didn’t want an apology. Didn’t want to paste on a smile, to assure him she’d been better off on her own, that she and Olivia were fine now, happy, alone.

“Thanks,” she said again, and she slammed the door, only a little harder than was necessary.

Her hands were shaking as she reached inside her clutch for her house key. How could the damn thing be lost? The little clutch only held her phone, a couple of twenties folded in half, and a tube of lipstick.

There, the key was wedged into the seam. She plucked it out and fitted it into her lock. She glanced over her shoulder. Nick was still there, waiting to see that she got safely inside.

She turned her back on him and jiggled the key. Why was everything in her life on the verge of breaking down? Her car, her key, her bank account…

The tumblers finally caught, and she worked the lock, shoving the door open with her shoulder. She used a little more force than she needed to, and she was surprised to feel tears prick at the corners of her eyes. That was ridiculous. Her shoulder didn’t hurt that much. She was being a drama queen.

She yanked her key out of the door and was about to escape, when Nick sprang out of the car. “Twelve!” he called.

That idiotic nickname. She hesitated, wondering if she could pretend she hadn’t heard him, but it was too late. He jumped up the two steps to her porch and held out his hand.

“You forgot this,” he said.

You Can’t Go Home Again
. She reached for it by reflex, at the same time Nick moved toward her. Their hands met around the book, slipped against each other, fumbled in mid-air. He laughed as the novel hit the porch, and then he said, “Let’s try this again.”

He was obviously talking about the book. He didn’t mean anything about their relationship, about all the good things they’d had together, all the ways they’d been right for each other, before he decided to walk away.

But she couldn’t help herself. She sucked in her breath and looked away, just as fresh tears sparked in her eyes.

Stupid RoadWarrior. Stupid date. Stupid Raleigh, North Carolina, and stupid every last thing in her life.

~~~

What an idiot!
Nick told himself. He could execute a double-play as a runner barreled down the base path, but handing over a simple paperback book turned him into a clown? He brushed off the cover and held it out to Jamie. Only when he looked up from the book did he realize she was crying.

Okay. Not really crying. She wasn’t sobbing. There weren’t even tears running down her cheeks. But her eyes shimmered in the porch light, shiny as glass, and her lower lip trembled.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s just the cover. The pages are fine.”

She laughed, but the tears did spill over.

He didn’t consciously decide to move. His hand just tossed the book onto the porch swing, easy and gentle. His feet just shifted, the way they did when he was moving into position at the bag, when his body knew where it needed to be before his mind was even aware that a ball was on its way. His arms rose without his telling them to; his fingers spread by reflex.

And then he was holding Jamie.

Every inch of her was familiar. His hands knew exactly where to find the soft-firm planes of her back. His hips knew the precise angle to settle the long lines of her legs against his. His neck knew exactly how to bend to find her mouth, to match her lips to his. He could tell she moved with the same instinct—she was relaxed and easy, comfortable and at home.

But he knew the specific instant that her conscious mind took over. She stiffened and turned to iron in his arms.

“Jamie,” he whispered against her lips.

And then he cheated. His fingertips found the sweet hollow below her right ear, the soft spot along her jaw where her pulse beat as fast as a cornered mouse. He stroked the sensitive flesh once, twice, a third time, knowing he had the power to drive her wild, knowing how to make her melt.

And melt she did.

He grinned at the familiar sigh, at the tiny cry that blended into a moan. He let his lips take over where his fingers had been, let his tongue taste her, thrum with her excitement. He closed his teeth over her flesh, the tiniest nip, and he immediately soothed her surprise with the pressure of his lips.

She rolled her head back, clearly trusting that his hand would be there. His fingers spread through her hair, holding her, supporting her. Her motion exposed the long line of her throat, which he traced with a playful mix of lips and tongue and teeth.

A car drove by on the street behind them, its lights panning across the porch before it disappeared into the night. His lips curved into a grin beside her ear as he whispered, “Do you want to go inside?”

~~~

She shouldn’t.

She was fully aware of what would happen the instant the door was closed behind them. Hell, she’d
planned
for it to happen—making arrangements with Ashley to keep Olivia for the night, dressing in her club clothes. She’d just thought she’d be bringing home RoadWarrior.

Not Nick.

But her hands were on his waist; they’d settled there automatically as soon as the car drove by, as soon as he stopped whatever wicked thing he’d been doing to her throat. She’d tucked her fingers inside the waist of his khakis; she
knew
the feel of his muscles there, the jut of his hip bones that framed the taut V to his crotch.

He was waiting. He was giving her the choice.

She should send him away. That was the safe thing. That was the reasonable thing to do to a man who was invading her relationship with her daughter, who had left her high and dry at graduation solely because that had been the easiest thing for
him
to do.

But dammit, she didn’t want to let him go.

She twined her fingers between his and pulled him inside the house.

She wasn’t sure which of them closed the door. She couldn’t say who led the way to the couch. It was impossible to determine who reached first for whom.

None of that mattered as Jamie leaned back on the thick cushions. Nick’s weight on her chest was familiar, it felt
right
in a way that no other man had felt in the seven years since she’d last held him. His legs scissored between hers; he knew the perfect angle for his knee against her clit—through his khakis, through her leather—so that the embers deep inside her flickered to open flame.

He tugged her shirt from her pants with the urgency of a starving man. His palms seared her sides; each of her ribs ignited at his touch. His tongue flicked against her navel, and she laughed at the spear of white heat that pierced straight to her core.

It felt
amazing
to have Nick on top of her. He knew her body better than any man ever had.

“God,” he breathed, staring at her lace excuse for a bra. The garment had been flimsy enough to begin with. It was downright obscene now that her nipples stood at full attention. He wasted no time smoothing his fingers over her left breast, stroking her flesh, peaking her dusky nipple with one flick of his thumb, another, another. She arched her back against the jolts of pure sensation, and he laughed as if she’d invited him to a party where he was the guest of honor. He slipped her bra up, over her breast, and she gasped as he caught her nipple hard between his finger and his thumb.

He leaned down to kiss her, matching the thrust of his tongue to the tweaking of her breast. She twisted her mouth beneath him, panting against the jagged edge of sensation, but his laugh made her lips hum.

She laughed, too. She laughed because he knew exactly when to release the tender bud, precisely when she couldn’t stand another second of the pressure. He knew when the blood surged away, and how to bring it rushing back. He knew that the pace he set was building another pulse deep in her body, each sweet tug pushing her closer to the molten heat set deep in her memory.

And then he changed his game.

He pulled away from her mouth, leaving her lips bruised and tingling. He flicked his tongue against her right breast, tasted her through the lace. She gasped at the new approach, at the chill that rippled through her when he blew hot breath across her wet skin.

She scarcely fought down her shudder when he closed his mouth, suckling through the fabric. She felt the soft scratch of the lace, and she arched her back as his tongue embossed her flesh. His mouth worked magic spells, summoning an ache, a pressure she’d nearly forgotten in all the years they’d been apart. Her nipples were harder than they’d ever been before; her breasts were heavier, filled with longing that throbbed in time with the heat between her thighs.

She slipped her hands down Nick’s arms, whispering his name as she tightened her fingers against his banded muscles. He looked up at her, his mouth still hot, his tongue still hard. His eyes sparked in the dim light, laughing at her helpless moan. He was like a mischievous boy, a naughty daredevil, tempting her to follow him down well-known paths to pleasure.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. This was ridiculous. It was absurd to be doing this again, to be slipping back into their old roles, into the well-known fun and games.

But damn, it felt good.

Laughing at herself, at him, at the throbbing heat that made her feel like some passionate goddess, she pushed herself into a sitting position. Nick rocked back onto his heels, eyeing her as if she’d told him to stop.

No, she wasn’t telling him that. Instead, she settled one hand against his crisp broadcloth shirt. It was ridiculous that he was still fully dressed, when she was spilling out of her bra, with her silk tee pushed up to her throat.

With two quick twists of her wrists, she had his shirt pulled loose from his pants. She fiddled with the top button, reveling in the almost forgotten rasp of starched cotton, but she lost her patience with the rest and tore the shirt over his head. He laughed as he twisted free, as they worked together to toss the shirt over the back of the couch.

She ripped off her own shirt, adding it to the debris. The motion forced her bra back into place, and the lace was excruciating against her over-stimulated flesh. She compensated by kneeling on the couch, by steadying her palms against his broad chest.

She knew every inch of him. She knew the sprinkle of ginger hair, lighter than the curls on his head, closer to gold. She knew the scattering of freckles across his creamy skin, the invitation to play a scorching game of Connect The Dots. She knew the clean scent of him, the trace of mint behind soap.

She rubbed her cheek against his chest, closing her eyes at the long-missed sensation, at the prickle of his hair, at the heat that radiated toward her with every pulse of his heart. Yes, she knew him. But he was different, too.

He’d put on muscle in the past seven years. His chest was broader, even more firm than she remembered. She traced the lines of his pecs, first with her fingertips, then with her lips. The muscles fanned out toward sturdier shoulders, toward more developed biceps.

Her lips found another difference. Scars. Two incisions, healed into silver lines, one on the front of his right shoulder, the other on the back.