When an unexpected bout of flu left the coordinator bedridden, Stevie volunteered to take her place. As chairperson of the committee, she had unlimited access to Aaron. For three whole unlimited days. Jacy knew her friend planned to make the most of her time with the man.
Slapping her hands against her thighs, Stevie said, "I'm on the clock. Guess I'd better get to work. Do you want me in the kitchen or out front?"
"Out front," Jacy directed. "Push the plum-date bars."
Stevie lifted a brow. "You baking?"
"Caramel rolls. Risk's favorite. The man always had a sweet tooth."
Gazing down at her stained slacks, Jacy decided to slip into a pair of kitchen whites she had in her office. Whites she had tie-dyed in a psychedelic print. The rental uniform company had yet to complain. In a small town, business was business.
She rubbed her hands together, ready to blend the ingredients, roll and slice the dough, and get sticky to her wrists from the caramel glaze.
She knew the scent of baking caramel rolls would draw Risk to the kitchen. She could already feel the warmth of his mouth, the moist sweep of his tongue, the delicious tug of his lips when he licked her fingers clean.
Her body melted like the butter on the stove.
Chapter 2
Stevie Cole French-braided her auburn hair before entering the coffee shop. The place was still packed. The line still stretched out the door. She caught sight of Risk repairing the retro stool at a corner table, and wondered as to the identity of the man supporting the aqua vinyl against his thigh while Risk tightened the screws. The man was clean cut, well put together, smart-looking, and, somehow… familiar.
So intense was her scrutiny, she slammed smack into the edge of the counter. The sharp edge jabbed her hip. She winced.
Casting a second glance his way, she had to admit he was as attractive as she'd first believed. The thought shook her. She'd never looked at another man. Aaron was her life. Her focus. Yet a strange flutter in her belly caused her to sneak a third peak.
Brown hair. Broad shoulders. Tall, considering the stretch of his legs blocking the aisle between tables. White-and-blue striped button down shirt. Collar turned up. Navy slacks. Loafers without socks.
He must have felt her eyes on him. Glancing up from the New York Times, he met her stare over wire-rimmed reading glasses and held it for fifteen heart-pumping seconds. A quick once-over and he nudged Risk, then nodded her way.
Risk looked up, smiled and motioned Stevie to their table. Her legs refused to move. Had another employee not bumped her from behind, she might have stood there like a statue until the coffee shop closed.
The man's brown gaze, so dark it was nearly black, tracked her progress until she stood next to Risk, who was still kneeling on the floor. Stevie found herself wishing she was ten pounds lighter and a whole lot prettier.
"Stevie Cole, meet Zen Driscoll," Risk said casually.
Zen took her in. "Stevie, huh? You don't look like a boy."
"Her real name's Stephanie," Risk explained.
Zen understood. "A tomboy at heart?"
"I love sports," she returned.
"Zen was traded from the Bombers. He came on as shortstop with the Rogues this season," Risk finished the introduction.
Recognition hit hard. Driscoll was a traitor. He'd left Tampa Bay for Richmond beneath the cloak of darkness. The media had begged an explanation. Zen, however, had remained closemouthed. Her feelings cooled considerably toward him.
"Einstein," she said, calling him by his player nickname. A man known for his intense strategy both on the field and as a financier. He'd stolen more bases than anyone else in the league—seventy to be exact—and laid claim to six Gold Gloves. "You were the one who started the ninth inning rally that brought Risk to bat."
He creased his newspaper and laid it on the table. "I admit to the triple, but Risk hit the home run that brought us both in."
"Lucky hits."
"Luck had nothing to do with it. In every at-bat, a hitter will get at least one pitch that's hittable." He eyed her over the rim of his glasses. "I gather you're not a Rogues' fan."
"Gather you're right."
"Stevie's into the Bombers," Risk injected from the floor. "Aaron Grayson to be exact."
"I know Shutout." Zen referred to Aaron by his nickname. "Decent pitcher."
"Decent?" She rolled her eyes. "You've slid headfirst into one too many bags if you don't believe he's the best."
Zen looked at her thoughtfully. "In the grand scheme of life, win or lose, it's only a game."
Only a game? Was the man from Mars? " 'Baseball, it is said, is only a game. True. And the Grand Canyon is only a hole in Arizona. Not all holes, or all games, are created equal.'"
"New York Times columnist George F. Will." Zen surprised her by recognizing the quote.
"Zen's a bit of a trivia buff," Risk said from the floor. "He might be the one to stump you."
Stump me, my ass. " 'Baseball is more than a game to me, it's a religion,'" Stevie was curious how much Zen truly knew.
"Umpire Bill Klem," he replied easily.
Too easily for her liking. The competitive look in his eyes told her he could match her every challenge. She hated that look and wanted him and his baseball brain gone. "In town long?" she inquired as sweetly as she could manage.
A smile pulled at his lips. "You in a hurry to see me go?"
"I could point you toward I-4 North."
"Point me there after the weekend."
Three whole days. The town was too small for their paths not to cross.
He rested his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers and asked, "Are you taking coffee orders?"
She nodded toward the line of people at the register. "Ordering is done at the counter."
"Long line, and it hurts to stand. Pulled hamstring."
She was aware of his injury. She hoped it pained him to death. Looking down her nose at him, she drew a resigned breath. "Latte, breve, cappuccino?"
His gaze lit with interest. "Do you give sugar?"
"That's Jacy's specialty."
Zen nodded. "Jacy's one hundred ten pounds of sweetness."
While Stevie tipped the scale at one-thirty-six, ten of those pounds lacked sinew. Brownies and cookie dough had stolen her cheekbones. Her pants wouldn't zip. Her thighs now rubbed together.