Jennifer Seasons - Throwing Heat

Leslie handed her the soda, all concern. “You think it’s the flu?” Seemed to her the wrong time of the season for it, but who knew? Stranger things had happened.

Lorelei shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’m not feeling achy and I don’t have a headache. It’s just my stomach.”

Huh. Maybe it was a virus. “How’s Mark been feeling?” she asked and scanned the field, looking for her brother. She found him on deck and about to bat. As she watched he strode up to the plate and prepared for the pitch.

Glancing back at Lorelei, Leslie found her staring at Mark with a silly grin on her face. “He’s been fine,” she said, her eyes glued on her husband. “Healthy as a horse.”

Thinking that her soda looked pretty darn good, Leslie nabbed it from her and stole a sip. “Thanks, love. I was parched,” she said as she handed it back.

“If I didn’t adore you so much I’d clock you for swiping my sugary caffeinated beverage.”

Leslie grinned at her, knowing the woman didn’t mean a word of her threat. “Wow. Somebody’s feeling a wee bit bitchy today too.”

Lorelei blew out a breath and slouched in her stadium seat, propping a foot on the empty one in front of her. “I know it. And I feel terrible about it too, but it just won’t stop. It’s like I have PMS on steroids.”

Leslie could relate. She was a monster every month for about a week. “No worries.”

Someone walking behind them whacked her on the back of the head. “I’m sorry!” the person exclaimed.

Whipping around in her seat, Leslie came up against a teenage girl holding a small mountain of hot dogs who was trying to make her way down the aisle. “It’s all right, hon.”

The girl smiled gratefully. “Thanks.”

Turning back around as the scent of ball field dogs hit her nose, Leslie tugged down her faded black Jack Johnson T-shirt and felt her mouth water. She sighed and looked at Lorelei. “Now I need a hot dog, damn it.”

Her sister-in-law laughed and said around her soda straw, “Normally I’d join you with a burger, but I believe I’ll abstain this time.”

Leslie froze. What? Since when did Lorelei ever turn down greasy salty goodness?

Spinning in her seat until she was face-to-face with the brunette, she lowered her Ray-Bans and looked her over thoroughly. The early October sun was at an angle in the sky that made her squint against the glare. “You don’t want anything to eat?”

Lorelei shook her head, her green eyes confused. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I mean, I never turn down food. Especially not a cheeseburger.”

Leslie looked her dead in the eye. “You’ve never been pregnant before, either.”

Lorelei jolted and bobbled her cup of soda. “I’m not . . . I mean . . . I can’t be . . . he’s been so busy . . . we aren’t even trying yet!” she ended almost desperately, her face white and her eyes huge.

“That’s the funny thing about sex. You don’t even have to try.” She should know. She hadn’t been trying at seventeen, either.

Lorelei stared at her, eyes all shimmery. “You think I could be?”

Leslie snagged the soda again and took a good long slurp, staring at her hard. It was written all over her pasty face.

“Yup.”

LESLIE SET THE tray of drinks on the table and laughed at the sight that greeted her. About a dozen Rush players gathered around two tables shoved together, the men in various stages of intoxication. They’d come into Hotbox after the game to celebrate their victory against the Mets.

They did that once in a while. It boosted attendance every time they did, which was just one more reason why Peter playing in the club would be such a big deal. The famous Rush pitcher got attention.

Live music pumped through the state-of-the-art sound system as a local indie band rocked the house with their African-influenced breezy folk music. When they’d first come into the bar looking for a place to play and she’d heard their sound it had been a done deal. They were like Rusted Root and Jack Johnson combined and it was freaking awesome. It made her feel good to give the little guys some exposure too.

“Hey, sis, where’s my wife?” Mark had to nearly shout to be heard over the music. “I thought she was with you?”

Leslie handed outfielder Carl Brexler a nitro-tap microbrew and winked at him when he thanked her. “She’s passed out on the couch in my office.”

Instantly concerned, her brother began shoving away from the table to stand. “Is she okay?”

Leslie put a hand on his shoulder to restrain him and pushed him back down. “She’s fine, just tired. All the packing y’all have been doing has tuckered her clean out. Just sit back, enjoy yourself and let her rest.”

She left out the teensy bit about how his wife was probably pregnant. No way would she spoil that awesome surprise for him. Knowing Mark, he was going to flip when he found out. Having kids had always been something he’d secretly wanted. It had given her endless material for his torment as kids.

And she had used it. Oh my, how she had.

“Are you sure?” He looked dubious, his gray eyes filled with worry.

Leaning down, she pecked him on the cheek. “I’m sure. Just relax.” Pointing at the stage she added, “This band is terrific and they aren’t signed by a record label yet. Listen and see if you want to point them to your buddy at Delta Records.”

Mark loved music almost as much as she did. Settling back in his seat, her brother snagged a buffalo wing from the basket on the table and smiled. “Will do.” He took a bite and said around a mouthful of chicken, “What’s with the getup, by the way? You look extra dressed up tonight.”

She did?

Leslie looked down her body, taking in her black skinny jeans, snug black top, and bright red heels. Nothing was out of the ordinary. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the earrings and nail polish and other crap.”

She gave him a look, frowning. “I’m not wearing anything I don’t normally wear, Mark.” Maybe she’d taken a little extra care with her appearance today, but that was it.

Oh, there was that bit about a bet and all, but she wouldn’t flaunt her body just to drive a certain somebody crazy now, would she? That’d just be mean. And unlady-like. Bad manners all around.

Leslie grinned to herself. She so would.

“I know that look,” Mark stated. “What are you up to now, sis?”

Brushing him aside, she replied, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Before he could probe any further, she slid around the table and deposited the rest of the drinks. When she was done, she crossed her arms, tray in hand, and watched the band on stage.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up and the skin there began to tingle. What the—?

Before she could spin around to look for the source of her ESP, a hot body brushed against her back. Hard hands slipped whisper-quiet over her hips and very briefly cupped her butt cheeks.

She knew exactly who it was. “Get your hands off my ass, Kowalskin.”

Breath puffed softly down her neck, scalding her there. “You like my hands on your ass. And my mouth.”

Jerk. He would have to go and remind her about that. “I was drunk.”

Quiet laughter echoed in her ear. “You still liked it.” One hand moved over her butt, making her shiver inside until a thumb was caressing and pushing into the top of her cleft, right where the two cheeks met. “Especially here.”

She wanted to arch back into his hand it felt so good. Instead she stepped away and ignored the heat that had flared between her thighs. “Again, I was drunk, Peter. That does nothing for me now.”

Liar, liar, big fat liar.

And he knew it. Laughter rumbled in his chest and he smacked her butt hard enough to sting. “You liked that too.”

Ugh! “Go away.”

Obviously disinclined to acquiesce because he didn’t budge, Leslie shot him a glare as she retreated to the safety of the bar. He just hooked his thumbs in the front of his jeans and watched her walk away, not trying at all to hide the fact that he was staring at her backside. He was probably picturing it naked.

Irritation welled in her. Damn the man, but he could be infuriating.

Once behind the bar, Seth stepped up beside her, sweet and eager. It was cute, this case of puppy love he had for her. “How are you doing, boss? Can I get you a drink?”

Taking a deep breath, Leslie calmed her racing heart and said, “I’m good, but thanks.”

From her vantage point behind the bar, she scanned the crowd and noted that the place was nearly packed. All the couches on the balcony were in use and the dance floor was crawling with gyrating bodies. Two women were wrapped around each other kissing near the table full of ballplayers, and she glanced at the team’s ace pitcher to see if he was watching. Hot lesbians making out made for a pretty good show.

Jealousy sliced through her, totally unexpected and completely unwelcome. What did she care if he got his rocks off watching scantily clad women go at it?

Just to prove she didn’t, that she could’ve seen him staring right at them without feeling a thing, she forced her gaze off the action and looked for his messy black head and white vintage Led Zeppelin T-shirt. She found him at the far end of the table sitting next to Drake, who must have arrived while he was busy harassing her. The big veteran was glued to the scene playing out nearby, but Peter hadn’t even seemed to notice.

Nope, he’d snagged somebody’s beer and was kicked back in a chair with his ankles crossed, watching the band onstage. A thick black leather bracelet covered his wrist and his jeans were faded and frayed. His leather jacket was tossed over the back of his chair, and he had a five o’clock shadow covering his lean cheeks. When he reached for his glass the tattoo on the inside of his bicep peeked out from under his sleeve. She couldn’t see from the distance, but she knew it was a way cool yin-yang dragon.

A little bit humble and a whole lot of cocky, Peter Kowalskin was totally badass. He looked it and acted it—like nothing was off limits.

But he wasn’t into watching chicks.

Relief washed through her, taking the jealousy with it. And the fact that she felt relieved that he wasn’t into the girl-on-girl make-out session was seriously frustrating. Why should she care?

She didn’t. He could do whatever the hell he wanted.

That’s what she told herself as she made up a ton of busywork to keep away from the Rush’s table. When she’d run out of excuses, she left the floor and headed down the back hall toward her office, thinking it was time to check on Lorelei. The noise from the club became muffled as she made her way to the back, and the relative quiet began to smooth her frazzled nerves.

Once she reached the end of the hall and came to her office door, she pushed it open silently and slipped inside. Lorelei was sacked out on her plush purple velvet sofa, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Kicking off her heels so she wouldn’t wake her, Leslie bit back a groan and wiggled her cramped toes. As beautiful as the shoes were, and as powerful as they made her feel, they were still hell on her feet.

Casting a quick glance at her sister-in-law, she was reassured to find her still sound asleep. Dark circles smudged beneath her eyes and she was curled up on her side with Leslie’s hand-knit blanket over her. The multicolored chenille throw had been her first attempt at knitting something harder than a scarf, and it looked pretty good if she did say so herself. A few tie-offs had come loose, but the unraveled threads gave it a fringy kind of appearance.

For a woman who was rarely domestic, even she found it odd just how much she enjoyed the craft of knitting. But it had only taken one good Colorado blizzard for her to discover how relaxing it could be—and how well it helped pass the time when thirty-mile-an-hour winds whipped the snow coming down into whiteout conditions and kept everyone indoors.

It was all part of her fresh start, this trying new things. Cooking, knitting—getting all grassroots and stuff. For her anyway. Such a far departure from the life that she’d lived before. Then it had been work and the beach. Those were the only two things that had turned her crank.

Well that and killer shoes.

Glancing down at her only remaining pairs of Jimmy Choos, a sad little sigh escaped before she could stop it. Lorelei stirred at the noise and shuffled on the couch, a hand flopping off the cushions to dangle near the floor. She came dangerously close to taking out a struggling potted bamboo plant without even knowing it.