She made no move to take it. “I’m probably going to give myself a concussion.”

“Come on. My brother could hit off this machine when he was eight.”

She made a face. “Now I feel better.” But she took the bat and attempted to hold it the way he’d shown her.

She looked ridiculous and adorable and he tried not to laugh.

Just as quickly, he choked it off.

What was he thinking?

Sharp words sat on his tongue, ready to drive her away. He could stop this now. They could go back to being mortal enemies. She’d let one mistake slide. That wasn’t the same as helping him. Or even accepting him.

She looked over at him, and he was sure she could read the doubts on his face.

Just like he could read the doubts on hers.

Michael jammed his hands into his pockets, feeling his shoulders tighten.

Before he could say anything, she said, “I look like an idiot, don’t I?”

He let out a breath. “Nah.” Then he paused and almost smiled. “Well. Maybe.”

“Tell me what to do so I don’t take a ball to the frontal lobe.”

So he demonstrated again, and she took the stance again, and when she said she was ready, he fed a token to the machine.

At the first ball, she didn’t even try to swing. She flung herself back and almost dropped the bat. “Holy crap, that’s fast!”

He caught her shoulders before she could plow into him, intending to set her straight, the way he would one of his brothers.

She froze, just for an instant, but it was enough. He yanked his hands down.

She didn’t say anything, so he backed away to lean against the chain link, putting clear distance between them. “You want me to go get a putter?” he said. “You have no trouble swinging those.”

That earned him a rueful glance over her shoulder.

But then her expression softened. “You can show me.” She paused. “It’s okay.”

He hesitated, just long enough for him to hear the machine revving up for the next pitch. So he stepped forward, caught her shoulders again, and pushed her into place. Then, without thinking about it too carefully, he put his arms over hers, his hands on the bat, and guided her into the swing.

“Don’t run from it,” he said. “Stand strong.”

She got a piece of this one, and you would have thought she’d scored the winning home run at the World Series. Bat in the air, jumping up and down, silly smile on her face.

“I hit it! I hit it!”

It made him smile. This was vastly more satisfying than showing Chris how to hit a curve ball. “Okay, try not to make it a foul ball next time.”

She made a face. “Killjoy.” She tapped the bat against the ground and got back into position. Like a frigging major league player.

He laughed.

And then he shut up real quick when she threw another glance over her shoulder. “You going to show me again or what?”

CHAPTER 6

Michael crossed the parking lot with a spring in his step. He told himself to knock it off, that one batting lesson didn’t mean anything.

Especially not with Emily Morgan.

But he kept thinking of the feel of her hands under his, of the way her shoulders fit perfectly within the circle of his arms, of the smell of her skin.

He found himself wondering what other things would feel like. Holding her hand. Touching her hair.

Kissing her?

Stop it. You’re an idiot.

But the curve of her neck had been right there. She hadn’t flinched from his touch. Really, if you took away the baseball bat, the way he’d been holding her had been pretty damn intimate.

When he inhaled, he could almost still smell her.

Stop it!

He’d already told her too much. How baseball let him clear his mind and focus on something not related to his element. How he worried every day would end with a loss of control—like Friday.

How badly he wanted to leave town.

He could have kicked himself for revealing that one.

But then she’d talked about her parents’ fighting. How sometimes she didn’t care about making it in New York; it was just a new place, a new beginning.

She told him how she was sick of every day being focused on hate.

And for the first time, he let himself start to wonder if this deal could work out.

She’d left ten minutes ago, after he’d told her to go so they wouldn’t be seen walking out together. He’d killed ten minutes burning through his last token, remembering the feel of her body with every swing he took.

Dad’s truck sat alone at the back of the parking lot, dark in the shade of an old elm tree. Michael had the keys in his hand and a bemused smile he couldn’t get off his face.

He didn’t even hear the attackers until his head was slamming into the concrete.

They were all on him at once. He couldn’t even get a handle on how many guys had tackled him. One had come from the bed of the truck. They had the chain Dad kept back there to tie down loose loads, and they had it against his throat, pinning him to the parking lot. Someone else trapped an arm, kneeling on his wrist, grinding his skin into the pavement.

And then, just as he registered the blond hair, someone punched him in the face. A good, solid punch, with power behind it.

He saw stars for a second, long enough for them to pin his other arm. He struggled, but he had no leverage.

“Hey, ass**le.”

Tyler. He’d swung the first punch—and he did it again.

Michael coughed against the chain on his throat. He gritted his teeth. He could pull power from the earth and throw them off, but he doubted they’d give him a free pass like Emily had.