His dad got tickets to Wicked for their mom? She couldn’t remember the last time her father had given a present to her mom—much less included her and Tyler in on it.

“I think living in a city would make me stir-crazy,” said Michael.

She thought of his parents’ landscaping business and wondered if a guy like Michael would actually suffer in a city. “I guess we’re not fated to be together, then.”

She’d meant for it to come out flippant, full of sarcasm, but the words fell flat and honest. He looked over his shoulder. “I guess not.”

The machine buzzed, signaling the last pitch. Michael hit hard, sending the ball into flight before it hit the nets and dropped dead.

She expected him to feed it another token, but he stepped over to the fence and hooked his hand on a link exactly five inches to the left of hers.

Again, he was too close. Her heart kicked. She stared up at him and stopped breathing.

“Want to learn?” he said.

“Learn?” Her voice was squeaking.

He tapped the fence with the end of the bat. “How to hit.”

She couldn’t. She’d already spent too much time talking to him. This had danger written all over it.

But some part of her heart had already told her brain’s insistent thoughts to shove it.

Because she was already saying yes.

His brain kept asking him what the hell he was doing, but Michael ignored the doubts and led Emily to the slowest cage. All afternoon, her presence had been little flickers against his skin, not entirely unpleasant. From the moment he’d caught her in the office, blushing and stammering and fighting to turn down her music, he’d been fighting the urge to reach out and touch her, to see if those little flickers were a promise of something more.

She hadn’t reported him. That had to mean something.

Right?

Especially now, when she stood with him in the eight-foot-square cage, listening to him talk about things like stance and hand position and letting the ball come to her.

God, he needed to shut up. He felt giddy and nervous and it was a miracle he could even form a coherent sentence. He held out the bat. “Here. Let’s just try.”

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.