Just One Night(50)

glaring right back.

“Emma’s pretty good, isn’t she?” Riley said cheekily to Cassidy as she strolled up

to the plate, keeping her voice and posture casual as though the entire game

didn’t rest on her shoddy hand-eye coordination.

Cassidy’s eyes narrowed just briefly, and Riley caught an unexpected glimpse of

the alpha businessman hiding behind that easygoing lankiness.

Look out, Emma.

And then she forgot all about Emma and Cassidy, about Camille and even Sam,

because it was just her and Jake.

Grace’s boyfriend—no, fiancé—might make a ridiculously attractive Hugh

Jackman look-alike, but right now he was the enemy.

“Who’s the scorekeeper?” Jake yelled to the bleachers. “Better get ready to write

another K for this one!”

“I don’t know what that means,” Riley hollered back, “but let’s hope you’re wearing

a cup today!”

“He’s not!” Grace yelled from the dugout.

Riley gave her trademark cat smile as her eyes dipped to the vicinity of Jake’s

waist. “Excellent.”

But Jake Malone was made of stronger stuff and knew Riley well enough to be

wise to her tricks, because he merely slipped on his game face and got into a

rather intimidating pitcher’s position.

Playing the part, Riley stepped up to the plate and hovered the bat over her

shoulder.

“Just keep your eye on the ball, Riley,” she heard Mitchell call from the dugout in

his calm, nothing-riles-me voice.

“I always do,” she called back, getting the expected laughs.

She wanted to sneak a look at Sam, but then Jake was doing his windup thing,

and she became determined not to be one of those girls who couldn’t manage to

hit a little ball because she had a crush on a boy.

She could have sworn that the first pitch was going to be way to the right, but

then it did some weird thing where it came back at the last second. Riley knew

even before she heard Cassidy mutter a satisfied strike right before Camille’s

more begrudging pronouncement of the same call.

“Lookin’ good,” came the husky voice from behind the catcher’s mask as he

tossed the ball back to Jake.

“Shut it, Cole.”

Cole Sharpe was one of Oxford’s other golden boys and normally fun to flirt with

in a harmless, platonic kind of way, but right now she wanted to win.

The second pitch was outside, although just by a hair.

“The count’s one–one!” Cole hollered needlessly. “Two more strikes and it’s beer

time.”

“One more hit and it’s beer time,” Riley snapped.

Cole’s teeth flashed white in a way that claimed bullshit.

Riley remembered that she’d have to actually swing. So she did.

She missed.

Strike two.

“I thought this was supposed to be as simple as keeping your eye on the freaking

ball,” she grumbled.

The next pitch looked almost perfect but seemed to dip low at the last second,

and Riley checked her swing.

Camille declared it a ball.

Then Jake declared Camille a scheming witch, which ended up in a rather

fantastic shouting match. Riley gladly stepped away from the plate and let her

boss and Grace’s fiancé duke it out.

Riley snuck a glance at Sam, who was leaning against the chain-link fence, arms

crossed over his chest and hat pulled low.

She couldn’t actually see his eyes to know that he was watching her, but she felt

it. Despite the fact that the game was inexplicably held in late September instead

of summer, Riley felt suddenly hot.

Camille won the argument by a landslide, surprising nobody, and Riley stepped

back up to the godforsaken plate.

The count was two and two, and her palms were beyond sweaty. To think she’d

thought her biggest hurdle of the day would be getting caught staring too long at

Sam.

The next pitch came at her so much faster than any of the ones before, perhaps

fueled by Jake’s temper, and Riley didn’t have any time to gauge whether or not

this was going to be high or low, or in her freaking face.

It was swing or die, and Riley wasn’t about to go to her grave an almost virgin.

She swung.

There was a sharp crack that was so foreign in its loudness that she didn’t realize

exactly what had happened until she heard someone yell run.

Probably Emma, judging by the manic intensity of the shout.

Riley sprinted toward first, and although she wasn’t sporty like Emma or a runner

like Julie, her days as a high school midfielder kicked in and she made it to first

base just seconds before the ball thumped into Jason Kendall’s mitt.

She barely heard Jason’s good-natured curse over the cheering coming from the