Pitch Perfect(21)

Her former boss in Chicago had figured it out long before she started working there, and it was the first thing he showed her on a cold spring morning in Missouri.

Emmy perched on the counter in the training room, waiting for the small three-cup brewer to turn her stolen beans into the brown gold that was coffee. Jasper was the only other member of her team to have arrived early, and he was milling around the training room, grumbling about the quality of their equipment.

“People think low-budget teams suffer because they can’t afford the big-name players,” he lamented, “but the real tragedy is the crap they use to keep the players going.”

Emmy smiled at him then returned to her task as a coffee sentinel. “It’s only three days.”

“Here. Then we go to Detroit. God help me if I think about what to expect in Detroit.”

“Detroit has a much higher budget,” she reminded him.

Jasper huffed and continued to sort through the gel ice packs, balms and bandages on the shelf as if he might throw a fit. “I’m going to see if they have any decent kind of tensor in storage,” he said with an overly dramatic sigh. “I can’t deal with Chet’s ankle using this crap.”

He stalked out into the hall, grumbling, and Emmy laughed to herself, hearing words like barbaric and if this is what’s in Kansas, Dorothy was better off. There was no sense in shouting after him that Kansas was one state over.

She poured a cup of coffee into a stained Royals mug, attempting to serve herself the drink and get the pot back in before too much spilled onto the brewer. The hotplate hissed, and she popped her thumb into her mouth after accidentally scalding it on the glass.

“Son of a bitch,” she cursed. Footsteps came into the room, and with her coffee still in hand, Emmy absently asked, “Jas, can you pass me one of the icepacks out of the cooler?”

Putting the pad of her thumb back between her teeth, she tongued the tender flesh until a cool sensation touched her arm. “Thanks.” She grabbed the cold ice pack and placed her burned thumb on it. “Did you—?”

Emmy’s question died in her throat when she came face to chest with Tucker. Her breath hitched as her gaze traveled up his toned chest—clad only in a white undershirt—and up to his ridiculously pretty eyes.

“I thought you were Jasper.”

“No. Tucker.”

“Well, I can see that now.” She was holding the ice pack against her chest, clutching it so hard the gel inside was straining against the plastic. In her other hand the coffee mug was steaming, and she couldn’t figure out if her flushed skin and shivers were from the two competing temperatures or from her proximity to Tucker.

“You hurt yourself,” he noted, taking her injured hand in his.

Emmy dropped the ice pack the second he touched her. “It’s nothing serious. I burned my finger on the coffeepot.” She pointed to the small brewer as if he might not believe her without evidence.

“You’re supposed to let it finish before you take your coffee,” he told her, taking the hot mug from her hand and putting it on the counter.

“I was impatient.”

Tucker lifted her hand to his face, and his lips puckered. He blew a cool stream of air on her thumb, his fingers deftly massaging her palm even though there was nothing wrong with it. Emmy’s vision went hazy as the sensation of his breath changed from cool at first to warm as it passed over her, making her shudder. She stepped closer without meaning to, her hips bumping against his thighs.

“My mother told me once, good things come to those who wait.” He stopped blowing and placed a gentle kiss on Emmy’s thumb before crouching to pick up the fallen ice pack.

“Good things come to those who wait?” Emmy repeated.

“So I’m told.” He clasped her hands between his, the cold of the ice pack sandwiched between her too-hot fingers. Emmy tilted her face upwards, wanting more than anything for him to move one step closer to her. Tucker patted her hands and smiled. “I’ve learned to be very, very patient.”



What the hell was he doing?

Some sort of wave of stupidity had overcome him when he was alone in the room with Emmy. He had wanted nothing more than to slip her thumb into his mouth and slide his tongue across the swirling pattern of her fingerprint.

Just thinking it made being close to her dangerous.

“Let’s…let’s have a look at your arm,” Emmy stammered.

Tucker loved the way her cheeks turned pink when she was flustered. The first time he recalled seeing it was the night outside her cottage in Lakeview. Right after they’d kissed, her cheeks had looked like they’d been lit from within. Now she had the same self-conscious glow about her, and it only made him want to kiss her again.