Page 6 of Commit

I look back at Chelsea. She’s got a massive smile on her face, and she doesn’t even know what’s happening. Wait until she sees me go inside the batting cage with Bradley Cooper’s clone. She’s going to freak out.

“Fine,” I say, climbing under the nets.

He reaches for a helmet, fitting it over my head. “If you’re going to be in here, you need to have a helmet on.”

“Why?” I pout. “You don’t have one on.”

He points the bat at his friend. “Reece isn’t a very good pitcher, and it would be a shame if someone as pretty as you got hit in the face with a baseball.”

I tilt my head, planting a hand on my hip. “Do you always hit on your coaches?”

“Only ones that are as cute as you.”

Oh, brother. He’s schmoozing me, but I kind of like it.

“Listen, Mr. Smooth Talker, let’s see if you can hit the ball as smoothly as you can flirt.”

“Okay.” He lines up with the plate. “Is this right?”

He’s standing all wrong…on purpose. Even I can see that.

I look at his friend. “Are you seeing this?”

Reece shrugs. “Looks like you need to help him.”

I hold my hand out. “Give me the bat.”

“No, I’ll keep holding the bat. You just come behind me and show me how.”

Wow. This guy is taking this too far. But hey, I’m committed to the dare, and maybe I can even convince Chelsea to up my laundry to three weeks.

“If you insist.” I stand behind him. The sheer size of this guy's shoulders makes wrapping my arms around him virtually impossible, but I try anyway. My arms brush his as my chest presses against his back. I go on my tippy-toes to reach. I pull his arm back so that his elbow lifts to what I think is the right spot. It’s not like I study batting stances.

The guy turns his head, so his cheek is close to mine. This is, by far, the craziest thing I’ve ever done. I’m also adding this to the sexiest thing I’ve ever done. His soft lips tilt upward, and I’m suddenly wondering what kind of chapstick he uses to get lips that smooth.

“Like this?” he asks.

My eyes follow his mouth.

Burt’s Bees. That has to be it.

I shake my head, knocking myself out of whatever trance I’m under. “I think you got it.”

I step back, smacking him on the butt as a coach would. The slap was not premeditated and was surprisingly unsatisfying. Men are right. There’s nothing sexual about sports butt slaps. Although, my cheeks are turning red from embarrassment anyway.

Did I really just slap his butt? Too far, Remi. Too far.

Time to go.

I duck under the nets, walking out of the cage toward Chelsea.

“Where do you think you're going?” he asks.

I don’t look back. “To the grocery store.”

“Don’t you want to watch me hit the ball? Or take a few swings?”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Just follow through. Really commit to your swing, and don’t forget the spin.”

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