Page 109 of Holding On To Good

Her chest went cold with dread even as her heart pitter-pattered with excitement.

As always, she was one big, walking, talking mess of conflicting emotions when it came to him. Wanting more than was wise. Trying like mad to pretend she didn’t.

She’d brushed off each suggestion, declined each invitation, making excuses and more than once, lying about having prior plans or otherwise being unable to join him.

Hey, she was fighting to stay afloat here. Silly, trifle things like scruples and integrity and honesty would just have to take a back seat for a while.

Because for all her spouting off about pretending their kiss had never happened, for all her insistence that they ignore the long-standing pull between them, when it came down to it, she was a weak woman. Especially when it came to him.

And that weakness terrified her.

She couldn’t spend time with him. She’d never be able to pull off her patented Just Friends Act when she’d spent the past twelve nights with her vibrator and a recurring fantasy that started with her and Urban’s kiss and ended with him buried deep inside her.

She wasn’t that good of an actress.

Still, she couldn’t hide from the man forever.

But she could choose how, when and where she interacted with him outside of work.

Saturday morning at the ball field surrounded by people seemed like the best place to start.

Sitting at the top of the metal bleachers, she set her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her palms. Tapped her forefingers against her cheekbones as she watched both teams warm up.

Urban worked with half the team in the outfield, the players divided into two scraggly lines as each kid waited their turn to field a ball. Ian was among them, but she couldn’t make him out. They all looked the same in their red jerseys—J&K’s logo on the front, their number on the back—gray baseball pants and caps.

But she wasn’t moving closer, even if it did mean being able to pick out her favorite player. Nope. Not going to happen. She liked it up here just fine. She had a great view of the entire field.

It also had the distinct advantage of putting her at a great physical distance from Urban.

But distance, space and the ability to take a full breath without inhaling the scent of his aftershave couldn’t stop her from staring at him from behind her sunglasses like some baseball groupie—of which he’d had his fair share when he’d played, both in high school then later in college.

All she was missing was the sign reading You’d Never Strike Out With Me!

Thank God she wasn’t close enough to see the play of muscles in Urban’s arms as he tossed the ball into the air then swung the bat one-handed, lobbing easily fielded pop flies to the team.

It’d become a problem over the past week and a half, her sudden and new fascination with his arms. With how the muscles bunched and flexed as he worked. With wanting to trail her fingertips over the smooth skin covering his biceps, feel the coarseness of the hair on his forearms.

But his hands had become her true obsession. She’d found herself staring at them time and time again as he gripped a hammer or brushed sawdust off a sawn board or wrote something on his handy, dandy clipboard.

Had wondered, endlessly, what it’d feel like to have them on her.

The only way to rid herself of that preoccupation was to focus on something else so she’d skip her gaze down, taking in the way the material of his shirt clung to his broad shoulders, then back up to skim over features she knew by heart. The thick, dark hair, heavy brows and straight nose. The sharpness of his cheekbones above the beard, the slight dip at the left corner of his mouth.

Then she’d remember how he’d looked after they’d kissed—his eyes heavy lidded, heated and darkened to a milky chocolate brown. In that moment, it’d been like seeing him for the first time.

Seeing him in a new, exciting, frightening way.

Inevitably, her gaze would then be drawn to his mouth. To the memory of his lips moving over hers. The feel of his tongue gliding against hers. The taste of him.

And she’d want, with her entire being, with every freaking molecule in her body, to experience it all over again. If only so she could imprint it more fully into her memory. So deep that it became a part of her.

So deep, it wouldn’t fade.

Verity returned from her trip to the concession stand and Willow straightened so the girl could get past her to her spot between Willow and Toby. She settled in then turned to Willow. “You want some?”

Willow leaned back from the basket of nachos Verity held in both hands, up and out in offering, like some holy sacrifice. “It’s ten o’clock.”

Verity picked up a nacho-cheese coated chip with a slice of jalapeno glued to the orange goo. “Yes.”

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