Page 63 of Going Deep
“No, that was the cat.”
He laughed.
“This is it, turn here.”
He eyed the sign dubiously. “It says miniature golf.”
“And batting cages,” she pointed out. “You’re going to miss the turn!”
“No, I’m not.” He made the turn, wound through the parking lot to a space at least a ten-minute walk from the batting cages, then cut the engine. “Last chance,” he told her. “We could be at my place in twenty minutes.”
Her eyes laughed at him as she shoved her door open. “Not with that traffic. Come on. You can pound out your frustrations on a Spaulding.”
He watched her bounce out of the car and decided he’d save his pounding for later.
Ginger didn’t bother to hide her glee at the frustrated amusement on Michael’s face. When he’d told her they could do whatever she wanted today, she’d known exactly what he’d been thinking. Most any other time she’d have been thinking the same thing, but she’d spent most of her week unsuccessfully job hunting, and she felt the need to get out of the house and breathe in some fresh air.
And swinging a bat always helped when she was frustrated.
She shook her head, determined to put her dismal job prospects out of her mind for the afternoon. She had her bat and a sunny day to enjoy, so she’d worry about her life some other time.
After a quick stop at the ticket booth to buy the swipe cards that would make the pitching machines work, they headed to the outdoor cages. Ginger spotted two unoccupied cages side by side, and pointed. “There,” she told him, and trotted down to step into the furthest one.
She picked up the batting helmet that hung on a hook and plunked it down on her head over her Mudhens cap, then realized he was standing outside the cage door, watching her.
“What?”
“Nothing.” His lips quirked, and he looked her over, very deliberately. “You’re just very cute.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Cute? I’m not cute.”
He snorted a laugh. “Okay.”
She put her hands on her hips and shot him a stern look, ignoring the way her breath quickened at the sight of him. He was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, but the casual attire in no way diminished his attractiveness. In fact, it might just enhance it. God help her if he got all sweaty. Sexy and damp and salty…
Drawing herself up, she pointed to his cage. “Never mind. You just go on in there and pound some balls.”
His eyes glittered at her phrasing as he selected a bat from the rack and entered the cage next to hers. “You’re getting awfully bossy there, darling. You might want to watch you don’t get too big for your britches.”
Certain she’d pay for it later—counting on it, in fact—she rolled her eyes. “Yadda, yadda, yawn. I’m busy here.”
His lips twitched even as his eyes went hot. Oh yeah, she’d pay for that later, and felt the not unpleasant jitter of anticipation.
But right now, she wanted to pound balls.
She swiped her card in the machine, chose a setting that would vary the speed and location of the pitches, and hit the go button. Shutting everything else out, she grabbed her bat, stepped up to the plate, and waited for the pitch.
Michael was forced to admit he was having fun. After the first couple of pitches—which he’d imagined were Ginger’s ass under his paddle—he’d forgotten about what he’d hoped to be doing with his day and settled in to enjoy himself. After twenty minutes he’d worked up a decent sweat, and to his surprise, a lot of the work-related tension he’d been carrying around for the best part of a week had drained away.
This had been a good idea. Maybe he wouldn’t beat on her too badly for her sass. Then he grinned. Who was he kidding? Yadda yadda yawn? He stifled a laugh. Oh, she’d pay for that one. He’d been in the cage longer than he’d thought, and surely she must be done by now. He’d just collect her and bundle her off so he could get started.
He slipped off the helmet and turned, expecting to find her waiting for him in the long hallway that ran behind the cages. It was empty. With a frown, he swiveled around to look behind him into the cage she’d been using. Surely she wasn’t still?—
She stood at the plate, bat on her shoulder, eyes forward. When the pitch came, she swung—pivoting on her back foot, front leg extending, hips twisting to drive power through. There was a loud crack as her chewed-up wooden bat made contact, sending the ball soaring. She held the position for just a moment, watching it fly, then settled back in for the next pitch.
He pursed his lips, leaving his own cage to stand behind hers. She never noticed. Pitch after pitch—some high, some low, some fast, a few changeups—she sent all of them flying.
His eyes narrowed when he saw her lips moving. Talking to herself? He watched for a moment, then nearly burst out laughing. She was singing.
