“Put this on.”
“Why?”
“To protect your head.” He gestured at a pitching machine at the far end of the cage, netting surrounding it.
“You want me to…hit?”
“Just humor me. Figured it would be fun to do something different.”
“I haven’t swung a bat since high school.”
He tilted his head, crossing his arms over his chest, muscles straining against the sleeves of his t-shirt. It took everything I had to not reach out and touch them. A shiver of excitement rushed through me at the reminder that I was lucky enough to know what those muscles felt like. To fall asleep with those arms wrapped around me.
At least for another few days.
“You played?” Lachlan asked, forcing my gaze away from his biceps.
“Mainly to piss off my mother who didn’t consider softball to be a sport becoming of a proper Southern debutante.” I played up my accent.
“You just shot up a thousand spots on the hot scale. I mean, you were off the charts before, but now…” He sucked on his bottom lip, gaze raking over me in a way that made me feel like he was mentally undressing me.
“Why? Because of my accent?”
“No.” An arm going around my waist, he dragged my body against his. “Because you played softball. Second base?”
My brows furrowed. “How’d you know? Did Naomi—”
“Your height. Short people do great there. Quick toss to first. Not a bad distance over to third if making a double play. I can tell you one thing. You certainly wouldn’t be at first base, short stuff.” He playfully swatted my ass, dropping his hold. “Now, let’s see what you remember.” He extended the helmet toward me.
Feigning annoyance, I took it from him, smoothing my hair back as I put it on my head. It was a little big, but would serve its purpose. After testing out a few of the bats, I selected one that felt the best and made my way toward the plate.
“If I make a complete fool out of myself, don’t laugh. Please. It’s been twenty years since I’ve picked up a bat.”
“Interesting. The first time I picked up a bat was twenty years ago.”
I placed a hand on my hip, frowning. “Probably not the smartest thing to say to someone holding a bat.”
“Probably not.”
Smirking, he placed a helmet on his head, then walked to the pitching machine and ducked underneath the netting, turning it on, a whirring sound filling the night sky.
I dug my back foot into the dirt, bending my knees slightly as I brought the bat behind me, focused on the pitching machine.
“And, for the record,” Lachlan stated, “you look fucking hot holding that bat.”
“Apron and heels hot?” I shot back.
“Oh, I’m absolutely picturing you in the apron and heels. And the helmet and bat.”
I burst out laughing. “You are so twisted.”
“Just keeping it interesting for you, beautiful. Now, you ready?” He retrieved a ball from the basket beside the machine and held it up.
I returned to some semblance of a batting stance. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
He nodded, eyes locked on mine as he dropped the ball into the chute. I did my best to not look at him and focus on the ball as it flew toward me. But it wasn’t enough, my swing not even close to connecting.
“It’s okay. Now you know what the pitch looks like. It’s why you’re never supposed to swing on the first pitch.”