Extra Innings and In His Wildest Dreams Read online

  “Be sure that you do.” The older man’s gaze narrowed on her as if he saw right through her phony enthusiasm. “I’m giving you two full pages in next Sunday’s edition.”

  “Wow. Two pages?” Holy mother of God, how was she going to manage that? “Is this guy really that interesting?”

  “It’s your job to make sure that he is.”

  “Yes, sir. And thank you.” She left his office, closing the door behind her, but she couldn’t move her feet any farther. Not yet.

  All she’d ever wanted was to be a reporter. A journalist who covered hard news with insight and integrity. She’d been on her way before Chicago, and even though that had gone to hell, she’d picked herself up and started again. It didn’t matter that she now had to cover births and PTA meetings and garden parties—she was prepared to do whatever it took to become the professional she knew she could be.

  If it had been anyone but Dylan Andrews, she’d have leaped on this opportunity with all engines firing. She’d have made baseball her passion by the time she knocked on the player’s door. She’d have shown her boss and everyone who’d ever turned her down for a job that she was a force to be reckoned with.

  No, wait—full stop. Dylan Andrews was the hand she’d been dealt, and she’d be damned if she was going to fold before she’d even begun. From this moment forward, high school hadn’t happened, she’d never met Andrews, never thought about him a day in her life. From this moment forward, she was Elizabeth Smith, Baseball Expert and Ace Interviewer. Period.

  Even if he got one look at her and burst out laughing just before he slammed the door in her face.

  2

  DYLAN GOT OUT OF the shower and wrapped the flimsy hotel towel around his hips, then used another to dry his hair as he walked to the window. Damn, it was still raining. It would really suck if the game got canceled tonight. Not just because he wanted every opportunity to show that he was ready to be called up, but because the reporter would be flying in this afternoon.

  He’d tried to put her off, even suggested that they could conduct the entire interview over the phone, but E. J. Smith had been persistent. She’d sidestepped every roadblock he’d thrown in front of her, and promised to work around his schedule. She’d been quick and sharp, not the slightest bit flirty to get his attention, and a small part of him looked forward to meeting her. But if the game were rained out…well, he didn’t want that much time available for her to get her hooks into him.

  On his way back to the bathroom he checked his phone to see if the team manager had texted about the weather forecast or the game being called. So far, so good. But the reporter had called. Again. He didn’t bother listening to her messages since he had no intention of returning her call until tomorrow. He was using the towel to dry the back of his damp hair when he heard a knock.

  Had to be Chip. Stir-crazy from being cooped up, the kid had shown up twice to pace Dylan’s room after he got tired of pacing his own. Hell, starting to think of nineteen-year-old outfielders as kids? Bad sign.

  Dylan opened the door. “Man, you really need to find a pool game or—” He stopped and frowned at the woman in front of him. Medium-brown shoulder-length hair, minimal makeup, well-shaped pink lips. She was slim, on the petite side under the no-nonsense navy blazer and white skirt. She didn’t seem like a groupie. “I think you have the wrong room.”

  Her gaze hadn’t budged from his chest, and he realized he was wearing nothing but a damn towel. She looked up, and he saw that her eyes were blue.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I tried calling.” Abruptly she extended her hand, glanced down at him again, then pulled her hand back and picked up a brown leather travel bag sitting at her feet. “I’ll come back. We can set up an appointment for later.”

  “Hey.” He had to step out into the hall because she’d taken off that fast. “Wait.” He watched her slow down, though she kept her back to him. “Are you the reporter?”

  Her shoulders squared and then she turned to face him. “Yes, we spoke yesterday.”

  “I didn’t think I’d see you until tomorrow.”

  “Your agent felt we wouldn’t have enough time before you left Tulsa. He told me—” She gave her head a slight shake and the overhead light caught the subtle gold streaks in her hair. “You really should go inside.”

  The way she’d moved her head, her sudden preoccupation with the ceiling, made her seem vaguely familiar. Which wouldn’t be odd. He’d crossed paths with a number of sports reporters over the years. But he couldn’t imagine, having met her, that he’d forget her. He wished she’d quit staring at the ceiling so he could…

  He looked down. Shit.

  The towel was damp and thin and his cock was doing something it had no damn business doing. He casually draped the other towel over his arm, holding it in front, tempted to dash back into the room. Yeah, that wouldn’t make things worse. “Are you staying here?”

  “I’m checking in as soon as my room is ready.” She tentatively swung her gaze his way, and he could all but hear her sigh of relief.

  “So where are you gonna be?”

  “I don’t know. Just call my cell. You have the number.”

  For a crazy second he thought about offering to let her wait inside while he dressed. But then he woke up and remembered that he wanted to get rid of her, not make things easy.

  HE HADN’T RECOGNIZED HER. Not even a little. A good thing, really, for two reasons. If Elizabeth still looked like that frizzy-haired nerd she’d been in high school she’d have to jump off a bridge. And two, if he knew who she was, he might have shot down the interview. So why did it bother her that there hadn’t been even a hint of recognition? So what that she really had been invisible to him? All that teen angst for nothing.

  God, and she was supposed to be the “smart one.” He’d been a year ahead of her, and inarguably the hottest guy in school, so why on God’s green earth would Dylan have ever given her a second look except as the butt of a cruel joke?

  She planted herself on a stool at the bar as she briefly considered a couple shots of tequila. Of course she’d do no such thing. Not now when she hoped to be flipping on her tape recorder soon. Later maybe. After the game started tonight and she knew she wouldn’t see him until morning.

  Dylan Andrews.

  Holy crap.

  With his dreamy hazel eyes that tended toward green, he looked even better now than he had ten years ago, and he’d sure been something back then. All the girls had drooled over him, including her, although she never would have admitted it out loud. Especially after the Photoshop Incident.

  Some complete ass had used Photoshop to put the worst picture ever taken of a human being—her, with a goofy smile, hair from a horror movie and her hideous glasses halfway down her nose—alongside Dylan in his jersey. With a giant pink heart around the two of them. A heart with an arrow through it. On Valentine’s Day.

  A decade had passed and still the memory of her frantically ripping down each picture was so humiliating that she revisited the idea of having at least one quick drink before she had to face him again.

  Dylan had played football in the fall and baseball in the spring and summer. He’d been the quintessential all-American athlete who all the other boys wanted to be and all the girls wanted, period. She’d tried to pretend she’d been randomly chosen for that horrific joke, but that wasn’t quite true. She’d been a brainiac, a loudmouth and so unattractive she hadn’t had a single date until college. She felt sick remembering those dozens of photocopies plastered on lockers and doors, and how she’d begged her parents to transfer her to another school.

  Even so, her crush on Dylan hadn’t faded. He hadn’t been the one behind the prank. She wished she knew who was. She’d like to make sure he walked funny for a few weeks. Not that it mattered. The damage had been done. She’d finished that year pretending nothing had happened. She’d gone to all Dylan’s games. Thought about him and dreamed about him. He hadn’t given her a glance. If not for the stup
id picture, she never would have been on his radar at all.

  The bartender finished serving a couple at the other end of the bar and then approached Elizabeth, who gazed longingly at their tall pretty drinks. Irish coffees would be her guess.

  “Plain coffee for me,” she said morosely.

  “A shot of Baileys or Kaluha would help chase away the rainy-day blues,” the bartender said, and Elizabeth looked into his handsome, smiling face.

  “Tempting, but I’m working.” She eyed his crooked uniform bowtie and squashed the urge to lean over and straighten it. Jeez, couldn’t she simply appreciate a good-looking guy without finding something to criticize?

  “Ah, then a cup of joe it is.”

  She watched him saunter toward the coffee station set up at the back of the bar, admitting he had a fine ass, and yes, she could overlook the maroon bowtie.

  “Ms. Smith?”

  She snapped up straight and swiveled toward Dylan. “It’s Elizabeth,” she said, less worried now about sticking to her initials since he clearly was clueless about her. Smith was common enough and she’d gone by Beth throughout her childhood. “I just ordered coffee. Care to join me?”

  His gaze swept the small dim bar, which opened up to the lobby. He’d put on a cream-colored golf shirt tucked into snug dark blue jeans. His chest and shoulders were broad, his belly flat, and if she hadn’t already seen him up-close-and-personal, the fitted shirt would have been evidence enough that he took his workouts seriously.

  “You mind if we sit at a table?” he asked, indicating one close to the small uninspired lobby.

  “No problem.” She glanced at the tab the bartender left, and grabbed her purse.

  “Here.” Dylan laid down a ten.

  “I do have an expense account, and besides, I should be buying your drink.”

  He shrugged off her objection and bent to pick up the bag she’d left on the floor near her feet, his gaze sliding down her bare legs to the pink toenails peeking out from her open-toed shoes.

  That he’d noticed threw her momentarily off balance. She was dressed professionally, with a dark blue blazer, white cotton shirt and short, slim skirt. Low pumps would have been the sensible addition. But she had a hopeless weakness for trendy shoes with heels as high as she could manage without tripping.

  “Hey, Dylan, you want coffee or water?” It was the bartender, who’d already picked up Elizabeth’s mug and was carrying it around the bar.

  “Water, thanks, Bill.”

  “You heard if they’re postponing the game tonight?”

  “Not yet.” Dylan set Elizabeth’s bag down near a table, and Bill was right behind him with her coffee and a bottle of water.

  The bartender glanced at her with new interest before setting down the mug. “Tanya’s coming back from break any minute. She’ll be taking care of you.”

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth said, although it was clear the man was catering to Dylan. She waited until he’d left and said, “Even the opposing fans treat you like royalty.”

  Dylan snorted, looking mildly annoyed. “I give them signed baseballs for their kids, I’m nice and I tip well.”

  “And they’re all hoping you’ll get called up to the Major Leagues in two weeks so they can say they knew you when.”

  His brows puckered and if he hadn’t been annoyed before, he was now. “You have to be cynical to be a writer?”

  “Cynical?” She blinked. “I was only— I’m not cynical.”

  He uncapped his water and took a sip, studying her with guarded interest. “How long have you been a sports writer?”

  She opened her mouth, a litany of half-truths flitting through her head, then after taking too long, finally said, “I’m not exactly a sports writer.”

  No hiding his surprise. “You are from the North Star News?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What are you—” his gaze strayed briefly to her shoes. “—the receptionist?”

  “No.” Indignation rose in her throat. She wanted to make a crack about jocks in the worst way, but that would pretty much screw her interview. “I am a journalist, and I cover an array of stories and subjects.”

  One side of Dylan’s mouth hiked up. “Don’t tell me—the sports guy’s on vacation.”

  She paused, made sure she could keep herself in check. “This interview is for a human-interest story, not just about sports. You’re from Lester. You know, a genuine Wisconsin hero,” she added, hoping to butter him up.

  “Ah, a human-interest story…”

  His tone meant he knew she was a fluff reporter. Dammit. That wasn’t fair. Even though she was…now. But the position was only temporary. She would make sure Singleton saw that she could do so much more than report on Santa’s travel itinerary on Christmas Eve. Starting with this interview.

  The first thing she’d learned about Dylan in her all-night study session was that the shortstop hated giving interviews. Fans knew stats and the basic personal information, things like his being twenty-seven, six-foot-two and how he’d played for Japan. No one knew much about his personal side, though. He always sidestepped when anyone got too close…

  He was staring at her funny.

  “What?” she asked cautiously.

  “You look familiar.”

  She brought the mug to her lips and gave a small shrug, trying to look innocent, trying to not look like Beth Smith.

  His gaze narrowed, as if he were struggling to figure out where he’d seen her before. “You ever pinch hit for your sports guy before?”

  “Nope.” She made a face. “My coffee’s cold.” She twisted around, pretending to look for the waitress who’d been on break.

  “There’s Tanya.” Dylan signaled for the tall blonde who approached them with a smile and her tray.

  Elizabeth didn’t have to say a word. He politely ordered more coffee for her—in a fresh cup because her brew had grown cold. Like the bartender had done, Tanya asked him about the possibility of the game being canceled tonight. Elizabeth watched them interact, pleased to see that his good Midwestern manners were still solidly intact.

  Even as crazy popular as he’d been in school, he’d never been obnoxious about being the school’s golden boy. So he’d gone out with the head cheerleader, who also happened to be the most gorgeous girl to come out of four senior classes. Elizabeth could hardly hold that against him.

  “Hey, whatever happened to—” She bit her lip, horrified that she’d been on the verge of asking him about his old girlfriend.

  Dylan looked expectantly at her.

  She drew in a deep breath. “We should really get started on the interview.”

  He actually groaned. “I’ll be heading to the field soon.”

  She looked toward the lobby. Out the front doors she could see it was still coming down hard. “And if your game is rained out? Can we get started today? I’ll buy you dinner.”

  He looked as if he was about to tell her to get lost, and then his mouth curved in a slow smile. “No dinner. If the game is called, I’m going to the gym. You wanna tag along, okay with me.”

  The gym? Not her first preference, and he looked suspiciously as though that’s what he was hoping for. “Deal.”

  3

  DYLAN HAD TO GIVE HER credit for showing up. He watched her rush through the lobby as he stood outside, waiting under the overhang for the cab he’d called for them. He’d briefly thought about making her jog the six blocks in the rain with him, hoping she’d kiss off the interview, but that would’ve been plain mean.

  She was slightly out of breath by the time she pushed through the revolving glass door. “I’m glad I didn’t miss you. There was a mix-up with my room.”

  He glanced down at her pink toenails and high-heel shoes and then took his time checking out her toned legs and the snug fit of her skirt. He wished she’d ditched the blazer, but at least it wasn’t buttoned, so he knew she had nice high breasts and a small waist.

  If he’d felt the slightest guilt for sizi
ng her up, it would’ve vanished when he noticed she was doing the same to him. She was staring at the biceps exposed by the muscle shirt he routinely worked out in, and finally lifted her gaze to meet his.

  She blinked. “Too bad they don’t have an exercise room here,” she said, and turned her head to squint toward the rain-slick street. She’d done something different with her hair, pulling it into a ponytail. The short tendrils in the back curled against her slender nape and he found himself wanting to touch her. She seemed younger this way, not quite so sophisticated, but still professional. Damn, she looked even more familiar, but he couldn’t place her.

  “This hotel?” He snorted. “We’re lucky to have a bar and room service.”

  A small smile tugged at her lips, and he knew exactly what she was thinking. Yeah, he’d been spoiled in Japan, used to the perks of a Major League player, but it wasn’t as if he was complaining. Merely commenting.

  “This should be our cab.” She stepped out and flagged the taxi down like a pro.

  Once they were seated in the back, he asked, “Where are you from?”

  Her brows dipped and she promptly pulled out a small notebook and pen from her purse.

  “Put it away. We’re only going six blocks,” he said irritably. Christ, couldn’t a guy make conversation? “You’re not from North Star.”

  “I moved there a year ago from Chicago.” She gave him a long look, then said, “You can’t keep deflecting this interview with questions about me.”

  Chuckling, he murmured, “No?”

  “Seriously?” She huffed out a breath, ruffling the spiky bangs that had come loose from her slicked-back hair. “You’re going to make me squeeze every word out of you? Because I can do that,” she said, “even if it means I stick around for an extra day.”

  Dylan smiled at the flash of temper in her blue eyes, the faint flush that swept her small heart-shaped face. She was much prettier than he’d thought earlier. Especially with her cute upturned nose…