A laugh ripped from his chest, and he rubbed his hands together with delight. “Now I’m very eager to play.”
She tipped her head, that adorable, shy smile making an appearance. “Best say your prayers.”
He laughed again. “Game on.”
She turned to Robbie. “Go over there and practice your swing. I need a minute alone with Mr. Anderson.”
The boy groaned, but he did as told. Emil watched as he swung the bat with wild abandon, the force spinning him like a whirligig until he staggered in the dirt. Undeterred, he swung again, the air punctuated by grunts of exertion.
“Is he fighting a hornet nest or playing baseball?”
“He’s better on the field,” she said, watching her brother with a soft, indulgent expression. “But I’m hoping to tire him out. He was driving my mother mad.”
“You’re a good sister,” he said. “Not every woman would be willing to toss a ball around.”
“Is that so?” She began to lob the baseball in the air, rolling it across her fingertips before snatching it out of the air with her leather glove.
Emil frowned. Glanced at the chaotic kid, then back to Olive’s casual execution. And realized his mistake. Robbie was playing Olive’s game, not the other way around.
“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”
“Well, they do call me Bloody Ollie.”
Shit, his heart was back to fluttering.
Ignoring it, he thrust out his hand. “Are you going to loan me your glove or not?”
“Not.” She shoved it behind her back, her eyes dancing. “Get your own.”
“Are your fingers more precious than mine?”
“Obviously,” she drawled out the first vowel. “One sprain or bruise and I might not be able to perform.”
“There is some merit to that,” he admitted. “But if I am injured, I won’t be able to sort my papers as carefully. Or scoop my coffee as precisely.” She giggled, and his heart moved from flutter to full-on pounding.
“Olive, I’m bored,” Robbie shouted from across the lawn. “Aren’t you ready yet?”
He raised his brows. “Saved by an impatient sibling.”
“Give Emil the bat,” she called. “It’s time for him to walk the plank.”
Robbie ran over and handed him an old wooden bat. “Good luck.”
“I don’t need luck.”
“Yes, you do,” Olive and Robbie said at the same time.
Grumbling—but grinning—Emil moved behind the home plate drawn in the dirt. He found his stance, then blinked in surprise. Was Olive capable of throwing from that far?
The speed of her first pitch caught him off guard. He swung, a split second too late, and whiffed at empty air. Setting the bat on his shoulder, he gaped. Olive’s lips were pressed tightly together, but a smile still tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Strike one.”
She was definitely more than she seemed. Of that he was damn certain—and damn intrigued.
He backtracked for the ball, then lobbed it toward her. She caught it easily. Cockily, even. He aimed the bat at her, then swung it back into position. “I’m ready for you now.”
“I’m just getting warmed up,” she countered.
