“I, uh, I wanted to apologize for not catching that ball the other night. I didn’t know it was a thing. And I didn’t mean to dis baseball. I like baseball. Love it, really. And you’re good at what you do, and I can see that it’s more than a bunch of guys playing a game.” She swiped at the moisture beading at her hairline.
Dustin dropped his defensive stance, but he was still looking at her like she was a stray cat in his garage or something, and he wasn’t sure what to do with her.
“So I just dropped by to say that I was sorry and I’ll be nicer when you come to The Pantry, and the door is open now, so I know the way out.” She spun, ready to make a run for the not-embarrassing interior of her car.
“Wait.” Dustin’s voice was soft, but she had no trouble hearing him.
“O-kay.” She spun back around and bounced her hands off her sides like a five-year-old waiting in line.
Dustin pointed at the door into the house. “Do you want to stay?” He gave her a friendly smile while his eyes twinkled with mischief.
The air in the garage began to tornado. That was the only explanation as to why Clover couldn’t drag oxygen into her lungs when Dustin looked at her like that. His jaw had a fine layer of stubble over it, the kind that would scratch her cheek if he kissed her. And his hair, oh my gosh, his hair was all silky and clean and begging to have her fingers comb through it.
“In there?” she squeaked, pointing to the door. He couldn’t possibly want to be alone with her in his house. She could count on one hand the number of guys she’d allowed herself to be alone with since her mom left. And she could count on her pinkie fingers the number of guys she’denjoyedbeing alone with.
Her mouth dried out just thinking of being alone with Dustin. Not because she was afraid of what he would do, but because she was afraid of what she would do. Dustin had a way of creating oh-so-strong feelings inside of her. If the good feelings were as strong as the bad ones, she was in a heap of trouble with this guy.
Chapter Seventeen
Dustin waited as Clover struggled with an internal debate. He could see her sway back and forth between wanting to stay and wanting to run.
He wanted her to stay.
Her popping into his garage had taken him off guard. Once the shock wore off, the only thing he could think about was how much he wanted her to walk through his home. He wanted to walk into his kitchen and picture Clover at the counter with a bowl of cereal, her hair falling forward like a curtain and a good-morning smile on her lips.
He didn’t have any cereal. Curse the team trainer and his infatuation with eggs.
He needed to buy cereal.
Clover continued to hesitate, and he realized he was losing her. Suddenly, her accusation that he had thrown his money in her face came back to him. Perhaps taking her into his house wasn’t the best idea.
Walking slowly so as not to startle her, he reached for two mitts on the shelf in the garage. Unlike his buddy Blake Rygs’s garage, which was full of gearhead tools and several sets of tires, Dustin’s garage was lined with baseball gear. He had years of baseball in here, from his old aluminum bats to a tee and a net set up for practice. He kept his wooden bats and best mitts in the climate-controlled house. The St. George heat could be brutal on gear. At least he wasn’t playing in Arizona. Those guys had to deal with real heat.
Picking up the mitts, he held one out to Clover. “Let’s hit the backyard. I’ll teach you to throw—no vegetables involved.”
The mitt hung between them like an olive branch.
Clover’s lips formed a small O as she exhaled. “I guess, since I’m obviously missing an essential life skill.” She took his old fielder’s mitt and hugged it to her body.
Dustin tried not to admire her curves and headed to the door that led from the garage to the back patio. “It’s like you don’t even know how to tie your shoes,” he teased. He turned on the floodlights and snagged a ball from the bucket by the door.
“That’s what Velcro is for.”
Man, he loved how quick she was, how sharp her mind. She followed him out to the golf course. He had a small patch of grass that came with the house, but to play a proper game of catch, they would need more space.
He stopped and pointed to the ground. “You start here.” She watched intently as he slipped on his mitt. He’d done the action more times than there were thin blades of grass on the putting green, but if her wide golden eyes were any indication, it was all new to her. She managed to get her hand inside the leather and opened and closed the mitt a couple times. He nodded. Good.
“Why are they different?” She pointed between the two mitts.
“Mine’s a pitcher’s glove, and yours is a fielder’s glove.”
Her eyebrows lowered. “Okay, why does the pitcher need a different glove from a fielder?”
He grinned, enjoying her curiosity. Clover had a hard candy shell, but inside she was sweet, and he suspected delicious. Pulling his thoughts away from leaning down and sampling her full lips, he held up his mitt. “A pitcher’s glove is a solid color so he doesn’t distract the hitter.” He turned his wrist over. “It has a solid web so the hitter can’t see what grip the pitcher is using.”
“Because the grip would indicate what he’s about to throw?” She had the right answer, but phrased it as a question, which told him she was allowing herself to be vulnerable with him. A sense of protectiveness swelled in his chest like a lion getting to his feet ready to roar. Clover had always seemed larger than life with her don’t-mess-with-me attitude, but standing this close, staring down into her eyes, he couldn’t help but notice she was delicate.
“That’s right,” he whispered.
