Her hand connected with the walkie-talkie at her hip, ready to call in the order herself rather than lean over one of their screens. “What can I help you with?”
The guy didn’t get up. His wolfish smile sent a cold chill down her neck. “I saw you giving out sunscreen.”
Another perk of paying to sit here. She had a bottle in her small apron and had squirted some into a mother’s hands, who then applied it to her children’s necks and ears. “Would you like some?” She fished it out of her apron.
“You bet.” He yanked his shirt over his head. “Right there, baby.” He jerked his chin over his shoulder, indicating she should start rubbing it into his fleshy skin.
Um. No.
His buddies snickered.
Tilly’s ears burned as she took in the thick layer of hair on the man’s pasty white shoulders. Nothing in her job description said she had to do this. She wasn’t going to touch him. The son of a jack-in-the-box could throw a fit; she didn’t care.
“Come on, beautiful. I haven’t got all day.”
“Sir,” she began in a purposeful tone.
“Put your shirt back on.”
Brayden, her heart whispered with a gusty sigh. She longed to lean against him, to let him be her knight in shining armor and to reward him with a kiss.
Yes, she was an independent woman. Yes, she could handle this guy on her own. And yes, she was kind of upset at Brayden for stepping in like he had a claim on her. But she was also in a pleasant state of shock that he’d come to the rescue at all. Just like he’d done when they were together and that guy who had too much to drink had put his hand on her thigh.
“Oh my heck!” exclaimed the man sitting next to Shirtless Joe. “It’s Brayden Birks.” He stood up, his hand outstretched. “This is so cool.”
Brayden ignored the hand and the man who smiled like one of the kids on her field trips. “I said, put your shirt on. This is a family park.”
Shirtless Joe about swallowed his tongue. “I didn’t mean anything.”
Brayden put his hands on her arms, and Tilly’s knees went weak. Her traitorous body responded to him as if they hadn’t spent a month apart. Scratch that—it responded as if it had been thirsting for Brayden for a month and had finally gotten a drop of him. She licked her lips. So thirsty.
“Tilly’s not a pretty face here to entertain you.” His hands kneaded her arms. Heaven. “Treat her right, or you’ll have to deal with me.”
They looked him up and down, their soft bellies quaking. Broken neck or no broken neck, Brayden was a presence to be reckoned with. Even though she hadn’t turned around to look at him, hadn’t dared to make eye contact, she knew every rounded muscle, every ripple, and every bone. His chest brushed her back, and she lost the ability to breathe.
He gave her one final squeeze and then was gone, the air hitting her skin like an ice cube. She sucked in through her teeth.
A woman sitting in front of the rowdy boys tapped her calf. “Do you know him?” she asked in awe.
Tilly swallowed the attraction burning through her like wildfire. “I, uh, used to.” She stared after him, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd with ease. The Brayden that emerged from the accident had been a stranger. He’d looked at her like she was a problem to solve or someone he had to deal with, not the love of his life as he’d looked at her before. But this moment, the feelings in his touch, the concern in his voice, the protective growl—that was the old Brayden. That was the man she’d fallen in love with and the one she thought she’d lost.
More confused than ever, she moved to intercept a latecomer and ask for his ticket. People tried to sneak into these seats, and she was supposed to keep them out. If only she could turn Brayden away as easily as a seat jumper. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to rid him from her system. She might just be hopeless.
It was time to take more drastic measures.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Brayden
Brayden walked out his front door, intent on taking the garbage can to the curb. He should be able to do this one simple household task. Ever since that box had ended up in his front entryway, he’d felt this need to prove to himself that he was capable. Okay, maybe he needed to prove it to Tilly too. But he wasn’t sure what good that was going to do either of them when he still didn’t have a secure job.
At least he’d been able to protect her from the group of rowdy fans. His blood boiled at that memory of the guy whipping his shirt off in front of her. It was all he could do to keep from hauling his sorry butt up the stairs and tossing him into the parking lot. He shook out his hands, straining with aggravation. To further calm himself, he called up the feeling of holding Tilly’s arms, kneading them gently. They were every bit as strong as he remembered—curvatious, he used to say. She’d giggle over that.
He had to stop thinking of her as his. She’d never really been his, he argued with himself. She belonged to the sunshine and cacti to the wind and the wilderness. Having held her for a short while was his miracle.
Baseball was where he belonged.
Gunner did fine last night. His curveball was on line, which was excellent for the team. Youonly swung at the bad curveballs. To swing and hit a good curveball was to ground out. But a bad curveball didn’t have enough spin, and you could pop that baby up. They ended up winning by one run and the team congratulated Gunner, rallying around him on the mound and jumping like circus bugs. Brayden had watched the whole thing from his vantage point in the stands, where he could keep an eye on Tillyandthe game.
