Thrown By Love (20 page)

G’maw put her hands on her hips and faced Chloe. “Then you’ve come to the right place. There are no orphans around the Donovan clan.”

She took a step toward Chloe and folded her in her arms. A sense of safety and belonging washed through Chloe. Though she tried to swallow it, a sob rose up. She’d had more friendly hugs in one day here than in the past three or four months.

“Terrifying our guests again, G’maw?”

Scotty spoke from a few feet away, giving Chloe time to take a deep breath and step away from his grandmother. He enfolded G’maw in a tight hug and lifted a brow at Chloe before pulling a wadded paper towel from his pocket and holding it out to her. “Mom’s biscuits are the cure for everything. At least she thinks so. She’s usually right.”

Chloe accepted the biscuit and the crumpled paper towel, then used the towel to wipe at her cheeks. She should’ve felt embarrassed, but didn’t. Scotty shot her another questioning look. She shrugged, smiled at him and G’maw, and nibbled on the biscuit. Scotty pulled the apple from his other pocket and they watched Drake devour it.

“I’m pitching the pick-up game,” G’maw said with a chortle as she turned and walked away from them. “You’ll have to find some other position, my boy. Change is good, remember?”

Scotty was lassoed by his dad to help set up the barbecue, so Chloe accepted Scotty’s brother Lowell’s invitation to tour the farm. If she stayed anywhere near Scotty, lord only knew what she’d do.

Lowell told her that most of Sunridge’s income came from what he called CSAs, a type of community subscription service for produce. The summer garden was thick with carrots, cabbage, lettuce, kale and eggplant. Most of the crops had been started in the high-tech green house next to the barn. She tried to remember the names of some of the more esoteric herbs and vegetables, but only bergamot and daikon stuck in her mind. As usual, making love with Scotty had tumbled her thoughts.

“My dad goes by two words here—local and organic,” Lowell said. “It’s the
where
and the
what
of his world. Give him a few beers, and he’ll start waxing on about how food is love.”

Looking out over the carefully tended gardens, each row of plants carefully spaced and weeded, Chloe believed it.

They couldn’t spend too long wandering the farm; cars started to pour into the parking area—liberally covered with hay—that they’d roped off for the party. Chloe thanked Lowell, ran to clean up and then joined the crowd as neighbors and friends ate and chatted under the striped tent Scotty had helped his father erect. The food was plentiful and the guests loud, and Chloe loved every moment.

After lunch, Scotty’s other brother, Luke, chalked the lines for the pick-up game. She wasn’t looking forward to it, but Scotty’s family had already insisted that she play. She’d never been much good at baseball. She recalled her poor showing at the Sabers’ friends and family volleyball game—she’d better cross volleyball off her list of talents as well.

She ducked into the kitchen to help Scotty’s mother with the dessert trays, hoping for a reprieve.

A painting on the far wall caught her eye, an exquisite still life of eggplants and pears. They throbbed with vitality. She stepped closer to admire it.

“You can have that if you like,” Meg said as she pulled a tray of cookies from the oven.

“Oh, I couldn’t. I mean it’s beautiful. So full of life.”

“I can paint another. I want you to have it.”

Before she could thank her, express her surprise that Meg had painted it, two boys bounded into the kitchen.

“Aunt Meg, the game’s nearly started, but Uncle Sam said we could have ice cream first.”

“And cookies,” the other boy added as he nosed up to the counter.

“And cookies.” Meg laughed. “You can carry out the cookies.” She knelt in front of them. “That is, if you promise to pocket only two each.”

“Promise,” the taller boy said.

Meg gave the other boy the evil eye. Chloe bit back a laugh at her expression.

“I promise too.”

“We’d better head out,” Meg said as she stood. “Sam will come in and drag us out if we don’t.”

So much for the reprieve. Chloe followed Meg with a smile glued in place.

Chloe had expected competition, maybe a bit of friendly cheating, but the family baseball game was unlike any she’d ever experienced.

The younger players, mostly nieces and nephews and neighbor kids, got to hit a softball and bat from a line four feet in front of home plate. They were allowed a four-second start—with all the players on both sides counting to four loudly and dramatically—before anyone who chased down the ball could try to throw them out.

Chloe stood in center field with an oversized glove that Scotty had lent her. He played a short distance away, in right field.

“We should try these rules for the MLB,” she said.

“I
knew
there was something that could improve my slugging percentage,” he said with a grin.

She laughed. Scotty didn’t have a slugging percentage, at least not much of one. Most pitchers didn’t. And now that he played for the Sabers, the designated hitter hit for him. But she liked his humility. With rare exceptions, even the most talented superstars had a genuine modesty, at least when it came to their game. It wasn’t that they didn’t have confidence too—pitchers had that in abundance. But baseball could beat the best player any day. The only players that made it were the ones who remembered that. Yet in the past few years, attitudes
had
changed; social media had blurred the line between public and private. Players had become celebrities, personalities, whether they wanted to or not. Even the shyest players had to deal with the pressures of public attention, something they may not have bargained for when they were learning to throw a perfect pitch or hit a ninety-five mile an hour fastball. And most players knew, though it was an unspoken contract, that they were ambassadors. Fans—especially kids—looked up to them.

Walking the challenging line between superstar and ambassador was difficult, made harder by the pure male energy, channeled and honed, that drove players. That
and
their competitive natures. That energy was a power to be reckoned with.

And didn’t she know all about that energy and power.

Scotty effortlessly tossed the ball to the catcher. Chloe loved his command of his body, loved the economy of movement and the grace. She’d never mention the grace part, of course, but he had it. And it made him beautiful to watch. She turned away when Lowell caught her staring and made a face at her.

They let G’maw pitch to the children, but when Scotty’s dad came up to bat, his brother called him to the mound.

“I’ll give him heat,” Scotty said, flashing Chloe a smile as he jogged past.

It wasn’t the heat of his pitch she had in mind as she watched him take the mound. His jeans hugged his hips. Very tightly. One thing about pitchers is that they need strong butt muscles. And Chloe had enjoyed a taste of what those strong muscles could do. Color rushed into her face, and she was glad she was standing far enough out that no one would notice. Glad too that playing center field allowed her to admire his form without others catching on.

Lowell tossed him a hardball and then crouched behind the plate and held up his catcher’s mitt. She imagined they’d often played like this when Scotty was a boy.

Sam hoisted his bat. “Show me what you’ve got, son.”

Scotty whizzed in a slider, and it escaped Lowell’s mitt. He scrambled in the dirt to come up with it and the boy on second trotted to third, grinning.

“For jeez’ sake, Scotty,
warn
me before you do that,” Lowell said as he crouched back down behind his dad.

Scotty threw an off-speed curve ball, but Chloe didn’t even watch where it went. Something grabbed her attention and then clicked as she watched Scotty’s delivery. He was tempering his throws, of course, but she was pretty sure she saw the tic in his mechanics that was giving him trouble. She’d noticed it a few times during games, but only passively. She’d spent the first fourteen years of her life sitting with her dad behind home plate, watching pitchers. She’d hadn’t realized she’d learned so much, that she could identify such a specific problem just from studying a player. While now wasn’t the time to say something, she’d find a way to tell Scotty what she saw.

Scotty’s next pitch was a big fat one across the plate, and his dad connected. The ball sailed between her and left field and dropped into the potatoes. People hooted and the two boys on base raced home before the neighbor playing left field came up with the ball.

“No fair hitting into the rough,” Chloe shouted to Sam as he rounded second base and headed for third.

G’maw walked up to the plate and stood ready to bat, grinning out at Scotty.

“You’re batting for the wrong team, G’maw.”

“All’s fair at Sunridge Fields,” Sam said with a grin as he stopped at third.

“I’m a switch-hitter,” G’maw said with a defiant swing of her bat.

Chloe bit back her laugh. G’maw’s interpretation of switch-hitting would make life in the majors interesting.

“Toss me the softball,” Scotty said to Lowell.

“I don’t need a softball,” G’maw protested. “I’m not that old yet.”

Scotty shrugged. “You’re asking for it.”

“You bet I am.” G’maw waved her bat with the finesse of a practiced hitter. Scotty tossed a slow pitch right over the plate. G’maw swung and connected, but the ball tipped foul to the left.

“Late swing, G’maw.”

“Pansy-ass pitch, Chapta.”

Chloe knew Scotty had nicknames, most players did. She’d heard Charmer and had a darn good idea how he’d gotten that one, but Chapta was one she hadn’t heard before.

Scotty looked his dad back to third with a grin. It wasn’t as though Sam would try to steal home—they were having way too much fun razzing the family matriarch. Scotty wound up and threw, and G’maw connected with a grunt. The ball bounced right in front of Chloe. She leaped and caught it, then looked to the infield. To her astonishment, G’maw had already rounded first. She threw it to second and watched as the boys caught G’maw in a rundown, ending the inning. Chloe’s team cheered and Sam’s team booed. Chloe wiped her sweating palms on her capris.

It was her turn to bat.

Chloe took a few practice swings. Scotty sat on the hay bales that served as their bench and watched. She felt his eyes on her as she waggled the bat. She couldn't resist a slight wiggle of her hips. Just a couple hours ago he’d had her capris off and his hands around her hips. She shot a glance at him and saw him shift on the hay bale, tugging at his jeans to hide his arousal. She shouldn't be teasing him, but she couldn't resist.

G’maw threw what they called a girl’s pitch, and Chloe mugged at her.

“I won’t break, G’maw. Give me something I can hit.”

G’maw did an almost comical windup, but the pitch she let fly was a doozy. Chloe connected, and the ball sailed into the gap in center. Chloe had speed, and the neighbor kid couldn’t get to the bag before she reached second. She danced on the bag, a grin stretching her face.

"Atta girl!" Scotty jumped up, applauding, joined by the shouts and cheers from the other members of her team. He flashed her a thumbs-up and as they locked gazes, she knew the road ahead was going to be more challenging than she'd imagined.