Free Sliding Home by Kate Angell

stiff and awkward. Not smooth for an athlete who
could sprint around the bases and stretch like Gumby to catch a wild throw to
first.
    “Why'd you want to see me?”
He managed to lower his body into a leather chair without embarrassing himself.
    “Two reasons,” she stated. “First,
to thank you for the beautiful bouquet.” Pleasure brought pink to her pale
cheeks, which softened the sharp symmetry of her haircut and the black
stiffness of her business suit. The blooms remained velvety and tight, and were
the exact color of her violet eyes. “Each week is a celebration of color.”
    “The team appreciates all
you've done.”
    “The flowers came from you.”
    He shrugged, forced a
casualness he didn't feel. “I'm grateful you connected me to Cora Dora Pies.”
    “That's second on my list,”
she said, moving on. “You've been a great spokesman for the family-owned
company. Cora and Dora want to extend your promotional contract.”
    “A unanimous decision?” he
asked.
    The seventy-year-old twins
never agreed. The women were apple-cheeked, plump, and highly opinionated. They
argued for the sake of argument.
    Once, in their test
kitchen, the ladies had fought over a secret ingredient. Cora had thrown salt,
and Dora let loose with the flour. Rhaden had been the one powdered white.
    The sisters were as
crotchety as they were sweet. They kept their fingers on the pulse of their
business. Every decision was monumental and demanded mutual consent.
    “Cora and Dora both called,
claiming you as their spokesman.” Her grin curved. “They plan to fatten you up.”
    Rhaden massaged his
abdomen. Over the last three months, he'd eaten a whole lot of pie.
    Revelle caught his stomach
pat.
    And he froze. He didn't
want her attention anywhere near his groin. He still packed a boner. He cleared
his throat, drew her gaze up. “The national campaign before Valentine's went
well,” he said. “We shot television commercials prior to spring training. Then
Cora's great-grandson traveled with the promo team to ten major cities, playing
Cupid. The kid handed out carnation-tipped arrows and candy hearts while we
served slices of chocolate-cherry cream. Everyone fell in love with the pie.”
    From coffee shops and
bakeries to delis, major grocery chains, and the occasional street corner,
Rhaden had socialized and shared dessert with total strangers. He'd hand sold
three thousand pies.
    “Even with gym access at
the hotels, I gained ten pounds in one month,” he concluded.
    “You don't look like you
have a weight problem,” she complimented.
    Rhaden disagreed. “An
entire homemade pie each day packs on weight. Cora said I was too lean and
didn't do justice to her desserts.”
    The man was lean, all sinewy and tight-skinned. Revelle Sullivan took him in, from
his light brown hair and dark green eyes to his broken nose. A nose that gave
him character. She'd witnessed the play the year prior that had caused his
injury.
    The injury had changed the
way she looked at him.
    It had been the last home
series of the previous season. The Rogues had been playing the Pittsburgh
Pirates. She'd watched the game from the team owner's private box. In the
seventh inning, the second Pirates batter slammed a line drive to the
shortstop. It had been a tough catch for Zen Driscoll, who had backhanded the
ball, then fired it to first.
    It had been a wild throw,
in the dirt.
    A throw that sent Rhaden to
his knees just as the runner slid into first. Rhaden had taken a batting helmet
to his face.
    Revelle remembered the
spray of blood and stadium boos. The fans had gone ballistic, seeing one of
their own take a hit.
    His teammates had clustered
quickly. Rhaden had covered his face with his glove. He'd been escorted to the
dugout with the infield coach and team physician, then headed into the tunnel.
The crowd had cheered, and Revelle had choked up. She'd barely known the man,
yet she'd hurt for him. Her pain had been physical.
    She'd been a bundle of
nerves