Free An Accidental Gentleman by M.Q. Barber Page B

“No, no, it was a fashion statement. The angle was lucky, same as my shorts.”
    Rob snorted. “The attitude was a sure shot to getting dropped. You wouldn’t believe the push-ups he did. After eight weeks, he was nothing but biceps and a smart mouth.” He gestured to the blanket-draped bleacher beside his wife’s padded backrest. “Here, Kit, grab a seat. Those first three weeks, I could’ve sworn he wanted to be recycled.”
    “Recycled?” Nora cocked her head. Her plain, peachy T-shirt provided soothing relief from Brian’s misguided style.
    “Like repeating a grade in school.” Rob stepped off the side of the bleachers, crouching as he landed. “Brian had trouble with authority back then.”
    Confirmation of bad-boy reputation, check. These friends of his might be useful, decent folk. Getting the nod from Mr. Nice Guy, they pretty much guaranteed their likeability.
    “I understand he can’t resist a dare.” Not hers, thank God. After his showing at the shop, he’d taken to invading her dreams. She met Brian’s sheepish spring-grass gaze with a smirk. “Is that how you ended up owning those shorts?”
    While Nora and Rob laughed, Brian sidled into her personal space. “Oh, I take orders fine when they make sense.”
    Pale, fuzzy stubble covered his cheeks and chin. A little beard burn between her thighs would scratch the itch he stirred.
    “You want a job done right, with work that’ll hold up under pressure?” In his eyes, he signaled go-go-go. He dipped his chin. “I’m your man.” Deep voice. Backroom darkness, no-bullshit, vibrating-in-her-panties voice. “Isn’t that the way you run your shop, too? Clear orders, strict standards?”
    Jesus. With his sharp, clean storm-scent, he sneaked past her keep-out signs and grasped bare metal. He’d fry them both to sizzling ash. And he’d almost—maybe—be worth the risk. At least once. Or twice.
    Leaning forward, Nora interrupted their stare-down with her extended hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Kit. I hope you brought an empty stomach and fast legs.”
    “I’m playing?” Shit, her old mitt lay buried in a box in the basement somewhere. She shook hands on reflex. “I thought this would be a spectator thing. League play.”
    A gang of noisy children scampered down the fence line and circled the bleachers to the field opposite, where a handful of adults organized a ragged line of youngsters at a tee ball setup and sent the older ones out to field.
    “Intra-office. We’re flexible on teams.” Behind Rob, men and women clustered around the dugout benches. “You can always sub in later if you want a feel for the level of play first—or if you’re worried about Brian beaning you in the head on a force out. His aim’s less than stellar when he’s distracted.”
    Thwapping Rob in the stomach with the back of his hand, Brian elicited a grunt. “Not everyone played Little League ball, farm boy.”
    “Your choice, Surfer Boy.” After casting a glance behind him, Rob punched Brian in the shoulder. “Grab your gear, airman. We’re on the first-inning roster.” As he backed away, he blew his wife a kiss.
    Nora captured the gift with a fast swipe and crossed her hands on her stomach.
    Standing with his feet planted together and his back straight, Brian snapped a salute.
    Aw hell. She refused to leave a man hanging. She sent one back.
    Smile brightening his whole face, he jogged off. As he picked up a mitt in the dugout, he waved at the stands. Nora waved, which meant she had to, too. Every few feet, all the way out to left field, he spun, jogged backward, and waved.
    Nora, arm raised yet again, laughed. “He’s a complete goofball.”
    “Sorry?” Four times now, like he meant to keep checking she hadn’t gotten up and left. Not the smoothest operator, but damn if she didn’t wave every time. Impossible to stop herself. Wearing those ridiculous shorts, losing himself in bro-play with his buddy, ditching her five minutes into their