Free Perfect Pitch by Mindy Klasky Page B

anything like a sixty-year-old, plump Honduran woman, whose tight grey curls were more likely to smell like baby powder than honey and cinnamon.
    His abs tightened as he realized that he knew exactly what Samantha Winger smelled like. He knew what she felt like, too. Knew enough to want to feel more.
    What the hell was she doing, standing in his kitchen? It was like all his daydreams had come true, all the thoughts he’d had as he ran his ten miles on the treadmill downstairs.  
    Of course, the guys at the clubhouse had spent the past week doing everything they could to plant those thoughts in his mind. He still hadn’t figured out who had taped that goddamn picture to his locker, the full-color spread from the newspaper. Even Old Man Benson wouldn’t be able to protect the guy who had added a thought balloon that detailed DJ’s distinctly X-rated intentions—once DJ figured out who had been the brilliant jackass.
    He’d torn down the first copy of the photo. And the second one. Third one, too. He’d finally given up, though, when yet another copy of the damn thing was there after he returned to the locker room from his morning treatment. Coach would have his hide if he realized how tightly DJ was clenching his fists. Coach was big on pitchers resting one hundred percent the day after they went. And DJ had gone another nine innings the night before. Not a perfect game, but a complete one. And his arm was only a little tired, two days later.
    Now, standing in his own kitchen, DJ was suddenly aware of the fact that he was wearing a towel—and nothing else. Right about now, his routine of showering downstairs and coming up to the master bedroom to put on clothes seemed pretty goddamn foolish.
    And it wasn’t going to get any better, with him standing here gaping at Sam. “Um, hello?” he said, far too belatedly. And damn if that didn’t come out sounding like a question.
    She obviously took it as one—she started babbling on about that music program of hers, and Trey’s school, and missing the bus, and—
    “Hey,” he interrupted. “Thanks for driving Trey home.”
    That stopped her short. He glanced over at his son. The kid followed up as if they’d rehearsed the moment. “Can I have screen time, Dad?”
    “Half an hour,” he said automatically, and he even managed to make it sound routine. Not desperate. Not like he would have allowed Trey to take an hour, two, the rest of the entire afternoon and evening, hypnotized by his games on the computer and safely away from the kitchen. And Sam.
    But what the hell difference did it make? Isabel would be back soon enough, guaranteeing that DJ couldn’t do half the things he’d imagined as he’d tossed and turned the past few nights.
    Trey barreled down the hall to DJ’s office, as if he were afraid the treat of computer time would be rescinded. That left DJ alone with Sam. With Sam, and his memories of the catcalls from the guys just that morning. He could only imagine what those wise asses would say if they saw him now.
    “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, nodding toward the kitchen cabinet.
    “No, I’m fine,” she said, too quickly.
    He realized she was keeping her eyes on his face. In fact, he wasn’t sure the last time anyone had ever paid so much attention to the spot precisely between his eyebrows. He wondered if Sam’s eyes were starting to burn; she was staring so hard, she wasn’t allowing herself to blink.  
    He couldn’t resist taking a step toward her. Her eyes grew just a little bit wider, and he heard her swallow in the silence of the kitchen. He caught her glance toward his waist, and he grinned as she resolutely locked her gaze back on his face.
    “I’m sorry about the article,” he said. But he knew he didn’t sound sorry at all. “I hope you didn’t get into too much trouble.”
    “The Fair wasn’t thrilled. I’m on probation.”
    He winced, only to become aware that the motion flexed his abs. Or, rather, he became aware