there’s no score,” he said to her as they approached a uniformed security guard. “It’s bad enough to miss the first pitch, but missing a run could kill me.”
“Cam, we were worried about you!” The guard held out his hand like a fist and Cameron knuckled it with a similar gesture.
“Eddie, my man. What’s goin’ on?”
“Three up, three down in the top of the first, and let me tell you Mussina’s slider looks friggin’ magical.” Eddie’s nasal New York accent was so thick, Jo had to concentrate to understand him.
“Who’s up?” Cameron asked.
“A-Rod.”
“Already?” He sounded crushed.
Eddie let out a disgusted snort. “Yeah, they’re screwin’ with the lineup. Loftin grounded out, and Jeter went down swingin’.” His gaze shifted to her, sweeping her up and down with obvious interest. A broad grin blared his approval. “I knew you had to have one helluva good cause to be this late, Cam.”
“Eddie, this good cause is Jo Ellen Tremaine. First timer, from California.”
Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. “California, huh? A’s or Angels?”
Hazy angels? “Excuse me?”
Cameron chuckled and put that way too familiar arm around her again. “Oakland A’s—Athletics. Or the California Angels. Who do you root for?”
“Sorry.” She made an apologetic face. “I don’t really follow the sport.”
This earned a belly laugh from Eddie and he waved a finger of warning at her. “Well, you will, or,” he pointed to Cameron, “you’ll have to kiss your new boyfriend goodbye.”
No use trying to correct him. She just shrugged as though the loss of that boyfriend wouldn’t matter any more than the loss of a game.
“Let’s go, sweetheart.” Cameron urged her into a narrow opening toward the lights of the stadium.
She nodded to Eddie, who continued to grin and shake his head, then she turned to face the sea of green in front of her.
It looked like a vast, luxurious emerald carpet textured with symmetrical patterns, bordered in red-brown dirt and surrounded by thousands and thousands of people cheering, hollering, eating, drinking and laughing. She’d been in baseball parks before, but this place had a mix of playfulness, attitude and superiority. Sort of like the man who’d brought her here.
Still holding her hand, Cameron tugged her down a few steps, into a row of box seats not far from the Yankee dugout. First base was close enough that she could see specks of red clay covering the canvas bag. A shower of greetings came at them, and Cameron responded with a series of “Hey” and “How ya doin’?” that included high-fives and more knuckle tapping.
They settled into seats and he dropped a casual arm around her, leaning close to her ear. “You do know who A-Rod is, don’t you?”
“Yes.” The name sounded more like a tool than a person, but he didn’t need to know that.
Suddenly a hollow whack propelled the entire stadium to its feet, including her, as Cameron pulled her from her seat and she instinctively squinted up into the blinding lights.
Then everyone moaned and sat down. By the time Jo saw a player in the outfield throw in the ball, they were seated again, too. Cameron’s arm took up permanent residence around her shoulders, the distinctive, delicious scent of him overpowering the smell of popcorn and humanity around her.
“You want that beer?” he asked.
She leaned back enough to make sure he could see her warning look. “This isn’t a date.”
He grinned and threw a quick glance over his shoulder. “Fake it for me, okay? I got a reputation from one end of the Bronx to the other.”
“I bet you do.”
His gaze locked on hers, way too warm and friendly for the situation they were in. “A good reputation,” he assured her. “As a gentleman who would buy a lady anything she wants at the ballpark.”
What she wanted was the paper in his pocket. Signed. “I’ll have whatever you have.”
Another smack of the ball against the bat stole his attention and they were up again. This time the hit was a success, landing the player on second base. Maybe she should at least try to follow the game.
She sat back down, but Cameron remained standing and whistled at a vendor. Peanuts flew at them, followed by the arrival of two foaming plastic cups. More jokes and pronouncements were tossed around among the people who all seemed to know one another, and before Jo really knew what was happening, it was the fourth inning and she’d had half a beer and three-quarters of a bag of peanuts. And she finally understood what a balk was.
But she didn’t feel any closer to success.
Cameron talked about his team with a mesmerizing passion, his movements spare, his expressions intense. His whole body somehow managed to stay practically pressed to her side, the metal arm of the seat the only thing preventing her from feeling the steel of his muscles, the warmth of his substantial frame.
She couldn’t help sneaking glances at him while he watched the game. Nor could she help noticing that he did the same. Only there was nothing sneaky about his gazes. He looked at her—a lot, and with great interest— and every time he did, an unwanted response sparked through her whole body.
She tried to keep the conversation light and act as if she didn’t notice the undercurrent of tension and attraction between them. For whatever reason, he’d brought her with him. And she would play his game until she got what she wanted.
“How did you become such a Yankee fan?” she asked. “Don’t they have a baseball team in Pittsburgh?”
He froze middrink of beer, obviously surprised by the question. They hadn’t discussed where he’d grown up.
“NewYork is my home now,” he said simply, then took his sip. “I went to college and law school at Fordham about ten minutes from here, and I got my MBA at Columbia. I live, breathe, eat and root for NewYork City.”
“I know,” she said quietly, earning another surprised glance. But she didn’t know why he’d virtually abandoned the home of his youth.
“I’m at a distinct disadvantage,” he softly announced, so close to her ear that her stomach dipped at the vibrations his voice caused. “You seem to know a lot more about me than I know about you.”
He had a right to some information about her, she reminded herself. No harm in that. “I live and work in Sierra Springs. I’m thirty years old, own my own home and run a body shop in town.” How personal did he want to get?
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Very personal. “No.”
“Ever been married?”
She supposed it was a legitimate question, considering the pending adoption. “Briefly.”
“What happened?”
“He wanted to move to L.A.”
“And you couldn’t work that little detail out?” He looked dubious, and she swallowed before answering with the truth.
“He wanted to move to L.A. with another woman.”
“Oh.”
Yeah, oh. She shrugged. “Stuff happens.”
“Sure does. How long were you married?”
A collective cheer from the crowd threatened to drown out her response, but he actually stayed seated and waited to hear her answer.
“I was married for about a year,” she told him. “I was only twenty-two.” She really hadn’t expected to