The Hot Corner Page 6

  “Oh, is it my interview time? Actually, at an event just like this one a few years ago. I was fresh off a breakup with my director, and Brad had just ended a fling with that singer, Maximiliana. I saw him, I wanted him, and I got him. Well, as much as one can get a guy like Brad.”

  I gritted my teeth. What had made me think I could possibly have this conversation? “You’ve known and spent time with each other for three years, but you’re not a couple?”

  She flashed a smile. “I can’t say I didn’t want more at first, but Brad’s not the more type. At least he isn’t now.” The way she was looking at me made me uncomfortable, and I started taking notes.

  “But you still . . .”

  “From time to time. I’m sorry I have to say this, but the sex is phenomenal.”

  I flinched but kept my eyes on the paper. Had I been writing with a pencil, I would have broken it while writing “phenomenal sex” on my notepad.

  “But great sex only gets you so far.” I glanced then, and her smile had dimmed considerably. “Brad’s a lot of fun. He can tell funny stories, but he never let me get close to him. It’s pretty clear he got hurt badly and shut everyone out.” She narrowed her eyes. “I must admit, I’m dying to ask what happened between you two, but I don’t think I’d get any further with you than I did with him.”

  “Nothing to tell. Things end, people move on.” Some of them even moved on to stunning actresses.

  “That they do.” Her perfectly manicured nails tapped the tabletop. “But not without leaving a scar or an echo or a memory.” She smiled. “Brad has a lot of scars. They’re just the types that don’t show.”

  “It sounds to me like you know him pretty well.” Why that bothered me so damn much I refused to consider.

  “Bits and pieces, is all. I’m an observer by nature, and I’ve spent a lot of time with him. Once upon a time I thought I could be in love with him, but that was just wishful thinking. Anyway, I’m glad I wasn’t, because he most certainly wouldn’t have loved me back.”

  “You don’t think he’s capable of love?” I knew he was. Or I thought he was, but then again, he’d been fooling around for God knew how long.

  “I think he’s capable of great love, I just don’t think he wants it. You really did a number on him.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ladies.” Brad placed a restraining hand on my shoulder. “Dinner is going to start soon.”

  Pam rose gracefully and smiled at both of us. “I guess that’s my cue to leave. But before I do, Brad, be a dear and get me another glass of champagne, will you?”

  He glanced between us before shrugging and taking off to do her bidding again.

  She looked me in the eyes. “I insulted you again and I’m sorry. Bluntness is one of my trademarks, I’m afraid. Look, I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but I do know he cared about you a great deal. He wouldn’t hear one bad word about you, and I had plenty of them when I was trying to convince him not to do the book.”

  I recoiled. “You don’t even know me.”

  “No, I don’t, and I honestly do hope to. It’s obvious you mean something to him, and he’s my friend. I want the best for him, and if that’s you, then I’m all for it.”

  “I’m not here to be with him, I’m here to write about him.”

  She laughed again. “You both keep telling yourselves that. Thank you, darling.” Brad had returned with her champagne. She took it and gave us both that award-winning smile. “I should probably get back to Terry.”

  “He won’t try anything, at least not tonight.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you. You’re the best. Dani, Brad has my number. I’d really like to talk to you again sometime.”

  “Sounds good,” I said with a tight smile.

  “Anything but,” Brad muttered. I kicked his ankle and he smirked. “I’m just glad we all seem to have survived.”

  “Of course we did. Dani and I are going to be fast friends, once she gets used to my big mouth.”

  Brad groaned, but I found myself laughing.

  “What did you tell her?” he asked.

  “Only flattering things, darling. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her about that time in Palm Springs, when . . .”

  “You didn’t!” He glared at her, and she dissolved in a fit of giggles.

  “Of course not. But behave yourself or I will.” She gave him a smacking kiss that didn’t set my teeth on edge this time. “Dani, I look forward to hearing from you soon. We’ll do lunch.” She turned away and waved to several people as she glided through the crowd.

  “Dare I ask?” I wondered as Brad pulled me to my feet.

  “Hell no. Dinner’s starting soon. Would you like to dance?”

  I stared at him like he’d grown another head, and he took the opportunity to tug me onto the dance floor.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed as he pulled me into his arms.

  “Distracting you.” He was doing that, all right. I didn’t like the way we still moved together as if years and lies hadn’t separated us.

  “Let me go.”

  “I already did. You don’t want to cause a scene, do you?”

  No, I didn’t, and since we were the only two fools out on the floor, I probably would if I yanked myself away from him. I settled for pulling back and putting a few inches of space between our bodies. “Pam’s not what I expected.”

  He chuckled. “No, she’s not. She just kind of barges her way in.”

  “Why aren’t you two together?”

  “What we have suits us both.”

  Maybe now. “Has it always been that way?”

  He twirled me and somehow I ended up pressed against him again. “Why do you ask?”

  I wasn’t going to tell him she’d said she’d wanted more at one time. “You two seem close.”

  He shrugged and brushed his fingers through my hair. I shivered and put my head on his shoulder, because if I kept looking at him, I was going to kiss him, and that would be bad.

  “You and I seem close right now, but we’re not.”

  No, we weren’t. Physically, we were too close, but there were still miles between us. Brad leaned back as the song ended, and his sage gaze met mine.

  “Thanks for the dance. You still fit.”

  Chapter 8

  I was going to lose my mind. The charity auction had been somewhat fun once Brad had stopped dancing with me. I’d met tons of famous people and lined up some good interviews. The only other awkward moment had been when Brad had brought me back to the hotel and insisted upon walking me to my room. Neither one of us had known what to do once we’d arrived at the door, and everything inside me had been screaming to kiss him and invite him in. Instead, I’d just thanked him for the evening, and he’d just smirked.

  I’d spent the following day in his cold condo again, going over his youth all the way through high school, his rise in the baseball ranks, and ultimately his decision to go to Florida State. That, of course, had us uncomfortably close to where I came into the picture, but that had been where we’d finished for the day.

  Today, at least, I was getting a reprieve. It was opening day. The Dodgers’ brass had okayed my talking to the players after the game—but not before—so I was safely ensconced in the stands, watching the team do warm-ups. Some were batting, others were fielding, and a few were stretching. Watching those tight bodies bend and move in those crisp white pants was a thing of beauty. I had a prime seat right along the third-base line, first row. I could have reached out and touched some of the players as they walked by, if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t. No, not at all.

  “I can’t believe your dad got us these seats!”

  I stifled my laugh at the excited teenage voice behind me.

  “I’m going to have to wash his car for, like, the next decade, but it’s totally worth it if Brad Reynolds sees us. Do you think I look sexy enough?”

  Okay, now it wasn’t so funny. I turned to the side, pretending to
be looking for something in my bag, while checking out the girls behind me. They were sixteen if they were a day. Brad damn well better not notice them.

  “You look hot. What about me?”

  She did. What kind of parent let their daughter go out looking like that? It was a nice day, but those tiny shorts and tank tops were hardly appropriate for the beach, let alone a baseball game. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, along with a Dodgers cap to keep the sun out of my face. Those girls would burn to a crisp. I didn’t think I’d mind.

  “So hot. God, he’s sexy. Would you look at him?”

  I turned and watched as Brad fielded an easy grounder. I had to admit, the teenage vixen was right. He had that look of fierce concentration he always wore on the field, even though it was only warm-ups. And his uniform fit him perfectly, hugging those tight thigh muscles and showing his biteable ass. What was I doing? Teenage hormones were rubbing off on me.

  “Kara says he’s too old for me, but he’s not that old. And just think of all he could teach me.”

  Had I been that ridiculous at sixteen? Brad turned and shot a grin my way, and I felt my heartbeat kick up a notch. Maybe I would have been, over him.

  “Oh my God, he’s looking over here. Should we wave? Stick out your chest!”

  I laughed as he stepped to the fence and they tittered behind me. “Does this seat work for you?” he asked.

  “Well, it gives me a prime view of you, which I’m quite sure was your goal.” Yes, girls, it’s me he’s talking to.

  “Best seat in the house.” He winked at me. “Right, ladies?”

  “He’s talking to us!” one hissed to the other. “Answer him.”

  “For sure!” the braver of the two said.

  “See, they get it.”

  “They better not,” I muttered under my breath, and he grinned wider. “Don’t you have to get ready?”

  “I was born ready, Red. Gonna bring me luck today?”

  I wished I could. “I thought it was all about skill.”

  “It is, but a little luck never hurt, did it?” He was having a fine time teasing me.

  “Just how would you like me to bring you luck?” I licked my lips and watched his hands squeeze the fence.

  “Well, I seem to remember you used to . . .”

  “Don’t even go there, Reynolds.” I used to do a lot of things.

  “Fine, I guess I’ll have to do it alone.” His lower lip poked out in a pout that made the girls behind me swoon. I was feeling territorial, so I leaned forward and brushed my lips over his cheek. The sexy stubble tickled, and he smelled like soap and grass. I had to fight the urge to kiss my way down to his mouth. It would be easy to do.

  Instead, I pulled away. “There’s your luck.”

  His wide green eyes studied me. “You’re still full of surprises, Red.”

  Yeah, I even surprised myself. I wasn’t supposed to be kissing him, even if it was only on the cheek. Couldn’t take it back now, though. “It would suck for the story if you lost your first game of the season.”

  He chuckled. “Is that so? Well, then, by all means, kiss me again for the sake of the story. But make it count this time.”

  “Don’t push it, asshole.”

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He tipped his hat. “Red. Ladies. Enjoy the game.” And he was off to take his swings.

  “Oh my God, he told us to enjoy the game! He noticed us!”

  “Yeah, but she’s obviously his girlfriend.”

  “She’s so lucky.”

  Lucky? Girlfriend? Brad didn’t have girlfriends, not anymore. But I didn’t feel the need to correct them either. They were entirely too young to be fantasizing about Brad Reynolds.

  But no, they rhapsodized about him for the entire batting practice and even through the national anthem, admiring his butt as he stood with his team and held his hand over his heart. I couldn’t blame them, because it was a prime ass. Where had that ass been when we’d dated? He hadn’t been nearly as defined back then.

  The game started, and the seats around me filled in and drowned out the girls’ conversation. Good. I wanted to concentrate on the atmosphere. When Brad jogged over to third base, people cheered. He took off his hat and waved it before putting it back on and getting to business.

  The Dodgers brought out the big gun. Adam Stuart was on the mound. He was easily their best pitcher, and he’d been runner-up for the Cy Young last year. Between him and Brad and DJ Carter—the new outfielder they’d acquired from the Red Sox—the team had high expectations. When Adam struck out the first batter with three straight pitches, it was easy to see why.

  After the Mets’ second batter lifted a shallow pop out to right field, their best hitter stepped to the plate. Mark Wagner consistently batted over three hundred with a hundred RBIs and around thirty homers. He smoked the first pitch down the third-base line, and Brad dove and caught it before it went into the outfield. The crowd went wild as he got up grinning. He tossed the ball to me and I managed to catch it. “Luck,” he mouthed, and I laughed. I tucked the ball into my bag and took out my notepad to jot down my thoughts so far.

  He moves with the same catlike grace he had in college. Few players could have snagged that ball and kept it from being at least a double, but he did it with what looked like no effort at all. “Hands” is the perfect nickname for him, in more ways than one.

  There’s an arrogance in his play I don’t recognize from before. In college, when he made a play like that, he wouldn’t have worn the “look at me” smirk he had on just now. He likes standing out, being the superstar. I’m interested to see what his teammates think about his sportsmanship. I can’t imagine he’s a “me” player, but he definitely enjoys the attention. Then again, maybe part of this show is for me. Time will tell, and I’ll see what his everyday demeanor is soon enough.

  The noise level in the stadium elevated, and I looked up to see Brad taking his position in the batter’s box. He cocked his bat and swiveled his hips and I wished I could see his face, though I knew exactly what it would look like. That hadn’t changed. He focused in on the pitcher with complete concentration, his eyes narrowed, his muscles bunched and poised to strike.

  The first pitch was high and inside for ball one. Brad leaned back and the crowd groaned and yelled at the pitcher. The second was low but over the plate, and Brad fouled it back. The third pitch was low but inside for ball two. Two and one, a hitter’s count, and Brad knew it. The next pitch was right down the center of the plate, and the resounding crack as bat hit ball had the crowd gasping. My pen cap cut into my hand I gripped it so hard as I watched the ball sail into the outfield. It was close, so close, but instead of going over, it hit just below the top of the fence. It bounced right over the center fielder’s head, and Brad slid into third just before the ball landed in the third baseman’s glove. He stood up, and I swear he was grinning at me as the crowd roared for his triple.

  The cleanup batter, Mike Hager, came up next, and the pitcher walked him rather than risk giving up a two-run homer. Mike had a tendency either to hit a home run or strike out and not much in between, so they played it safe. It didn’t work, anyway, because Lance Green squeaked a single between first and short to bring Brad home and give the Dodgers a 1-0 lead.

  The inning ended when Doug Freeman popped out to first, and the damage was limited to one run with two runners left. I picked up my pen again as the players took their positions.

  His swing hasn’t changed, but then, why change it when it’s worked so well for him? Some batters have huge swings that look almost like they’re batting with a golf club, but Brad’s swing is compact, without any unnecessary motions. He puts all his weight on his right foot and the left fires forward with his momentum. He just missed out on a home run, but he was satisfied with the triple, especially since he scored in the end.

  The Mets got a run in the second, on an error by the second baseman who threw the ball way over Brad’s head. I could see the anger and irritation on his fac
e as he chased the ball down and threw it into home. At least he got to finish the inning by fielding a grounder in short left field and still managing to throw the runner out at first. He didn’t grin this time. He just trotted into the dugout and out of view.

  He’s competitive. Maybe more so now than before, though I won’t know until later in the season. He’s always held himself to impossibly high standards, but it looks like he might hold his teammates to the same now. And that makes sense, as they’re all paid big bucks to be the best of the best. I’ll feel out his teammates on that.

  Brad’s second at-bat was less successful than the first. He grounded out to short, and from the look on his face and the way his lips were moving, I could guess he was berating himself for swinging on the first pitch. It was the first game of the season and he was no doubt excited and probably pressing a bit. Mike Hager, though, gave the lead back to the Dodgers with a solo shot that sailed over the left field fence.

  The next inning, Brad showed his incredible range by snagging a ball about halfway between short and third, doing a pirouette and getting a force-out at second. It was no wonder they called him Hands. His smile returned, and he flipped another ball to me on his way back into the dugout after the catcher threw out a would-be stealer and Brad applied the tag just before his foot hit the bag.

  It brought back memories, and I started jotting notes again.

  He’d always get a baseball to me during college games. When I was sitting too far away for him to throw, he’d have an usher deliver it. Often with a little note that said “I love you” or “You look beautiful” or “My jersey is sexy on you.” Today’s balls don’t have anything written on them, but they’re sure getting me an awful lot of attention. The guys next to me are giving me the side-eye, and I can hear the moaning from the teenagers over how romantic it all is. If they only knew.

  Brad was up again, and this time I held my breath because the bases were loaded with two out. He lived for moments like this, but they always made me nervous. The first pitch was outside for a ball—so far outside the catcher had to lean all the way over to catch it before it went flying past him into the fence.