Page 15 of Third Strike Smitten

The waitress returns with our drinks, and I notice the way Killian thanks her, polite but distant. There’s something about the way he holds himself—confident but not cocky—that draws me in despite my better judgment.

He taps his beer with mine and then draws a long sip. Then he leans back on his chair, looking at me like he’s trying to figure me out.

“So, Grandma’s wheelchair, huh?”

I snort. “I’m sorry. It just sort of slips out sometimes. I don’t know how it happens.”

“I think what happens is you have no filter,” he says, but there’s no malice in his voice. Just amusement. “And for some ridiculous reason, it works for me.”

“Hmm.” I nod, considering his confession. “Maybe I should start charging for my services,” I say, taking a sip of my beer. “I hear pitching coaches make bank.”

“Yeah, but they mostly keep their mouths shut during games,” he counters, though there’s no bite to it. Just that same low rumble that makes my skin tingle.

“Where’s the fun in that?” I lean back in my chair, studying him. “Besides, if I kept my mouth shut, you’d still be up there looking like you’re trying to solve a quadratic equation with every pitch.”

He laughs—actually laughs—and the sound does something dangerous to my insides. “A quadratic equation? Seriously?”

“Do you know how difficult it is to roast someone using advanced mathematics?”

Brock nearly chokes on his beer across the table.

“Oh my God,” Brock wheezes beside me. “I love her.”

Killian shakes his head slowly, rubbing a hand across his mouth like he’s trying not to smile too hard. “You know, most people get nervous talking to professional athletes.”

I shrug. “Most professional athletes don’t pitch like they’re moments away from filing their taxes.”

That one gets a louder laugh out of him, deep and rough enough that heads turn from neighboring tables. His change in demeanor is interesting given who he is on the field versus off. He’s looser here.

Lighter.

And dare I say dangerously charming.

I don’t hate it at all, but there has to be something about him that makes him act the way he does on the mound because that guy is definitely not the one sitting next to me now.

“Okay,” he says, pointing at me with the neck of his beer bottle. “You keep talking like that and I’m gonna start thinking you actually enjoy tormenting me.”

“Oh, I definitely enjoy tormenting you.”

“Oh, my God.” Brock points dramatically between us. “Chemistry.”

“Shut up, Brock,” Killian mutters without taking his eyes off me.

“Aw.” Padrick presses a hand to his chest. “He defended her. They’re basically engaged.”

I choke on my beer as Killian groans. “Why are you people like this?”

“Because you’ve spent all spring glaring at everyone like a Victorian husband trapped in a loveless marriage,” Alaric deadpans from the end of the table. “This is a refreshing change.”

Killian flips him off without looking.

I bite back another smile. “Victorian husband is actually incredibly accurate.”

He shakes his head, glaring at me, amusement etched across his face. “Don’t encourage them.”

“Oh, I absolutely will.” I angle toward him slightly, studying him closer. “Come to think of it, you do have a very ‘don’t speak to me unless you have inherited land’ vibe.”

The table erupts.