“I’m not great at hitting,” she corrected Chipper modestly. “But working on it.”

“You’re definitely ready for the U.S. Open,” Pace said. “Maybe the Masters.”

She cocked her head. “Those are golf tourneys.”

“Yep. And that’s what you look like you’re playing.” He went back for the bag he’d dropped in his misguided attempt to save her life and tossed it to the guys, who ripped into it with wild enthusiasm, pulling out Heat T-shirts and sweatshirts.

Holly was looking at him, silent and assessing, and he turned his head to meet her gaze, gently tapping up the bill of the cap to see her face. “What?” he asked.

“You are sweet.”

Sweet? He was still on the instant replay of her naked, and moving onto the fantasy about how she might look with her legs sprawled wide enough for him to wedge his shoulders between, and she was thinking he was sweet? He let out a low laugh, and she stared into his eyes and blushed.

Yeah. There it was. Now she was on the same page. Which didn’t help.

“There are kids present,” she whispered.

“One of which nearly killed you last time. Wear a helmet when he pitches to you. In fact, always wear a helmet whenever you’re up at bat.” He reached into the equipment bag and found one, putting it on her head. Then he took her hips and turned her away from him.

“Been here before,” she whispered, and he found himself grinning.

“Bat up, smart-ass.” He ducked to avoid getting clocked in the head with it. “River, grab a ball.”

“Yeah!” the kid said with enthusiasm and leapt back to the mound.

“Lob it softly,” Pace directed. “Very softly.”

“I can do it,” Holly protested, and gave a little wriggle to get her stance right. A wriggle that put her butt right up against the button fly of his Levi’s and very nearly had his eyes rolling back in his head.

“Don’t hold back,” she demanded of River with yet another wriggle.

Jesus. “Trying to keep you alive here,” he said in her ear. “Go with me on this.”

She craned her neck and looked at him, the kind of look that turned him on and upside down and inside out, and he had to laugh at her. At him. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“Don’t try to kill the ball, just connect with it. And keep your eyes on it.”

She rolled them first, then nodded to River as Pace backed out of the way.

“Wait for your pitch,” he said. “Swing level, and follow through.”

When she connected, she didn’t drop the bat, she didn’t run for first. Instead, she executed the cutest, sexiest little boogie dance he’d ever seen and whirled to him, nearly knocking him out with the bat. “See?” she asked, eyes lit with joy. “Told you I could hit.”