But God, he smelled good, and was still smiling in reassurance. And before she could register the thought process, she leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. A thank-you-for-caring kiss—except that he turned his head to look at her and . . .

Their lips collided.

Gently connected.

Held . . .

A beat of shock reverberated through her system. She waited for the awkwardness to hit, but that wasn’t what hit at all as he pulled back a fraction and stared at her, clearly as completely thrown as she.

“In or out,” a woman behind them said, sounding irritated—until she got a look at Pace. “Hey. Hey, are you . . . Pace Martin? Ohmigod, you are! You’re him!” Irritation gone, she flashed a wide grin. “You had an amazing season last year, what was it? Twenty-four and six?”

“Something like that.”

“Twenty-four wins.” She sighed in pleasure. “With, what, almost two hundred strikeouts, right?”

“Not quite that many,” he said modestly.

“Well, it was a fantastic run, whatever it was!” She turned to Holly. “He led the National League in wins, ERA, and strikeouts on his way to the Cy Young Award!” She grinned at Pace. “And you had the NL’s record in strikeouts the year before, too, don’t think I forgot that! We’ve got a bet going that you’re good for at least 225 strikeouts this year. We love you in our house.”

“Thank you.”

She grinned, then gasped. “Ohmigod, you have to sign something for me.”

Holly watched, head spinning, as the woman searched her pockets and came up with a pen but no paper. “It’s okay,” she gushed. “Just sign me.” With that, she tugged her tank top off her shoulder, low on her breast, which nearly, but not quite, popped out. “Here,” she demanded, tapping herself with her finger, flesh bouncing all over the place. “Right here.”

Pace didn’t even blink as he obligingly leaned in to sign the woman’s breast.

“My husband is the hugest fan,” she said to the top of his head, beaming. “He’s going to go nuts when he sees this!”

Pace handed her back her pen and held the door open for both women to precede him in.

Inside, the happy fan rushed off.

Holly looked at Pace. “She knew your stats. By memory.”

“Some do.” He took her arm, but she dug in her heels.

He looked at her from those dark brown eyes fringed by darker, thick lashes and waited.

“You sign a lot of breasts?”

“Body parts are a fairly common request,” he admitted.

“It’s an interesting life you lead, Pace.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I really don’t need a doctor.”

“Humor me. And when the doc tells me you’re fine, I won’t feel bad dumping you back at your car and pretending this past hour never happened.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “But only if you promise to sign a body part afterward.”

Chapter 6

Chapter 6