Various States of Undress by Laura Simcox Page B

beside her, he waved to the crowd. Mechanically, she did the same.
    â€œRight.” She knew that. She had a lot of baseball facts crammed into her brain now, but it was hard to think straight. All she could think about was that, in roughly thirty seconds, they would part ways for a few days because the Redbirds would be traveling. Once the team returned, she would come back to the ballpark, attempt to do her first set of live pregame interviews, and then sit in the stands and watch him play.
    But she wanted . . . she wanted an excuse to spend more time with Brett, aside from watching him play ball. She’d held back on badgering him for an interview, choosing to play it cool, because she realized the more she asked, the more he would dig his heels in. And the further he dug in, the longer it would take.
    But maybe . . . maybe if they spent a little bit of time together, she could get him to open up. Also, she still believed that if she could just get used to Brett, the insane attraction she felt would die off—and she would be free to do her damn job without worrying that she was going to melt on the spot every time she saw him.
    Maybe she should mention something to him—a get-together of sorts. Not really work, not really play. What was that , though? A nondate? Friends hanging out? They weren’t actually friends. He’d said that she could interview him after the game tonight, but her intuition told her he wasn’t ready for that. He wouldn’t open up and give her what she needed.
    She pressed her lips together. Okay. He could give her what she wanted —but she couldn’t go there, either.
    As they reached the edge of the tunnel, Jim walked forward, murmuring into his wrist. He held out an arm for Georgia, and she knew exactly what that meant. She was about to be whisked away. Impulsively, she stopped a few yards inside the tunnel and turned to Brett. “Meet me after the fireworks.”
    He frowned and leaned close. “The crowd’s too loud. What?”
    Georgia went on her tiptoes and grabbed his solid shoulder. “Meet me after the fireworks,” she repeated near his ear, not daring to look at him. He didn’t respond, so she was forced to look, and the wary, uncomfortable expression on his face made her want to sink right through the bright green grass on the infield.
    Oh, damn. What was she supposed to say now? If she told him she didn’t want to meet him for business, he would automatically think she was chasing him for pleasure. He was that cocky. But if the word “interview” crossed her lips, he would probably put her off.
    â€œUm . . .” she said, painfully aware that—more than likely—her face was frozen with a constipated look. Lovely.
    He raised his eyebrows and, with a ghost of a smile, leaned close again. “Sure, sugar. When and where?”
    â€œMy apartment,” she said. “That way my agents won’t have to scope out somewhere else,” she added quickly and then turned into a complete dummy. “Though it’s not very comfortable. Well, the complex is—I’m in one of the new buildings, near the pool. But my apartment is naked. The store I ordered my furniture from royally screwed up the delivery, and I only have a single barstool and a bed.”
    Brett’s eyebrows went up another notch. “I don’t think I’ll touch that comment.”
    â€œPlease don’t,” she answered.
    He chuckled. “Your agents are chomping at the bit over there, the cameras are all still trained on you, and I kind of need to go back to work. See ya later tonight?”
    She nodded, feeling for all the world like an athlete groupie. Maybe she ought to just go plunk herself down with the teenagers in tiny tank tops who sat along the first base line, flaunting themselves for the players. When Brett had been signing autographs for kids earlier, those same girls had been right in the middle of the