Dustin waited as Clover struggled with an internal debate. He could see her sway back and forth between wanting to stay and wanting to run.

He wanted her to stay.

Her popping into his garage had taken him off guard. Once the shock wore off, the only thing he could think about was how much he wanted her to walk through his home. He wanted to walk into his kitchen and picture Clover at the counter with a bowl of cereal, her hair falling forward like a curtain and a good-morning smile on her lips.

He didn’t have any cereal. Curse the team trainer and his infatuation with eggs.

He needed to buy cereal.

Clover continued to hesitate, and he realized he was losing her. Suddenly, her accusation that he had thrown his money in her face came back to him. Perhaps taking her into his house wasn’t the best idea.

Walking slowly so as not to startle her, he reached for two mitts on the shelf in the garage. Unlike his buddy Blake Rygs’s garage, which was full of gearhead tools and several sets of tires, Dustin’s garage was lined with baseball gear. He had years of baseball in here, from his old aluminum bats to a tee and a net set up for practice. He kept his wooden bats and best mitts in the climate-controlled house. The St. George heat could be brutal on gear. At least he wasn’t playing in Arizona. Those guys had to deal with real heat.

Picking up the mitts, he held one out to Clover. “Let’s hit the backyard. I’ll teach you to throw—no vegetables involved.”

The mitt hung between them like an olive branch.

Clover’s lips formed a small O as she exhaled. “I guess, since I’m obviously missing an essential life skill.” She took his old fielder’s mitt and hugged it to her body.

Dustin tried not to admire her curves and headed to the door that led from the garage to the back patio. “It’s like you don’t even know how to tie your shoes,” he teased. He turned on the floodlights and snagged a ball from the bucket by the door.

“That’s what Velcro is for.”

Man, he loved how quick she was, how sharp her mind. She followed him out to the golf course. He had a small patch of grass that came with the house, but to play a proper game of catch, they would need more space.

He stopped and pointed to the ground. “You start here.” She watched intently as he slipped on his mitt. He’d done the action more times than there were thin blades of grass on the putting green, but if her wide golden eyes were any indication, it was all new to her. She managed to get her hand inside the leather and opened and closed the mitt a couple times. He nodded. Good.

“Why are they different?” She pointed between the two mitts.

“Mine’s a pitcher’s glove, and yours is a fielder’s glove.”

Her eyebrows lowered. “Okay, why does the pitcher need a different glove from a fielder?”

He grinned, enjoying her curiosity. Clover had a hard candy shell, but inside she was sweet, and he suspected delicious. Pulling his thoughts away from leaning down and sampling her full lips, he held up his mitt. “A pitcher’s glove is a solid color so he doesn’t distract the hitter.” He turned his wrist over. “It has a solid web so the hitter can’t see what grip the pitcher is using.”

“Because the grip would indicate what he’s about to throw?” She had the right answer, but phrased it as a question, which told him she was allowing herself to be vulnerable with him. A sense of protectiveness swelled in his chest like a lion getting to his feet ready to roar. Clover had always seemed larger than life with her don’t-mess-with-me attitude, but standing this close, staring down into her eyes, he couldn’t help but notice she was delicate.

“That’s right,” he whispered.

She glanced down. “But you’re not a pitcher.”

Dustin laughed because he was happy—like caught-the-pop-fly-to-end-the-game happy. “I pitched in high school and a year of college before I was drafted.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes.” He took five big steps backward. “Okay, the glove should be an extension of your arm. Don’t think of it as separate.”

“Got it.” Her lips pursed in concentration.

Dustin thought about jogging the five steps back and tugging on her chin with his thumb to loosen them. “And you want to keep your mitt between you and the ball.” He moved his mitt in front of his face, palm forward, and then his chest. She mirrored his movements.

“Okay, I’m going to toss this one real easy. When it hits your glove, squeeze to keep it in there.” He’d given her his old mitt, the one that was out of shape and flat as a pancake. He had to work harder to keep it open than to close it because the leather was worn out.

“I’m ready.” She spread her feet slightly and poked her behind out in the sexiest ready stance he’d ever seen.

Grinning, he tossed the ball. It flew through the air in slow motion, smacking the leather with hardly a sound. Clover jumped back as if he’d thrown a line drive, but she managed to hang on to the ball.

“I caught it.” She turned the glove over to verify that the ball was still in there.

“Okay, send it back.” Dustin hunkered down like he was a catcher. He didn’t need to—there was no way she would kill him with a throw—but he liked the way her eyes lit up when she noticed what he was doing.

They went back and forth for a few minutes, throwing easy tosses. Dustin took a couple steps back every few throws until they were a respectable distance apart. Even though they weren’t standing together, he felt close to Clover. “I haven’t thrown a ball with anyone outside of the Redrocks in ages.”

Clover smacked her fist into the mitt. “No one?”

He shrugged as he threw, aiming for her right hip so she would have to adjust to catch. She did fine, and he nodded his approval. “My nieces and nephews think soccer is the world’s only sport. My brother stopped playing when he didn’t make the high school team, and my dad thought baseball was a waste of time. Try to step as you throw; it will save your elbow.”

“What does he think now?” She thought about the movement as she threw.

Dustin had to jump to catch the ball. “The same.”

“But you made it.” She tipped her head. “You are one of the top five percent to get drafted.”

Dustin twisted the ball around in his fingers, feeling the laces bump against his palm. “Someone has to be the black sheep in the family.” Maybe there was a spin of resentment on the ball as he threw, because it sailed past Clover and hit Brayden’s back door. Dustin jogged forward to retrieve the ball. Clover headed that way too.

Brayden’s floodlights came on and his back door slid open. “You trying to break my window?”

“She should have had that one.” He tapped Clover’s back with his mitt.

“He threw too hard,” Clover shot back.

“He doesn’t throw hard enough,” Brayden teased as he stepped out onto the patio.

Clover glanced at him, concerned.

Dustin hurried to belay her worries. “Brayden has a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball. No one throws hard enough for him.”

Brayden was followed out by Tilly, the rock climbing instructor he’d been dating for a couple months.

“Oh, hey, it’s you.” Brayden reached out his hand. “Clover, right?”

“Yeah.” Clover shook his hand and gave a small wave to Tilly.

“We met at the club in Vegas,” Brayden continued, as if that night hadn’t been one of Dustin’s biggest mistakes. “This is my girlfriend, Tilly.” Tilly returned Clover’s wave before threading her fingers through Brayden’s. They exchanged pleasantries and chatted about the game.

Clover didn’t say much. Instead, she soaked in the verbiage and slang. Her enthusiasm was like a puff in Dustin’s baseball balloon. He loved the game. Loved it more than anything on this earth, with the grand exception of his family. Having the two things he loved the most at odds had taken a toll on him, dragged him down to where he wasn’t playing his best.

Clover had given him back that drive, the desire to prove them—and especially her—wrong. He had—or so it seemed. She no longer treated him like a Peter Pan and had a sincere interest in his sport. That was major progress.

He glanced down at her hand, wondering what she would do if he threaded his fingers through hers.

“Babe, I have a climb tomorrow.” Tilly tugged on Brayden’s hand, gently reminding him that it was after one in the morning.

“I’ll drive you home.”

They said goodbye, and Dustin was once again alone with Clover. She turned to face him, just as Brayden’s lights shut off. They were left with the half moon and the lights from his place a few doors down to light their way. Emboldened in the dark, Dustin reached for Clover’s hand. She grabbed on to him, and his pulse matched Brayden’s pitch speed.

“Thanks for the lesson.” She squeezed his hand. “Now I’ll be able to stop produce attacks.”

“Do they happen often?”

“More than you’d think.” She laughed lightly.

Dustin’s heart grew warm at the sound. They turned and headed back to his place. “We have one more game against Oakland tomorrow. Will you come?” He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. She shivered, and he instinctively drew her closer. Instead of going back into the garage, he walked her to her car, parked at a crazy angle on the curb.

“I can come for part of the game, but I’ll have to leave early.”

“I’ll take whatever time you’ve got.” They stopped by the driver’s side door. He released her hand and ran his fingers up and down her bare arms, loving the soft feel of her skin.

Clover searched his eyes. He got the feeling she was looking for evidence that she could trust him. That lion sat up in his chest, and he wanted to be a man worthy of her trust. Because of that, he stepped back, letting her hands slide through his fingers. “I’ll have the tickets at will call.” He smiled and headed for the house, though every part of him wanted to hold Clover’s face in his hands and kiss her good night.