Curveball by Kate Angell Page B

were upset I wasn’t focused on you.”
    She was psychic. “After your last article, Burgers, Fries, and a Side of Jesse Belissaro, I’d appreciate your focusing less on me and more on baseball.”
    “Ribbing in the clubhouse?”
    “No man wants to be likened to a pickle.”
    “A Vlasic pickle. I meant it in the most complimentary way.”
    “I took a lot of hits.”
    “Poor baby.” She went back to her typing.
    Romeo’s jaw worked. “Any questions for me?”
    “Does your butt fall asleep on the bench?”
    “Not nice, Emerson.”
    She pursed her lips. “The Raptors beat the Rogues by how many runs last night? Seven or was it eight?”
    “Rubbing my nose in our loss?”
    “I’m winning our bet. You’re down three games.”
    Romeo circled the rim of his coffee cup with one finger. A gold china cup with red, white, and blue stars. “Down by three means little. It’s early in the season.”
    “Down by thirteen will hit home. I predict the Rogues won’t win a game until the Bat Pack is back in the lineup.”
    Romeo slouched on the chrome chair, crossed his arms over his chest. Emerson seemed way too sure of herself. He didn’t like cocky reporters, even when they had thick chestnut hair, startling green eyes, and a turn-on smile.
    Yet there was something about her that put him in the mood to hang out with her. He’d had casual relationships. Had juggled a lot of women. He’d never, however, put enough energy into one woman to see if the relationship could last beyond bed and breakfast.
    Tonight was his fifth with Emerson Kent. Though her interviews centered on him, he’d learned a little about her as well. Her parents lived outside Washington, D.C. Her mother was an English professor at Georgetown University; her father a renowned cardiologist at Johns Hopkins. She was well read, held up her end of a conversation, didn’t giggle. She finished the New York Times crossword puzzle. Collected baseball cards. Had mastered chopsticks. And, most importantly, took control of her destiny.
    Emerson never planned to depend on a man for her happiness. She was one self-sufficient woman. She owned a hammer, a set of screwdrivers, and a cordless drill. Could change pipes beneath the kitchen sink. Could hang pictures without knocking out plaster.
    He’d caught a glimpse of black lace when she’d bent down to grab her laptop. The lady got frilly beneath her business suits. Romeo liked frilly.
    He tapped his fingers on the table and asked, “Care to place a wager on the next ten games?”
    “We’ve already bet on the pennant race.”
    “Let’s make the season even more interesting.”
    She stopped typing, saved her material. “I’m listening.”
    “The next ten games: for every Rogue win, I collect a kiss.”
    “Is everything about puckering up?”
    “I enjoy making out.”
    “It’s one quick kiss, Romeo, if the Rogues pull off a win.”
    “Never quick, Em.”
    He caught the slight tremble in her hands as she clutched her ivory china cup and took a sip of her latte. Should the Rogues manage to pull off a win, he wanted her sitting on a hot rock anticipating his kiss.
    She exhaled, then slowly countered,” “For every loss you remain celibate.”
    Celibate? He lived and breathed sex. Considered sex the eighth wonder of the world. Suffering blue balls was for teenagers. Not grown men.
    He hated the idea that Emerson had written off their first thirteen games. Romeo would never getmore than coffee and conversation from this woman. That bothered him, more than he cared to admit.
    “Deal?” she prodded.
    “You’re pretty damn sure you’ll win.”
    “The Atlanta Braves look strong,” she told him. “The team’s healthy. Their lead off batters have some serious pop. Warren Cabe, their starting pitcher, takes the sting out of a player’s bat. Batters look flat when Cabe’s on the mound. As far as the Florida Marlins go, their defense is on fire. They’re playing like superheroes.”
    She flicked her