Strike Zone by Kate Angell Page A

cool detachment told her she was a dead memory.
    “I’m Taylor Hannah, Addie’s granddaughter.” She fought to keep her voice steady, did her best to be cordial.
    “Sloan McCaffrey, party crasher,” Sloan introduced himself.
    Hilary recognized him. “You climb onto that little hill and throw pitches after Brek.” It was obvious she didn’t know a lot about baseball.
    “I’m the reliever,” Sloan explained. “I take over where Brek leaves off.” Both on and off the field.
    The words unsaid were heard the loudest—a most daring comment on Sloan’s part. Taylor noticed the hard set of Brek’s jaw. Only Hilary looked blank and out of the loop.
    “What can I get for you?” Taylor wanted to mix their drinks and move them on. She’d never wanted to meet Hilary. Never wanted to know whom Brek had chosen after her. The pain of seeing the two of them together was physically debilitating. She could barely breathe. Every muscle in her body ached from holding herself so stiffly.
    “Scotch for Daddy and Stuart,” Hilary requested with a sweet smile. “I’ll have a vodka gimlet, and Brek will have . . .” Her expression went blank.
    Taylor waited for the woman to say, “Club soda with citrus.” Hilary never did. Her puckered brow indicated that she couldn’t remember what her fiancé drank. Stryke looked concerned as well.
    During Brek’s time with her, Taylor knew he hadn’t indulged during baseball season. He’d kept his body at a high-performance level. She wondered whether he drank now or still abstained. She stood quietly, awaiting his order.
    “Club soda and citrus,” he finally said.
    Taylor exhaled her relief over his choice. She was glad some things hadn’t changed.
    Across the bar, Hilary hooked her arm through Brek’s. She looked up at him with her big brown eyes. “Did we decide on a restaurant for dinner? Daddy thought the Prime Club might be nice, but Stuart and I prefer Chesapeake Landing. I’m in the mood for seafood. How about you?”
    Stryke shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s an early night.”
    Taylor caught Hilary’s pout. “I respect your curfew; I just wish you could stay up past eleven on occasion.”
    “Maybe I could,” he agreed, “in the right circumstances.”
    Memories hit Taylor hard. She’d always looked forward to his curfew. She and Stryke would strip and race for bed. Neither had slept until the early morning hours, yet he’d still gotten up with the alarm.
    Closing her mind to what once had been and would never be again, Taylor set the three alchoholic drinks on the bar, then poured club soda for Brek. She squeezed fresh lemon and lime wedges into the soda, then floated several orange slices on top.
    “Another Bud, sweetheart.” Sloan held up his beer glass as Hilary and Stryke picked up their drinks.
    Her fingertips damp, Taylor lost her grip on the glass Sloan passed to her. It slipped through her hand. At any other time, she could have caught the glass before it hit the floor; her reflexes were that sharp. Not today, however. Her muscles froze, and she watched as the glass hit the slate tile near her right foot and shattered loudly.
    “She’s barefoot,” she heard Sloan say.
    She damn sure was. Flecks of blood now patterned her toes. She stepped back, only to feel splinters of glass bite into the ball of her foot.
    Angry with herself for being so clumsy, she searched behind the bar for a broom and dustpan. Locating them on a bottom shelf beneath a lemonade pitcher, she quickly bent to clean up the mess.
    Pairs of low biker boots, gray suede pumps, and leather loafers rounded the end of the bar as she worked.
    “You’re bleeding; I’ll finish up.” Sloan hunkered down beside her and took the broom and dustpan right out of her hands.
    “It’s nothing.” She tried to wave Sloan off.
    “Glass in your foot is something. You don’t need an infection.” The statement came from Brek, without any inflection of concern.
    Emotionally