Page 21 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Her brow wrinkled as she looked around them. “This neighborhood?”

“All right, fine. I was thinking about you. I wanted to see you.”

“Oh.” She licked her lips, sending a jolt of desire through his limbs. “Oh.”

Robbie pushed in between them. “Want to play with us?”

“Yes,” he replied quickly. Anything to save himself from this horrible bout of truth-telling. “That is, if your sister agrees.”

Olive studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “A new victim is most welcome.”

“She’s bloodthirsty, Mr. Anderson. That’s why her pirate name is Bloody Ollie.”

A laugh ripped from his chest, and he rubbed his hands together with delight. “Now I’m very eager to play.”

She tipped her head, that adorable, shy smile making an appearance. “Best say your prayers.”

He laughed again. “Game on.”

She turned to Robbie. “Go over there and practice your swing. I need a minute alone with Mr. Anderson.”

The boy groaned, but he did as told. Emil watched as he swung the bat with wild abandon, the force spinning him like a whirligig until he staggered in the dirt. Undeterred, he swung again, the air punctuated by grunts of exertion.

“Is he fighting a hornet nest or playing baseball?”

“He’s better on the field,” she said, watching her brother with a soft, indulgent expression. “But I’m hoping to tire him out. He was driving my mother mad.”

“You’re a good sister,” he said. “Not every woman would be willing to toss a ball around.”

“Is that so?” She began to lob the baseball in the air, rolling it across her fingertips before snatching it out of the air with her leather glove.

Emil frowned. Glanced at the chaotic kid, then back to Olive’s casual execution. And realized his mistake. Robbie was playing Olive’s game, not the other way around.

“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

“Well, they do call me Bloody Ollie.”

Shit, his heart was back to fluttering.

Ignoring it, he thrust out his hand. “Are you going to loan me your glove or not?”

“Not.” She shoved it behind her back, her eyes dancing. “Get your own.”

“Are your fingers more precious than mine?”

“Obviously,” she drawled out the first vowel. “One sprain or bruise and I might not be able to perform.”

“There is some merit to that,” he admitted. “But if I am injured, I won’t be able to sort my papers as carefully. Or scoop my coffee as precisely.” She giggled, and his heart moved from flutter to full-on pounding.

“Olive, I’m bored,” Robbie shouted from across the lawn. “Aren’t you ready yet?”

He raised his brows. “Saved by an impatient sibling.”

“Give Emil the bat,” she called. “It’s time for him to walk the plank.”

Robbie ran over and handed him an old wooden bat. “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck.”

“Yes, you do,” Olive and Robbie said at the same time.

Grumbling—but grinning—Emil moved behind the home plate drawn in the dirt. He found his stance, then blinked in surprise. Was Olive capable of throwing from that far?

The speed of her first pitch caught him off guard. He swung, a split second too late, and whiffed at empty air. Setting the bat on his shoulder, he gaped. Olive’s lips were pressed tightly together, but a smile still tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Strike one.”

She was definitely more than she seemed. Of that he was damn certain—and damn intrigued.

He backtracked for the ball, then lobbed it toward her. She caught it easily. Cockily, even. He aimed the bat at her, then swung it back into position. “I’m ready for you now.”

“I’m just getting warmed up,” she countered.

He barely had time to snort before she went into her windup. He braced himself, ready this time. At the last second, there was a subtle hitch, a flick of Olive’s wrist as the ball left her hand. His mind balked.

“Was that a curveball?”

“Didn’t we say you needed luck?” she taunted. “Strike two!”

He retrieved the ball, then raised his bat with grim determination. He didn’t mind one strike, even two, but striking out? Hell no.

Olive leaned into the wind-up, then hurled the ball toward him. He swung with all his might, delighted by the crack of wood as his bat connected. The ball soared over Olive’s head, past Robbie’s, and to the edge of the park.

“Ha!” he shouted as he dropped the bat. “Home run, here I come!”

Olive and Robbie shrieked as they flew after the ball.

Emil dashed around the park in a rough diamond shape where he imagined the bases would be.

He rounded second and glanced over his shoulder to determine his chances for third.

Olive was a gazelle, loping across the earth as if born of it, her laughter floating on the wind.

He swiveled mid-step, unable to look away—

And yelped as he collided with something solid. Something hard and prickly and painful. He collapsed to his knees and clutched his smarting shoulder.

“Emil!” Olive was at his side a moment later. “Are you all right?”

“No.” He glared up at the tree branch that had taken him out. “I was attacked.”

Robbie crouched in the dirt on his other side, his breath ragged. “Does it hurt?”

“Both my shoulder and my pride hurt. You could have told me nature played on your side.”

Olive snorted. “I didn’t realize I needed to warn you about trees. Outside. In a park.”

“I demand compensation,” he complained. “A formal apology from Mother Nature herself. A snack at the very least."

“Cracker Jack,” Robbie said eagerly. “Mother Nature owes you Cracker Jack!”

He pretended to think, then nodded. “A worthy apology.” He fished in his pocket and withdrew some coins.

“Take this and run to the corner store, would you, kid?” Robbie leapt to his feet and pocketed the change without hesitation.

“Enough for all of us, you hear? And maybe a Dr. Pepper if you promise to return the bottle after.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, then sprinted across the park.

“Robbie would run a mile for Cracker Jack,” Olive said. “You just made a friend for life.”

“He’s a good kid.” He shifted onto his behind, grimacing a little at the tug of pain.

“You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.”

“No thanks necessary. I wanted to.” He gave her a tight smile. “Besides, I needed him gone so you could examine my shoulder. I think the branch sliced right through my coat.”

“Oh!”

She knelt beside him and examined his shoulder. He had to breathe through his nose so as not to inhale the light violet aroma wafting from the tendrils of honey hair that escaped her knit hat.

“There’s a tear on the left shoulder blade. And a bit of blood.”

“Blood?” He shuddered. “I hate blood.”

She chuckled, her breath tickling his ear. “Only the tiniest bit, you big crybaby. But I can’t…” She hummed under her breath, tugging gently on his collar, then shook her head. “I can’t see.”

He unwound his scarf and dropped it in his lap, then shrugged one arm out of his coat and unbuttoned his collar to peel back his shirt. “How about now?”

“Um. I—” She gulped. “Yes, I can—I can see better.”

Then she was prodding his skin. He bit back a curse—he should have known her touch would be featherlight. Achingly gentle. Innocently enticing. It made him wonder how it would feel on other parts of him.

“Distract me,” he pleaded.

“That painful?” She clucked her tongue in sympathy. “All right. I like your scarf.”

“My mother made it,” he lied.

“Did she make this one too?”

“Yes,” he lied again.

“I shouldn’t have worn it again,” she said, her voice low and shy. “But it was so warm and I—”

“Keep it. It’s yours.”

She paused briefly, then continued her prodding. “You’re being very kind.”

“I’m a kind sort of man.”

“So I’m starting to see.” She leaned back and quirked a brow at him. “Though kindness is not what you are known for.”

“What am I known for?”

“You know.”

“I don’t. Tell me.”

Her cheeks bloomed, and her mouth opened and closed. She was adorable. Lovely. A delight to tease. And he could be ruthless, if that was what it took for her to tell him what she really thought.

He tilted his head back and gave her the lazy grin he reserved for the moment of conquest. He let his gaze fall to her lips, let her see where his mind had wandered. And wondered if it covered up the fact that he was on tenterhooks, almost desperate to know what she thought of him.

“You…” she began.

“Yes?”

“You have a piece of bark stuck in your skin.”

He blinked. “What?”

Then her hand darted under his collar and into his shirt. He had barely registered the cool touch of her skin before there was a sharp pain.

“Ouch!”

“You’re fine,” she replied, holding up the jagged flake of a stick with an impudent chuckle.

He glared. “You’re cruel.”

A movement on the far side of the park caught his eye. It was Robbie, skipping through the park with his hands full.

“Quickly,” he urged. “Just tell me one thing.”

“All right.” She leaned in so close he could see his reflection in her soft, brown eyes. “Emil,” she whispered. “You’re…”

“Yes, Olive? What am I?”

He was so lost in her gaze that at first, he didn’t notice the pressure against his chest. He glanced down. Found the baseball pressed against him.

“You’re out.”

He should have known Bloody Ollie would lay a mean trap.