Page 71 of Playboy Pitcher

“See you tonight,” she calls after me.

I glance over my shoulder. “I thought you were sick.”

“Huh, must be that Florida air.” Patting her chest, she climbs back over the railing. “Great for the lungs.” Flashing one last grin, she waves a hand over her shoulder. “Later, Playboy.”

* * *

The score ended up four to one. The Astros crushed us on our own home field in front of eight thousand disappointed fans.

Coach was right. I was overthrowing, and the punishment I put myself through this morning caught up with me in the fourth inning.

I went out like some rookie chump.

I should be home privately drowning my pride in a fifth of whisky. Instead, I’m sitting here in some no-name sports bar publicly drowning them in cheap beer.

Publicity, Ned insists.It’s good for the community to see the team out and about amongst the people.

Ten minutes in, and I’m ready to tell him where he can shove his fucking publicity.

Thenshewalks in.

The whole bar could ignite into a ball of flames, and it still wouldn’t compare to the searing blaze ripping through my body. She must have gone shopping because the recycled outfits are gone.

In their place is pure sin.

Willow is wearing what appears to be a skin-tight one-piece black pantsuit. Only from the waist up, it looks like something out of the devil’s wet dream. Off the shoulder black lace runs down both arms, snaking around and circling her chest until it’s thick enough to cover her skin. But it doesn’t stop there. That would be too mainstream for Willow McBaine.

Angel is written in cursive across the front and adorned with wings on each end like anecdotal parentheses.

Adding blood-red lips, cat-like lined eyes, and that bright teal hair, the woman stops conversations. Every eye in the room swings toward the door, male, female, it doesn’t matter. She commands their attention, and they obey.

And I’m no exception.

Twenty-four hours.That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen or talked to her, and it feels like weeks. As if she can feel my stare, she turns toward me, those light brown eyes settling on mine. I watch her throat work hard to swallow her pride as she takes a timid step toward me, and my hand tightens around my beer.

I don’t do the girlfriend thing. I don’t do love or hearts and flowers and all the rest of that bullshit. But after a chance meeting in a West Palm Beach bar, I’m now trapped in a sexless marriage with a woman I can’t exorcise from my head.

She sits down across from me, that damn floral perfume assaulting my senses and twisting them sideways. “How’s the elbow?”

“It’s fine,” I mumble into my beer.

She lets out a soft sigh. “Ben, what happened out there tonight?”

“Who’s asking? My boss or my wife?”

Panic travels up her face like a rising tide. Her chair skids forward, and she grabs my arm, her nails digging into my skin as she hisses, “Will you keep your voice down! Someone might—”

“Someone might what, Willow?” I growl. “Hear me? What does it matter? It’s all temporary anyway, isn’t it? It’s not like this is anything but business. Or are you afraid someone might overhear that you slummed it for a night?”

She rears back as if I’ve slapped her. “It’s not like that.”

“No? Then what’s it like? Because from where I sit, you wanted to see if the rumors were true for yourself. So, tell me, Puddles. Did I live up to the legend? Was riding Big Ben everything you’d read about and more?”

“Ben, stop!”

“Not going to kiss and tell, huh?” Smirking, I scan the crowded bar, my eye landing on a table of scantily clad Annies. “Well, maybe I should find someone who will. We have an open marriage, right?”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. My tongue feels like a traitor, spinning a web of lies just to hurt her, but I can’t stop.