Various States of Undress (17 page)

All the breath whooshed out of her lungs as panic set in. The panic only got worse as Dave's voice grew louder to cover the noise from the phone. Quickly, she reached into her pocket to turn it off, but the phone was upside down underneath the little square battery of her body mic. The mic was attached to a cord pulled taut, which ran around her waist and threaded up through the back of her blouse.

She crammed her fingers under the battery and fumbled to yank out the phone, but it wouldn't budge. Heart hammering, she wedged her hand between the mic pack and the phone and blindly tapped the screen to mute the noise. Nothing worked. Justin kept singing, and Georgia thought she might scream.

A few seconds later, mercifully, the ringing stopped. She nodded at Dave, trying to convey both apology and a sense of professionalism at the same time, but, judging from his dour expression, she'd failed. Joan had told her many times not to panic if something went wrong on live TV. She'd also told Georgia not to fidget on the air, no matter what. Ransacking her own pocket repeatedly certainly qualified as fidgeting. She slid her fingers out and folded her hands in her lap, hoping against hope that Brett wouldn't call back.

But right as Dave paused to switch to a different story, a voice floated up from her pocket. “Georgia?” Brett's voice. Sleepy. Sexy. “Hey. You picked up, but you're not saying anything. You there, sugar?”

The phone was on speaker, and the sensitive microphone was picking up every word. This time, Georgia didn't bother to try and hide her mortification. Her hand dove to the side again, and she yanked the battery pack out of the way.

“Georgia . . .” Brett continued in his slow drawl, drawing her name out.

“Okay then!” Georgia said loudly, covering Brett's voice. She ripped the phone from her pocket and tossed it as hard as she could. It sailed over the desk, across the bank of computers next to the set, passed over Joan's head, and smacked into a TV monitor before falling to the ground. With a wooden smile, she turned to the teleprompter, which wasn't rolling any copy. It was frozen between lines, and the floor manager stood next to it, his mouth hanging open.

What had she done? What the hell had she just done? And why hadn't she hit the mute button or perhaps turned the damned phone
off
instead of
throwing
it?

Her eyes darted around, and she spotted Joan, who held up both hands. “Hold!” Joan mouthed, her eyes full of fury.

Georgia froze, pasting a smile on her face. Dave did the same.

Five seconds later, when the light went off, a commercial appeared on the monitor. Georgia sprang from her chair and looked around the room. “I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry!” She took off running, heading for her cubicle, even though she knew that she ought to stay at the news desk and explain. Be professional.

But her phone. She had to find her phone first. Glancing around wildly, she found it. In Joan's hand.

“Oh damn,” Georgia muttered, but she quit running.

“My office,” Joan snapped.

Georgia followed, her heart sinking to the toes of her uncomfortable pumps. What could she say? How was she going to explain this egregious fuck-up? She could point out that it was so out of character for her. Emphasize her usual reliability. Or she could own up and deal with the consequences.

But when she got to Joan's office, attempting not to cringe as she stepped through the doorway, the woman was pacing in front of her desk, grinning, holding Georgia's phone in both hands like it was an offering plate. She didn't give Georgia a chance to say anything.

“So, are you
finally
going to admit that you're involved with Knox?”

Georgia's eyes went wide. “Why are you smiling?”

“I don't think you're in any position to ask me questions, young lady.” Joan tapped her fingernails on the phone. “What was that—a booty call?”

“No.” It wasn't, not really. It was just flirting. Georgia was sure that at some point very soon that flirting would lead to something a lot better, but that was none of Joan's business. “I'm very sorry, Joan. I screwed up.”

“You did.”

“Yeah.” Georgia paused. “Could I have my phone back?”

“I'm surprised the screen didn't crack.” Joan turned the phone over in her hands.

Georgia held out a hand. “It's a government phone. They're pretty tough.”

“Ah.” Joan reluctantly handed it to her. “You didn't answer my question about Knox.”

“I know I made a huge mistake back there.” She took a deep breath. “But I don't feel obligated to answer personal questions.”

“So it
is
personal.” Joan's smile didn't reach her eyes. “People are going to wonder who called you
sugar
.” She stared at Georgia. Georgia stared back. After a moment, Joan threw up her arms. “You know what? Keep it to yourself, and let's leave the viewing audience buzzing about it. They're already eating up every scrap of news about you.”

It was all Georgia could do not to roll her eyes at her boss. Joan was a predator who would probably turn dirt about her own mother into news fodder.

“Like I said, I'm sorry, and it won't happen again. Unless you want to discuss anything else, I'm going to go put my phone in my desk before the commercial break is over.”

In a drawer, under lock and key
.

“Fine. Apology accepted, but there is one more thing.” Joan folded her arms. “I'm coming to Vegas with you.”

“Oh great,” Georgia lied. “I was hoping I'd have a mentor nearby while I'm doing live spots in an unfamiliar location.”

Joan's eyes narrowed. “Glad to hear it. I'll be watching you, you know.”

“I know.” With a pleasant smile, Georgia turned on her heel and strode back to her cubicle, glancing up at the countdown clock in the hallway as she went. Four minutes until she was due back on set. Was that enough time to call Brett?

Her phone came to life in her hand, and she answered quickly. “Hey.” She crossed the room and shut the office door.

“Sugar, are you okay?”

“No. Brett, I was on the air when you called.”

He didn't say anything for a few seconds. “Oh shit. I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault. I had the phone in my pocket. I wasn't thinking.”

“Oh
shit
,” he repeated. “I wasn't watching TV. I was just lying here thinking of you. How did people react?”

Georgia blushed at the thought of him lying there. “Joan's on the warpath. And now there's no question about the fact that she's on to us, so when you get here, please act like you have no attraction to me whatsoever.”

He laughed. “I'm capable of a lot of things, but I'm not sure that's one of them.”

“Well, suck it up, slugger. If you don't, we're both in a lot of trouble because all Joan is looking for is an excuse to throw a match. She'll have no problem turning our private lives into a media bonfire.”

“That would make . . . what you and I have a problem for you, then?” Brett didn't sound too pleased.

“It's not like that. This is about my job. The job I'm trying to do here, despite a bitch boss whose entire mission in life is using me. Don't forget, she's using you too.”

“I haven't forgotten.” He cleared his throat. “Just hang tight, sugar. I'll be there in a couple of hours.”

“Okay.” She hesitated, wanting to say more, but she didn't quite know what. “I'll see you soon.”

After she hung up, she locked her phone in a drawer, straightened her skirt, and walked back out to face her coworkers. For the rest of the morning, her entire world needed to be about baseball—or else she'd crack under pressure.

“I love baseball. I live baseball. I breathe baseball,” she murmured. “Just like Knox the Fox.”

Chapter Nine

O
N
W
EDNESDAY NIGHT
, sweat trickled down the back of Brett's jersey as he walked toward home plate, his bat in hand. The crowd sent up a resounding boo as the announcer read his name, but that was to be expected. He was in Las Vegas 51's territory, not Memphis. Boos on enemy turf were good—it meant he was perceived as a threat.

Tonight, though? He hadn't done jack shit that could be labeled as even remotely threatening. Zero for three at bat and a run given up because he'd fumbled a catch at home plate. In yesterday's game, he'd had only one hit. He had to turn this streak around.

With a grim smile, he stepped up to the plate and shouldered his bat. The pitcher—a hulking guy with a beehive of a beard, let the ball fly. Brett let it pass by. Strike one. The crowd went wild and he stepped back, rolling his shoulders. He glanced toward the dugout, where Monty stood leaning on the rail. The older man's face was impassive, but he reached up and tapped the side of his head.

Brett knew what Monty meant.
Think
. Think only about hitting. Not catching, not running bases, not stats. Only hitting. Brett nodded and stepped up to the plate again. The minute the pitcher let go of the ball, Brett knew it was the same exact pitch, and he swung for the fences. He missed.

There were more cheers from the stands, and he stepped back, letting his gaze drift over the crowd before he could catch himself. He'd told himself he was going to ignore everything except for the game, but unfortunately he knew exactly where Georgia was sitting—thanks to her being featured on the jumbotron several times already, her agents on either side of her. She was in the front row along the first base line, close enough that he could see the expression on her beautiful face.

At the moment, she was frowning, sitting on the edge of her seat, leaning forward, watching him. And he was watching her, wasn't he? Joan, who was sitting a few feet away from Georgia, was staring at her too. Then Joan turned her head slowly and waved toward the field. At him. Damn. Georgia had asked him to play it casual around Joan while they were in Vegas, and at first he'd thought Georgia was blowing everything out of proportion.

But last night, he'd begun to see rumors flying on social media, accompanied by candid photos of him and Georgia together—one of them walking into the hotel where the team and the WHAP crew were both staying. Another was of them together at the ballpark after yesterday afternoon's game. In all of the photos, he was grinning, but how could he help it? Georgia made him happy. Georgia distracted him.

Brett rolled his shoulders again and returned to the plate. He let a ball go by and then two more. One more pitch would decide it, and he didn't want to walk. He wanted a hit—it was a rare game that he didn't get on base by his own power. He also wanted to prove to Monty, and himself, that he could handle the pressure and be consistent. Digging in, he squinted at the pitcher and grit his teeth. When the ball whizzed toward the plate, Brett knew it wasn't a strike, but he swung at it anyway. He didn't miss.

His bat hit the ball with a resounding crack and sent it sailing into left field. Three seconds later he was halfway to first base, and ten seconds later, he was sliding into second, just a hair too late. He knew the minute he got there that he'd been too eager. He was picked off by a very satisfied-looking second-baseman. Out.

“Sucks to be you, Knox,” the guy said.

For once, Brett didn't have a smart-ass comeback. He was too worried about what Monty was going to say, and he blew out a breath as he stood up and dusted off his pants. He was out number two, the Redbirds were behind by one run, and Drew was up to bat. The rookie's hitting hadn't been anything to write home about yet. Monty was going to be pissed that Brett hadn't walked, especially if Drew struck out. Brett jogged back to the dugout with his heart in his throat, carefully avoiding glancing at anyone.

Drew struck out, and Brett quickly gathered his catcher's gear. He strapped on his shin guards, hoping that Monty would leave him alone—at least until the end of the game. He threw on his chest protector and reached for his mask, but Monty was waiting for him on the edge of the field.

“What the fuck, Knox?”

“Sorry. I thought I'd make it to second, no prob—”

“Well, you thought too hard, as usual. You should've walked and you know it.”

“Yep.” Brett crammed his hand into his catcher's mitt. “Anything else?”

Monty stared at him a moment and then spat on the ground. “I'm only trying to help you. If you pull shit like that at The Show, they'll send you right back down to me, and I seriously doubt you'd like that.”

If he ever made it to The Show again
. “No, sir.”

“Get your ass back in the game. Leave your head up in your ass, too, while you're at it. It might help.” Monty leveled a stare at him, but his lips twitched. “That was a good one.”

Brett nodded. “Yeah. I'll have to remember that one. Keep my head in my ass.”

Even so, Brett glanced at the seats above the first base line as he trotted to the plate. Georgia was still there, and she was still staring at him. Shaking his head, he squatted behind the plate and proceeded to play exactly as he'd handled the first half of the game. Like shit. Like an athlete who was so focused on his
inability
to focus that it affected everything else. By the end of the game, he was so pissed that he chucked his gear onto the bench in the dugout and had his jersey half-stripped off before he'd reached the guest clubhouse.

Showering didn't calm him, either, and the ride back to the hotel on the bus—with all of the guys telling stupid jokes—only served to piss him off more because he couldn't join in their good mood. They'd lost, yet they were acting like it was party time. Well, for them it probably was because they were in Vegas, after all, and not due to fly back until the following morning. But for him, that game had been important. Every second he had on the field would decide his fate with the Cardinals.