Various States of Undress (20 page)

“Eyes up here,” Georgia whispered. When he glanced up, she smiled. “Are you nervous, Brett?”

“Honestly, no. Are you?”

She shrugged. “A little. This is my big project, after all.”

“You'll be great, sugar.” Brett leaned forward and clasped her knee. He looked into her eyes and had just opened his mouth to reassure her further when bright studio lights lit up the space. A few seconds later, several people walked into the room—most of them carrying clipboards. A man began positioning a camera. Another man approached Brett with a body microphone and showed him how to run the cord and clip it to his jersey. Brett had expected Joan to be in charge of it all, but she was nowhere to be seen. He looked at Georgia, who was talking with one of the clipboard people. When she glanced at him, he whispered, “Where's your boss?”

“In her office, gnashing her teeth because she's not in here. But I have to do this all on my own. It's part of the internship requirement to receive course credit.” She clutched her iPad and let out a short breath. “We're ready, everyone.”

The man who had fixed Brett's microphone put on a headset and silently counted down from five with his fingers. He pointed at Georgia.

Brett watched as her expression went from still to a bit too animated. When she spoke, her tone was clipped and she pronounced every word carefully. Almost too carefully.

“Today I have the pleasure of bringing Memphis an exclusive, in-depth interview with an extraordinary person,” she said. “Brett Knox is one of Memphis's own, and, as a catcher for the Redbirds, he's brought dedication, talent, and excitement to the team.”

Brett waited as she finished introducing him, and then he gave her a brilliant smile. Maybe it would help her to relax. “I'm happy to be here, and on behalf of the Redbirds, I appreciate WHAP's continuing support of our team.”

She sat up very straight and gave him a strained smile in return. “Thank you. Let's begin with a question I'm sure viewers will be interested in. Why do you play baseball, Brett?”

Why did he play? Oh shit. The answer to that was so complicated, it would take the entire thirty minutes of the interview to explain. Not that he'd be doing that because prefacing the answer with “To get the hell out of Memphis” was a terrible idea. Was this what it had been like for Joe? Probably not. Joe didn't hide anything from anyone.

Brett glanced at Georgia—her lips were trembling around the edges of her smile. He had to say something. Slouching in his chair, he rubbed his jaw to buy himself some time. Finally, he grinned again. “I'm pretty sure I've loved the game of baseball since the moment I was born, Georgia. Every year for Halloween, when the other kids were dressed up as monsters, I trick-or-treated as Stan Musial, if that tells you anything.”

“How fun,” she responded, but her voice didn't sound as if she were having any fun. She sounded tense as hell.

Brett waited, holding his breath as she asked the next question, but it was a no-brainer about Little League. He answered that easily and then another. And another. There were five questions in all about his childhood baseball career, and then, methodically, she transitioned to his high school career.

About halfway through the interview, after watching her pained expression, it occurred to him that she wasn't nervous as much as she was . . . unhappy. She just didn't enjoy doing this, did she? Though he was well aware that initially, she'd been unhappy with the baseball assignment, he'd never heard her talk about any part of her internship at WHAP with enthusiasm. Yet last night—when they'd been lying on a hotel bed—her eyes had lit up as she'd told him all about the research she'd done for a college class.
On the history of chemical-manufacturing safety violations
. To him, that was mind-numbingly boring, but she'd obviously loved digging up the information.

She didn't belong in front of a news camera but would probably be happy as a clam compiling stacks of information and writing massive nonfiction books. Yet here she was—determined to succeed, whether or not she enjoyed herself along the way. And right this minute . . . she was calling his name.

“Brett?”

He focused on her. “Yeah, sugar?”

Oh shit.

Georgia's eyes closed for a fraction of a second, and then she looked at the guy with the headset. “We'll cut the last thirty seconds in editing.” The man nodded, and Georgia turned back to Brett, her cheeks pink. “Let's move on to your college days.”

Brett sat through the rest of the interview, politely answering, but he struggled to stay animated in the face of her wooden delivery. He felt so bad for her. After she wrapped up with a final question about his current stats with the Redbirds, he let out a sigh of relief.

Quietly, the news crew left the room, the door closing behind them. When Brett was sure they were all gone, he turned to Georgia with a gentle smile. He caught her hands. “You satisfied with how that went?”

She hesitated. “I think so.”

“Sorry about saying
sugar
. I got lost in thought there for a minute.”

“Yeah, I could see that. What . . . what were you thinking about?”

For a second, he thought about not telling her, but she deserved his honesty. “Well, I was noticing that you didn't seem to be having any fun. Do you like TV news?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly. “I chose this internship. Why wouldn't I like it?”

Brett tugged on her hands and pulled her onto his lap. “Maybe you thought you would, but you've discovered that you don't,” he explained.

“Are you trying to put words in my mouth?” She sat stiffly on his knees, just as she had in the chair during the interview.

“No, sugar. I'm trying to put thoughts in your head. Is this type of work what you want to be doing next year? Or five years from now?” He gazed at her.

“Yes.” She glanced away. “For now. I have to have something predictable to hold onto, Brett.”

“You can hold onto me,” he whispered and wrapped his arm around her waist.

She sat still on his lap for a moment. “For how long? What if you move to St. Louis?”

“I know we can figure it out.” He paused. “I don't know what else to say.”

Georgia turned and took his face in her hands. “Then don't say anything else, okay?” She bent her head and kissed him.

T
HE NEXT DAY
, Georgia nestled under the covers. It was early morning—too early, but she'd gotten used to waking up at four to go to the station. Even though she had Fridays off, she'd been wide awake before sunrise.

She'd stayed there for about an hour, trying to go back to sleep, but she hadn't been particularly comfortable. Last night when Brett had been lying beside her right here, she'd barely noticed the quality of the bed, but he wasn't here now and hadn't spent the night, since he was due to leave this morning to play in the Minor League All-Star Game in Durham, North Carolina. She missed him.

She missed his body, but she also missed his deep, slow voice and his joking manner. She missed the way he listened—so carefully—and the way he was opening up to her.

Groaning, she turned over and kicked at the quilt. She was hot, and it really was a terrible bed. In fact, it was a piece of shit. But it was only for a few more weeks, and then she'd be moving on. She didn't want to think about that.

Instead, she conjured up the funny look of disgust on Brett's face last night as he'd turned, restless, beside her. He'd muttered something, and she'd asked him to repeat it. “Buddy fucking Mambo furniture,” he'd said, and she'd giggled. She'd asked him to sing the TV jingle again, but a weird look had passed over his face and he'd merely shaken his head.

She sighed. She wouldn't see him until Tuesday. Four days. And until then, she'd be busy doing the morning broadcast, and even busier preparing to air her interview with him on Wednesday. It wasn't that long, but she hated it, anyway. Was this what it would be like if they were together for the long run? They hadn't talked about what would happen if he got called up.

She hadn't begun applying for jobs, either, which she should do. There were only five weeks left in her internship. What did she expect she was going to do—move in with her parents at the age of twenty-two? And then what? Roller-skate through the White House like a precocious First Daughter and hang out in the Oval Office munching popcorn while her dad worked?

She needed to work too. She needed to face reality, which at the moment included her face plastered all over Twitter and Facebook. So far she hadn't rated TMZ or
Star
magazine, and she was grateful for that, but the YouTube clip of her phone-throwing incident had gone viral. It was true she hadn't asked for any of the publicity, but now that she had it, what would it mean for her future career? What could she say to a prospective employer: “Hi, I
am
the news, but I'd like a job
in
the news. Oh, and please don't exploit my First Daughter status, K? Thanks.”

“Ugh.” Georgia sat up and eased her way out of the cursed bed. Her mind went blessedly blank as she brushed her teeth and stayed that way as she wandered into the kitchen to make coffee. As she stood there, yawning, waiting for the hot coffee to drip into the pot, she heard voices outside her front door, but that was nothing new, even at five in the morning—the apartment complex catered to college students. Some of them, mostly drunk ones, made noise at that hour, even in the summer time.

Then she heard a familiar low chuckle, followed by Courtney's answering laugh. Georgia's eyes went wide and she ran to the door, her fingers fumbling on the lock. She threw open the door, grinning, and almost ran straight out onto the porch and into Brett's arms but remembered just in time that she was wearing a tank top with nothing underneath and a ratty pair of pajama bottoms.

Brett noticed her clothes too, but his reaction wasn't as horrified as hers had been. He looked her up and down, his eyes lighting up. “Surprise,” he said.

Her grin got bigger. “I love this kind of surprise.”

“Good.” He sauntered through the doorway, handsome in a Redbirds polo and khaki pants that fit him so well, she wanted to sigh. So she did.

“Aren't you going to miss your flight?” She shut the door behind him.

“The redeye got cancelled, so I got bumped to a later flight. I thought I'd kill a couple of hours,” he answered. “I was gonna sit at a diner and eat breakfast, but then I decided, nah. I could do better than that.” He gave her a teasing smile.

Georgia rolled her eyes. “So I rank somewhere just above scrambled eggs?”

“A little higher than that.” The cocky grin on his face slipped, and he caught her around the waist. “Seriously, sugar, I drove about a hundred miles an hour from the airport to get here.” He leaned close. “I felt like I'd explode if I didn't see you.”

She clutched the edge of the counter, and, as she gazed at him, she realized something. She'd never gotten over how hot he was and probably never would. And now that she truly knew him—now that she was part of his life—it was pointless to try. She didn't
want
to try because she didn't want to let him go.

“How long do you have?” she murmured.

“Not long enough.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead. Her temple. Her cheeks. And when she let out a soft breath, he kissed her lips, his mouth moving slowly over hers. She kissed him back, putting every ounce of longing into it.

With a groan, Brett buried his face in her shoulder. She held him, her eyes closed, an unbearable sweetness stealing over her as she stroked his back. Her hands slipped lower, trailing over his slim hips, so different from hers. Her fingers stretched over his tight butt, and when he groaned again, she shifted, rubbing her breasts against his rib cage.

“You're going to be the death of me,” he said, but his tongue snaked out to lick the side of her neck. She shivered.

“God, I hope not,” she responded.

Without a word, Brett took her hand and led her into the bedroom but paused. “I can't deal with that bed again,” he said.

She snorted. “It's useless.”

“Yeah, you got that right,” he muttered. And then he bent down and scooped her up, ignoring her shriek of surprise. “I have an idea.” He carried her easily out of the bedroom, his grip underneath her legs steady. She clasped her hands around his neck and gazed up at him, checking his face for signs of strain. There weren't any. God, he made her feel so feminine.

Brett shifted her in his arms, walked over to the sofa, and grabbed one of the cushions from the back. He tossed it on a slab table she'd purchased to serve as an oversized desk. Then he gently lowered her onto the edge of the table, her back and head resting on the cushion. A delicious shiver went up her spine, and her eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Oh yeah. I've been fantasizing about this,” he said and reached for her pajama pants. He paused. “If you're okay with it.”

“Yeah,” she whispered and lifted her hips.

In one motion he peeled off her pants, but when he reached for her tank top, she brushed his hands away and sat up. “My turn. Take off your shirt,” she ordered.

With a knowing smile, he took it off, his muscled torso rippling with the movement. “Ohhh,” Georgia said with a sigh. “Maybe I'll just sit here and look. What do you think?”

Brett's answering growl sent a delicious shiver through her middle, and she grabbed his belt, using it to pull him forward, between her legs. Slowly she unbuckled the belt, her eyes never leaving his. Before she could lower his pants, he slipped his hands in a pocket and pulled out a condom. She took it from him and placed it on the table next to her thigh.

“You were certainly sure, weren't you?” she teased.

He shrugged, but he also gave her a cocky smile. God, she loved that smile.