“Ah.”

“What?”

He squeezed her hand. “Explains your love of furrowing out secrets.”

“Yeah. I guess it does.”

He smiled and nodded, and they fell into a surprisingly comfortable silence as they walked. At the top, he stepped to the edge and she pulled out her camera.

He looked down onto the field far below. “Looks different from up here.”

“You miss it.”

He glanced back at her, the affirmation in his dark gaze, a tough, edgy, beautiful study in the night, backlit by the lights over the stadium. A tough, edgy, beautiful, unhappy study.

“You don’t have to be all baseball, Pace.”

“Let’s just get the interview part over with. Ask what you want to know. I’ll answer.”

“Not that I’m complaining, but I can’t believe we’re finally doing this.”

There was a light breeze ruffling his hair, lit by the moon high above. He was definitely revealing more to her than he usually did, and she couldn’t tear her gaze off him. His eyes were serious, so very serious as he said nothing, and slowly she lowered her camera.

Because she got it. A little slow but she finally got it. “You’re not letting me do this, at least not willingly.”

More of his famed nothing, and she let out a low laugh. “So what did they threaten you with?”

“Another game on the bench added onto my medical time off.”

“Ouch.”

“They wouldn’t really do it, but they’re pretty desperate for good publicity.”

“It’s not a death sentence, talking to me.”

“That’s not what I was worried about.”

“What are you worried about?”

“How about the fact that I’m not too upset that Gage is going to make us kiss before every game for the rest of the season.”

Yeah. That didn’t seem to upset her either. “Is that a problem?”

An indefinable sound escaped him, a breath that cut through the thick, steamy hot August night and stirred up all sorts of memories. “I’d have thought you’d have a thing against sleeping with one of your subjects.”

“Sleeping with?”

His eyes were very clear and very direct. “That’s the rational next step for this thing, don’t you think?”

Her tummy quivered. “I thought you were ignoring it.” “No can do, apparently.”

She let out a breath. “So we what, un-ignore it in the name of getting past it? Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Sleeping with someone tends to do that.”

More than her tummy quivered now. “Always?”

“Well . . . have you ever ended up keeping a lover forever?”

“No,” she admitted, and he gave her an I-rest-my-case look. “Okay,” she said shakily. “Maybe we’d better finish the interview first because I’m losing brain capacity quick.”

“Fine.”

She cleared her throat, slipped her camera in her bag, and pulled out her pad. Tried to switch gears from hot and bothered to professional. “Everyone knows your shoulder is in question. A strained rotator cuff, right?”

“Yes.”

“Rumors are that it’s torn.”

“If it was, I’d be in big trouble. It’s strained, that’s all. Physical therapy ought to do the trick.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

He paused very briefly. “We’ll worry about it then.”

“How does that make you feel knowing it could all be taken away due to an injury?”

His fathomless eyes locked on hers. “How would it make you feel to give up writing for an unforeseen amount of time?”

“Terrified.”

He said nothing to that, just turned his head and looked out at the field again. “I’ll be fine.”

She stared at his broad shoulders and ached for him, hoping with all her heart what he said was true. “The press and blogs have been tough on you guys lately. Does that affect your game?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because press, good or bad, is intangible. It’s about the game for me, not about what people think.”

“But people are fascinated by you. You know that, right?”

He shook his head. “A fact I’ve never really wrapped my brain around.”

“Your bio says you moved twenty-seven times before you graduated high school and headed off to San Diego State. After that, your record speaks for itself, but very little is known about your private life.”

“It’s not about my private life.”

“Come on, Pace. You know people want to know about you, what makes you tick.”

“What makes me tick . . .” He let out a long, exasperated breath. “You know my father, career military all the way. Hardcore. He expects the best of the best. The only thing I had a shot at being the best at was baseball. I just got lucky it panned out.”

She suspected luck had nothing to do with it. It was most likely a product of growing up under the thumb of a man who’d been hard-nosed, hard-assed, and not exactly nurturing. “Actually, your life isn’t so different from a military lifestyle. You’re focused, disciplined, hard-working. You train daily, you’re single-minded—”

“I play ball for a living, Holly. Fun and games, all the time.”

“I don’t believe that, and I don’t think you do either. You take this profession incredibly seriously.” He was silent so she went for anther angle. “What do you see yourself doing after?”