There was no playground equipment or lights here either, just a group of good-at-heart, ragtag kids making the most of what they had, and at the sight of them waiting for him, some of his tension drained. All of them were here today—Chipper, River, Danny, and . . .

Holly.

She stood next to where home plate should have been, holding the bat with Chipper directing her. She wore a pair of shorts and a T-shirt with a Heat hat—his—low over her eyes. He had no idea how the hell she could see anything, but there was River, preparing to pitch to her. Jesus, she was either brave or stupid, and he had a feeling, given the way something in his chest expanded just looking at her, it was the former. He dropped the new bag of gear he’d brought and ran. “Wait!”

No one listened to him. River pitched, and Pace stopped short as Holly swung. It was a god-awful swing, too, so low she might as well have been golfing. She missed, and Chipper also missed the catch, which had the ball bouncing and rolling, landing at Pace’s feet.

He scooped it up as everyone turned to look at him. “What are you doing here?” he asked Holly.

“We’re teaching her how to play.” Chipper grinned. “She’s great at hitting.”

Pace raised a brow as Holly flashed him a smile void of her usual wattage. He wondered what was going on inside her head. He knew what was going on in his head, which was a running motion picture of how she’d looked when he’d last seen her, gloriously naked and panting his name.

“I’m not great at hitting,” she corrected Chipper modestly. “But working on it.”

“You’re definitely ready for the U.S. Open,” Pace said. “Maybe the Masters.”

She cocked her head. “Those are golf tourneys.”

“Yep. And that’s what you look like you’re playing.” He went back for the bag he’d dropped in his misguided attempt to save her life and tossed it to the guys, who ripped into it with wild enthusiasm, pulling out Heat T-shirts and sweatshirts.

Holly was looking at him, silent and assessing, and he turned his head to meet her gaze, gently tapping up the bill of the cap to see her face. “What?” he asked.

“You are sweet.”

Sweet? He was still on the instant replay of her naked, and moving onto the fantasy about how she might look with her legs sprawled wide enough for him to wedge his shoulders between, and she was thinking he was sweet? He let out a low laugh, and she stared into his eyes and blushed.

Yeah. There it was. Now she was on the same page. Which didn’t help.

“There are kids present,” she whispered.

“One of which nearly killed you last time. Wear a helmet when he pitches to you. In fact, always wear a helmet whenever you’re up at bat.” He reached into the equipment bag and found one, putting it on her head. Then he took her hips and turned her away from him.

“Been here before,” she whispered, and he found himself grinning.

“Bat up, smart-ass.” He ducked to avoid getting clocked in the head with it. “River, grab a ball.”

“Yeah!” the kid said with enthusiasm and leapt back to the mound.

“Lob it softly,” Pace directed. “Very softly.”

“I can do it,” Holly protested, and gave a little wriggle to get her stance right. A wriggle that put her butt right up against the button fly of his Levi’s and very nearly had his eyes rolling back in his head.

“Don’t hold back,” she demanded of River with yet another wriggle.

Jesus. “Trying to keep you alive here,” he said in her ear. “Go with me on this.”

She craned her neck and looked at him, the kind of look that turned him on and upside down and inside out, and he had to laugh at her. At him. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“Don’t try to kill the ball, just connect with it. And keep your eyes on it.”

She rolled them first, then nodded to River as Pace backed out of the way.

“Wait for your pitch,” he said. “Swing level, and follow through.”

When she connected, she didn’t drop the bat, she didn’t run for first. Instead, she executed the cutest, sexiest little boogie dance he’d ever seen and whirled to him, nearly knocking him out with the bat. “See?” she asked, eyes lit with joy. “Told you I could hit.”

It was a foul ball that any first baseman worth his salt would have caught in less than four seconds. Hell, Danny caught it, and he was nearsighted, farsighted, and had an astigmatism to boot, but Pace found that looking into Holly’s wide, reveal-all eyes, he couldn’t take it away from her by saying so. Tough as she was, smart and cynical as she was, when she looked at him like that, he also saw a flash of vulnerability, and it scared him.

He didn’t want to be her soft spot.

So he turned from her and gestured to the guys to get into their positions. Since he couldn’t even toss the damn ball, let alone pitch to them for hitting practice, he sat on his ass on the sidelines nursing his damn shoulder like a baby while he called out directions. “River, watch that foot. Remember, your foot is your lead.”

And Jesus, now he sounded like Red.

Not a bad thing, he had to admit. He’d learned some of his best moves from Red, on and off the diamond. And it’d been from watching Red and Tucker together that he’d learned what a real father-son relationship should be like.

“You’ll be a good dad.”

He turned to look at Holly, who’d come to sit next to him. She’d been playing left field, but since no one could hit that far, it was a waste of her dubious talents. But that she’d even tried had been . . . entertaining. Her nose was sunburned, and she had more freckles coming out. “I’m not planning on being a dad in the near future,” he said as something clenched hard in his gut. “Unless you know something I don’t.”