Are you crazy?
She didn’t understand how, with everything he was, he could stand there and make her feel like the bad guy. Of course she’d told her parents—he should be counting his lucky stars that her father hadn’t driven over there.
But even that thought made her blush. She was damn near eighteen years old.
He was right—she had gone crying to her parents.
She glanced at the clock. Her shift ended in four minutes.
At the stroke of five, she shoved through the back door of the office, stepping into the dense humidity. The air slid against her skin and welcomed her into the sunshine.
The batting cages were down the hill and beyond the putt-putt course. She could hear the crack of the bat from here, and once she passed the mini-golf windmill, she saw Michael in the fastball cage.
She stopped before he could notice her. A red tee shirt clung to his shoulders, reminding her of those matadors who swung a red cape to taunt a bull to fight to the death.
Reckless. That’s what this was.
Michael swung the bat, sending the ball into the nets. Even from here, Emily felt the speed of the ball flying through the air, knew exactly how much force it would take to make it change course.
She remembered the strength in his grip when he’d caught the golf club.
Just when she’d convinced herself to turn back, he glanced over his shoulder and saw her.
She wondered if the earth had told him she was standing there—and wondered if that counted as using his powers. Was it really any different from her sensing the trajectory of the ball ten seconds ago?
He turned around long enough to hit the next ball, then glanced back again. “What, do I get a running start?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you call out the cavalry?” He turned back without waiting for an answer.
“No.” Her cheeks felt hot. “I didn’t.”
Another ball came flying, and Michael swung hard. The impact resonated like a gunshot.
She’d never been into sports, but hitting something with that much force—it looked amazingly cathartic.
“Look,” she said. “I need this job. It’s important.”
He didn’t turn. “So?”
“My father is going to make me quit if he finds out you came back.”
Another ball, but this one glanced off his bat and went wide. Michael swore and swiped a forearm across his forehead. “I don’t see why that’s my problem.”
A threat sat on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t say it. She moved closer, glad for the chain link between them. “Please. I’m just trying to talk to you.”
He didn’t say anything, just waited for the next ball and swung.
This was a mistake. She shouldn’t be out here anyway. What did she expect, that he’d leave after she asked nicely? What if someone drove by and saw her talking to him?
“Forget it.” Her feet slammed the packed earth as she walked away.
Another ball. The air moved with his swing. Crack.
But then she heard his voice from behind her. “Wait.”
Emily stopped halfway to the office, but she didn’t turn around.
“My father,” Michael called, “said he’d take my keys for the rest of the summer if he caught me coming back here.”
Crack.
She came back to the fence. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really.” He ducked his head to wipe his forehead on his sleeve.
“But you came back anyway.”
The pitching machine died, and Michael finally turned, stepping up to the fence. “So did you.”
She’d never stood this close to him before, to where she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, could count each individual strand of hair that the sun had lightened. He still smelled like summer, cut grass and sunscreen with a hint of something woodsy.
The chain-link fence between them somehow made this more intimate instead of less.
Don’t be stupid. Even serial killers can be hot.
She had to clear her throat and force her eyes away. “Like I said. I need this job.”
He gave a somewhat humorless laugh and looked past her, at the parking lot. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
His voice was vaguely mocking. That was sarcasm, not a real offer.
But she kept thinking about the weeks she’d spent looking for employment. She kept thinking of the train ticket to New York City—that would cost a week’s pay, to say nothing of rent and expenses once she got there.
So she swallowed. “Okay. You’ve got a deal.”
A deal. Michael snorted. He’d let his guard down for thirty seconds, and it was a mistake.
“You’re crazy,” he said.
“No,” she said. “I’m serious. You can play with the batting cages, and I can—”
“I can play with the batting cages?” he said, incredulous. “Just what the hell do you think I’m doing here?”
She looked taken aback. “I mean—you are playing—”