Small Town Sports Romance EBOOK Bundle

I took off my ball cap, running my hand over my long brown ponytail. I threw my bag in the backseat and slid into the driver’s side. Dad had said to let it idle a few minutes to get the oil circulating before taking off. I inserted the key into the ignition and turned. The click, click, click sound wasn’t good. I tried again. Nothing.

Shit! I banged my hands against the steering wheel. Damn car. Dad and I needed to have a talk about better transportation.

Heaving a sigh, I got out of the Mustang, looking around. The sports complex stood slightly to my right with the ball field on its left. Aside from Tyler’s SUV, the only other vehicle was a black truck, which sat under a tree in the far corner of the parking lot. I glanced out at the field but didn’t see anyone. What was taking Tyler so long? The lights to the stadium were still on, which meant he must’ve gotten tied up with something.

Ducking half my body back into the Mustang, I lifted my purse off the seat when a loud thump on the back of my car startled me. My heart rate kicked into overdrive.

I jerked my head up. Some guy I didn’t know stood behind my car. Panic set in. Since the police hadn’t found the creeps who had invaded our home and murdered my mom and sister, I’d been extremely paranoid.

I opened my glove compartment, grasped the handle of my nine-millimeter handgun, then slowly got out. The stranger seemed frozen. He stared at me as though he were contemplating his next move. I released a quiet breath, placing my free hand on the roof of my car and the other behind my back then met his gaze. All sense of where I was vanished in that moment. The copper eyes staring back at me made my whole body quiver and my brain seize.

Calm down. Calm down. Yeah, right. Between the sudden panic attacks that had become normal for me and trying hard to keep from blacking out, I was screwed.

Forget the tingles. My freaking belly had a thousand butterflies fluttering inside. I swallowed in order to get the saliva to coat my dry throat. Jeepers, I needed one of those five-gallon jugs of ice-cold Gatorade that a team usually throws over the winning coach.

After a few more swallows, I decided to give my voice a shot. The last thing I wanted to do was show fear. Once I showed any sign of it, I was afraid he would grab me with those muscular arms and drag me screaming into the nearby woods, where he would kill me the way they killed my sister and mom.

“You…have a problem?” I asked. I didn’t think this guy was going to hurt me, but I couldn’t be sure. Regardless, I had the gun in my hand, and I was committed now.

“You need help?” the stranger asked as he stepped around the car toward me.

“I wouldn’t come any farther,” I warned. My fingers wound tightly around the handle of the gun. My muscles were tense enough to burst at any second.

When we moved to Massachusetts, I begged Dad to let me learn gun safety and how to shoot. Reluctantly, he’d only given in because I was going to be by myself on most nights, since he would be working at the club. So we joined the local gun club. No, I wasn’t supposed to be carrying a gun. I forgot to remove it from my car after practice this morning. If Dad found out, I’d be in a load of trouble.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself?” The guy stopped at the back edge of the car and turned his head left then right in quick succession.

The parking lot lights hit his face at just the right angle to illuminate his copper eyes with lashes so long that I shivered. Butterfly kisses. I imagined the light touch of those lashes skimming over my face or anywhere on my body. I didn’t want to take my eyes off of him, but just that thought made my gaze wander slowly down his entire muscular body. His blue—or was it black?—T-shirt stretched tight over his broad chest, emphasizing the word Zeal. I didn’t know if it was just a word he liked, or if it was the band my father had signed. I continued my obvious assessment, holding the gun as steady as my trembling hand would allow while my eyes landed on his faded, worn jeans that hung low on his hips, tattered at the knees. “None of your business. What do you want?” I asked.

He took one step closer, and I whipped my hand around, aiming the gun at him.

He backed away, raising his hands to shoulder height, and as he did, his T-shirt lifted, exposing a small area just above his belt that made me suck in air.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I was just looking for my brother. He said he would be down here practicing.” His voice was calm, and his relaxed shoulders told me he wasn’t frightened at all.

I slanted my head to one side and a bead of sweat slid down my temple.

“I’m serious. Put the gun away. I’m not going to hurt you. I go to school here,” he said in a husky tone.

“Prove it.” My voice was calm and steady, which shocked me. I wasn’t convinced this dude was a high school student. He looked older.

He laughed, a deep, throaty sound that caressed my skin as though his tongue were licking every inch of my body.
“And how do you suggest I do that?” He still had his hands in the air, revealing his taut skin above the waist of his jeans, causing tingles to spark inside me.

The bright lights of the ball field suddenly went off, the area around us darkening. He used those seconds to make his move. He was now standing six inches in front of me while my hip was pressed against the driver’s door.

I lifted my gaze to meet his, and my heart practically stopped cold. His masculine scent of cedar breezed over me as his honey-brown hair fell over his forehead. Up close he was downright gorgeous. His eyes flashed with playful intensity as though he dared me to use the gun, and that just pissed me off. Gorgeous or not, this guy wasn’t taking me seriously.

“Well? You didn’t answer my question,” he said in a gruff tone.

I’d forgotten the question. So I said the first thing that was stuck in my brain. “And you haven’t proved you go to school here,” I said. I had a feeling that wasn’t the answer.

His lips twitched and dimples emerged. Uh-oh! My biggest weakness.

Get it together, girl. I was doing a bang-up job of scaring away this stranger. My self-defense instructor would clearly give me an F for this one.

He shook his head slightly as if to say I was crazy. “If you’re going to use that thing in your hand, now is your best shot,” he said as he pressed his chest into the gun, his hands still in the air.

Stupid move. “Are you crazy?” I didn’t want to shoot him or anyone.

“Isn’t that you?” he countered. His voice had a playful edge to it.

Yeah, I was. How did he know? Dr. Meyers diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, after I’d found Mom and Julie’s bodies dead on the kitchen floor. Exposure to a traumatic event can trigger such things as panic attacks, anxiety, nightmares, fainting or blackouts, memory loss, and others. Sometimes a person may feel as if they’re going crazy, my doctor had explained.

“Do you normally pull a gun on everyone who comes near you?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Do you normally bang on cars, freaking people out in the dark?” I retorted.

He narrowed his eyes.

I did the same. It seemed we were at an impasse.

“Well, use it or put it away. I’m not going to hurt you.” A mocking grin threatened on his kissable lips.