Spunky, independent graphic designer Meg Malone finds herself pregnant soon after her no-good boyfriend abandons her for the professional poker circuit. Glad to be out of that mess, she swears off relationships. Then she meets Matt Thatcher, a solid, stable man, who throws her plans a curve.
Matt, an up-and-coming minor league catcher burned one too many times by women who see him as their ticket to the good life, carefully guards his heart against “baseball babes.” He’s drawn to Meg for many reasons, chief among them she has no clue what he does for a living.
Will it be game over when their secrets come to light? Or is their budding relationship strong enough to win the World Series of love?
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She refused to heap blame on herself. Not this time. Matt was the one in the doghouse here. So why was she standing in a supply closet, smiling at the man she’d until now believed to be an engineer? She wiped away her smile and drew herself to her full height, hoping she looked at least a little menacing. “You lied to me.”
Success! He took a step backward, letting out an “oof” as a shelf met his back. “Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, ‘Not exactly’?”
Matt reached out to lay a hand on her arm, but she swatted him away. He sighed and sank against the shelf again. But he didn’t need physical contact to pin her to the spot. His intense golden-brown gaze held her fast. “Think back to the night we met. I never said anything about what I did for a living. And if you’ll recall, last night it was Greg who introduced himself as an engineer. Not me.”
Meg looked away, seeking escape. Not yet ready to acknowledge that truth, she dismissed it with an impatient wave. “So you lied by omission. That’s still dishonesty at its finest, Mr. Big Shot Ballplayer.”
“I never said I was an engineer.” He aimed a finger at her. “You’re just upset because you leapt to the wrong conclusion.”
“If it quacks like a duck—”
His face contorted. “I didn’t quack!”
“Yeah, you did. Maybe not out loud, but by letting your friends say they were engineers, you knew I’d assume you were, too.”
“You know what happens when you assume.”
Arlene Hittle is a Midwestern transplant who now makes her home in northern Arizona. She suffers from the well-documented Hittle family curse of being a Cubs fan but will root for the Diamondbacks until they run up against the Cubs. Longtime friends are amazed she writes books with sports in them, since she’s about as coordinated as a newborn giraffe and used to say marching band required more exertion than golf. Find her at arlenehittle.com, on Twitter or on Facebook.
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