Page 26 of Maid of Dishonor

I step nearer to her, until I’m so close that she has to tilt her head back to keep my gaze. Her peaches and cream scent swirls headily around me, made more potent by her recent shower, and I force myself not to inhale deeply.

“The people who call me ‘Coach Ellis,’” I murmur, “are rarely as cheeky as you.”

“Yeah?” she says, one eyebrow still cocked. She tilts her head to the side as her eyes sparkle up at me. Then she grins. “And what are you gonna do about it?”

What am I going to do? Apparently I’m going to die of a heart attack, because I am not nearly prepared enough for what’s happening right now. I’m not prepared for this side of Sam—this coy, flirtatious,sexywoman standing here and smirking up at me.

Instead of telling her this, I just snap my rubber band a few times and then say, “Assume the position,Miss Quinn.”

Sam throws back her head and laughs, the sound clear and joyful, before complying.

I walk in a slow circle around her, inspecting her form.

Herbattingform, that is. Only her batting form. Obviously. The rest of her form does not interest me. Not one bit.

“Elbow up,” I say quietly, using one finger to lift her back elbow slightly. “And bat off your shoulder.”

She makes the adjustment, and I nod in approval. Then I crouch down in front of her, wrapping one hand behind her front knee and giving a little tug.

“This leg forward just a bit,” I say.

She adjusts her stance, and I let go, allowing my fingers to trail softly against her skin as I move. She’s completely still as I stand up again, and I notice that her knuckles are white where she grips the bat. Then I watch as her hands relax again, feeling a surge of satisfaction that I’m not the only one affected by this little game we’re playing.

“Good?” she says, her voice cracking.

I grin. I’m not sure if she’s asking about her stance or her legs, but the answer is the same either way: “Lovely.”

I amble back to the pitching machine to start it again, looking at Sam. “Ready?” I call, and she nods, her face set in its determined mask.

She’ll keep working and working at this until she’s satisfied she’s got it. I’ve never met anyone who is as dedicated to improvement as she is. She doesn’t let her weaknesses stand in her way; she just works her butt off until those weaknesses turn into strengths. Never too proud to admit she needs to work for something, never too proud to ask for help. She’s an extraordinary person.

Crap. I sound like a country love song.

“All right,” I say, starting the pitching machine again and keeping my eyes on her. The baseball launches toward her; her eyes narrow in anticipation, she swings—

Crack!The ball goes flying over head, catching in the corner of the net.

“I did it!” Sam yells, laughing and pumping her arms triumphantly in the air. Then she points the bat at me, still smiling. “The elbow up higher felt more powerful. And I felt steadier with my feet planted wider apart.”

I grin and give her a little bow. “Coach Ellis at your service,” I say. “That was better. That was a lot better.”

She nods, looking energized. “It was,” she agrees. “But not perfect yet. Let’s try again.”

I shake my head, looking at my watch. “Our hour is up,” I say. “And it’s never going to be perfect, Sam.”

And this right here is the downside of all that grit and determination—she’ll work and work until she’s convinced things are good enough, but she rarely actually gets to that point. Because she forever thinks she’s falling short.

“Progress over perfection,” I say to her for what is definitely not the first time—I’ve even got an article saved on my computer for her that says the same thing, if I can ever figure out how to get her to read it and take it seriously. “Where you are is a lot less important than what direction you’re moving. If you’re better today than you were yesterday, you’re good to go.”

Sam doesn’t respond to this. She just mutters something under her breath about the way I pour cereal—which, granted, is a point of contention between us, but it’s completely irrelevant here, so I’m not sure what that's all about.

“It’s always relevant,” Sam snaps when I tell her this. “The cereal goes in the bowl first, Carter! Everyone knows this.”

I just grin and shake my head, lifting my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face and brow. Then I let it fall again, opening my mouth to speak.

“I don’t—” But I break off, because she’s looking at me funny, her gaze flitting back and forth between my face and my shirt. When she doesn’t say anything, I wave my hand in front of her. “Sam?”

“Huh?” she says, jumping and snapping to attention. “Yeah. Sorry. Just—spaced out.”

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