CAN'T SHOOT WHISKEY

Josh in a black sweatshirt, black skull-hugging cap, and gray baseball pants…

Nope. Absolutely not. I was not admitting he looked hot. I would rather eat gravel than give him that ammunition.

Gone were the jeans and rubber boots he’d worn at the farm.

My mouth shot off before my brain could filter. “We were late today because I had to wash off the cow shit after I did someone else’s job for him.”

“Half did it,” Josh shot back. “I had to finish.”

I had to ball my hands to stop their shaking. It took everything in me not to punch him in front of the entire parent peanut gallery. Instead, I forced a smile so tight it could cut glass. “Interesting. Not how I remember it. You strolled in at the end and did some weird magic trick with the ears.” I wiggled my fingers like a deranged jazz-hands attempt. “That calf came out because of my work.”

He massaged his forehead, “Erika, I’m—”

“Why are you the coach?” I cut him off. Josh had been Mister Baseball in high school—recruited for college, destined for the majors. Clearly the pro dream had crashed somewhere, but I’d missed the explosion. “Do you have a kid on the team?” I looked around, searching for a miniature version of him.

He made a strangled noise. “No.”

“Oh.” I nodded, way more relieved than I should’ve been. “So, is this a community service sentence, then?”

“Why should it matter to you?”

I squinted at him. “You’re determined to make every moment I have to spend here as miserable as possible, aren’t you?”

“News flash: not everything is about you.”

His tight baseball pants derailed any intelligent comeback. Honestly, half the reason the moms—and probably a couple of the dads—braved the arctic wind was to admire that back end. I’d put in plenty of hours appreciating it back in high school. Best view in the county when he was catcher—a truly award-winning butt. Legendary.

And somehow, everything about him looked even better now. Back then, he’d been two-thirds this size, all wiry speed. Now he was built like a protein shake commercial. Meanwhile, I’d collected a few years of stress-snacking insulation. Unfair how he looked like an action figure while I look like someone who ate cheese in bed.

“Are you checking me out?” he asked, lips twitching like he was choking back a laugh.

It took me a few beats to process the words, mostly because I was busy trying not to notice exactly how shapely he’d become. I snapped my eyes up. “First rule of exes? We do not check each other out in the way your tone implied.”

“I checked you out.” His eyes flickered down my body. It wasn’t lewd like I’d gotten from many smarmy guys over the years. It was a caress filled with appreciation. That one look lit up every nerve ending and made my stomach clench.

It made no sense for me to feel this, not after everything I’d done to survive forgetting him. Damn it, I’d moved on.

With that one look I realized even if I had, I wasn’t immune to Josh. This man was big trouble for me. He had the power to obliterate me all over again.

I wouldn’t let him. I’d destroy him first.

I notched up my chin. “I’m well aware that my ass is the most fantastic it’s ever been. There’s plenty to hold onto back there and up front too, in case you missed it. It’s off limits to you.”

He choked out a laugh-cough.

I pointed at his pants. “That level of pants tightness is indecent for an eight-year-old baseball coach. Are they the ones you borrowed ten years ago when you got locked out of the gym?” I bit back a chuckle when his cheeks flushed. “I’d understand those pants if you’re making a play for a single mom who’s watching.” I whipped around to scan the parents who couldn’t overhear us but cast me various levels of stink eye. “Which one is it? Maybe the one with the fake fur hat? She’s got it bad for you.”

He glanced down at his pants. “They’re supposed to be tight. They’re baseball pants.”

I accidentally crotch-scanned him when I turned his way, which revealed he wasn’t wearing a cup and sported a bit more interest in my attention than I’m sure he wanted me to realize. Or maybe he was thinking about a hot night with his baseball mom squeeze.

Fire flared in his hazel eyes. He smirked. “Do you like what you see?”

Yeah. I cleared the fog from my throat. After a deep breath, I schooled my face into what I hoped was disdain. “There are tight pants and then there’s the type that’ll split when you slide. I hope you don’t have diarrhea stains on your tightie whities.” That was a phrase my dad used to say, I realized with sadness.

A laugh shot out of him. “Diarrhea stains? What the fuck, Erika?”

“Did you just say the f-word, coach?” a skinny boy with red hair poking out of his baseball cap asked as he jogged by.

“I believe he did.” I put my hand on a hip and cocked my head to grant him a reproachful glare. “Way to be a star potty-mouth, Coach. Don’t punish them by making them run. I didn’t know Vinny had baseball today until less than an hour before practice. The parents are blaming me for them running laps.” I shivered when a gust of wind hit me.

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