Strike Two (A Steamy Little Romance)

By Kinzie Balfour

The last time Izzy Huntington saw Ty Cross, he was coughing in the dust churned up by the bus she rode out of town. Fifteen hard years later, Izzy is a struggling lawyer and single mother. Suckered into attending a bachelor auction, she ends up bidding on the man who broke her heart all those years ago. Ty, a retired baseball player, is all too pleased to get reacquainted. But Ty already has two strikes against him: Izzy has given up on dating charming, handsome men; and she’s smart enough to know that with Ty around, her good sense is about to fly out the window.

Ty Cross enjoys a good challenge. What’s more, he’s always had a soft spot for the one girl who recognized the potential hidden beneath his cocky veneer. Years ago he treated Izzy’s heart with teenage disregard. When he encounters the smart, sexy woman again, he has a chance to make amends—if she’ll let him. However, it's hard to show her that he's reformed when part of him desperately wants to get her naked. Can he rekindle their relationship before his unruly body forces a third strike?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kinzie Balfour
• Release date: Oct 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465865601

Kinzie Balfour

Kinzie Balfour is author of the Steamy Little Romance series featuring the sexy Cross family men. She has been writing stories since she held that first chubby pencil tightly in her fist. Much to the embarrassment of her family, her stories no longer include ponies and rainbows, but sassy women and naked men. Her humorous, personal essays have appeared in the “Cup of Comfort” series and in the Christian Science Monitor. When not writing, or thinking up new story lines, Kinzie is a marketing consultant for small businesses who resides in her empty Northern California nest with the best husband in the world.

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STRIKE TWO

by Kinzie Balfour

Copyright 2011 by Susan Hare

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Visit the author’s page at www.KinzieBalfour.com

DEDICATION

To Heidi, Kathy, Tom, and Bill

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

About the Author

Sample of Curveball

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Without the support of my heartthrob husband, I’d never have had the opportunity to write—or the inspiration for romance. I also must acknowledge the unrestrained support of my gifted critique group, to whom I’ve dedicated this book. Kathy Wyland kept her pulse on the market, encouraged my foray in to self-publishing, and provided the links and resources to help me along the way. Tom Brandt approached my manuscript with the conscientiousness of an engineer and the insight of a storyteller. Bill Schaffer was willing to review the kind of book not normally found on his bookshelf and blushed at all the right places. Heidi Holzer and I started the critique group before Kindle was a twinkle in the eye of Amazon. She stuck with me through bad manuscripts, mediocre manuscripts, and some really fine manuscripts that never made it out of the slush pile. She is talented writer and a good friend.

I am also in debt to Geraldine Barry, a successful, inspirational woman, and friend. Her go-getter attitude first made me consider self-publishing as a viable option for launching my stories into the world. Finally, Martin Luther King, Jr. Library on the campus of San Jose State University is a true gem. It is home to books and to budding authors. It provided the meeting space where this series of books was conceived. Support our public libraries!

STRIKE TWO

Altaville, California

Izzy Huntington had no call to be late on the single most important day of her life. Buddy Cross hunted for her thin, pale face among their blue-robed classmates queuing up in the gravel parking lot. As high school valedictorian, Izzy was scheduled to lead the procession into the football stadium. But Izzy was missing.

Sweat began to dampen Buddy’s armpits. Excited chatter buzzed his ears like a swarm of mosquitoes. Shelby Ann’s particular high-pitched drone registered clearly. I’ve got better things to do than Buddy. Fine by him. He no longer had the kind of itch that responded to a girl like Shelby Ann. Izzy ought to know that by now, but she hadn’t spoken to him in over a month. That would all change today.

Buddy slipped his hand beneath his robe and patted his back pocket. Reassured by the feel of the small present, he moved away from the other graduates to get a better view. Izzy still had not arrived. He wiped his damp palms on the cheap polyester robe.

At the side of the entrance to the football field, the principal tugged his tie. Perspiration beaded his brow.

"Have you tried her house?" He barked at the school secretary.

"No answer."

"Is Mrs. Huntington in the bleachers?"

The woman’s fingers tightened on the clipboard. No.

"We can’t wait any longer. The principal surveyed the expectant faces of Buddy’s classmates, coming to rest on him. Get back in line."

At a nod from the secretary, the familiar strains of Pomp and Circumstance drifted across the field.

Where the hell was she?

The graduates began to move. Someone bumped Buddy from behind.

"Watch it dufus, grumbled one of his classmates, followed by a contrite, sorry bro, didn’t know that was you."

The comment barely registered. Buddy’s full attention was riveted on the principal and the secretary. The secretary put her cell phone to her ear and then pressing it to her chest looked heavenward.

The word accident, formed on her lips.

Buddy turned his back on the stadium. His classmates plucked at his sleeves, one of the teachers tried to block his path. He merely increased his pace across the parking lot to the line of vehicles.

Heart thudding, Buddy flung himself behind the steering wheel of his Dodge Ram. The damn robe caught in the door and the full sleeves got in the way of the gear shift. The pick-up bucked out of the parking lot as if under the command of a first time driver. Please God, please God, please God, Buddy repeated all the way to Izzy’s house.

Mrs. Huntington’s faded blue sedan hunkered in the shade of the carport. Heat waves radiated up from the cement walkway littered with forgotten toys. Buddy dodged them as he pounded up the pavement. No one answered the front door of the aged bungalow. He raced around the back of the house and took the four steps to the porch in one stride. The screen door hit the side of the house with a thud as he barged through.

In the dim kitchen, Mrs. Huntington hunched over the table, cradling her head in her arms.

"What happened?"Buddy yelled.

A puffy, tear streaked face met his gaze. She’s gone.

Buddy’s heart stopped beating. His long legs buckled and he sank to his knees. What…what do you mean, gone?

"Just gone." A sobbed wracked her body. As she ran from the room a piece of paper fluttered off the table and landed on the floor. It was covered in Izzy’s neat writing.

Mom,

This is the best way. With everyone distracted by graduation, we’ll be far away before anyone notices. I’ll let you know where we end up.

Love, Isadora

Buddy shook with relief and anger. This was a damn stupid stunt to pull. He thought fast. Without a car, there was only one way for Izzy to get out of town. Buddy beat a path back to the Dodge Ram and then popped gears the way his daddy told him ruined an engine. The bus depot was a good thirty-five miles over flat road. The pick-up easily did ninety with nary a shudder. He’d be there in twenty minutes. He might even have time to haul Izzy’z skinny ass back to the football field in time to receive her diploma.

Now that his panic began to subside, other equally dismaying emotions gnawed at Buddy’s insides. They didn’t bear considering until he found her. And Greta. Greta had to be the other half of the we in Izzy’s note. Though why Izzy would include the mentally handicapped girl in her great escape was a puzzle.

With the speedometer now inching toward 120, Buddy concentrated on staying in the center of the lane, eying the known speed traps for highway patrol, and ridding himself of the God-damn-annoying-cheap-piece-of-shit-graduation-robe.

His rig spit gravel as he braked into the bus depot. Only a couple of people waited inside. Buddy began sweating again. He slammed his fist against the agent’s window when the woman refused to answer his questions. The rumble of a diesel engine and the acrid scent of fumes drifted through the rear door.

Buddy’s parents found him at home downing his third beer. His father’s verbal licking rattled the windows.

"…bad enough missing graduation. It was damn embarrassing pretending we knew about that scholarship to Northwestern. What the hell has been goin’ on? I can’t believe…," he railed on.

Buddy’s mother knelt at his side, tears filling her eyes. Tell mama where you went.

It was too complicated to explain. Why had he chased after Izzy? Buddy Cross, captain of every team he ever played on, did not chase after girls. Why then, when the bus pulled out, did it feel like it left tread marks on his heart?

"What’s this? His mother teased the balled up paper out of his fist and smoothed it on the coffee table. Why are you hanging on to your report card?"

Because it’s the best damn report card I ever got, he wanted to scream. Because someone gave a fuck about my future. Because it was the only graduation present that Isadora Alessandra Huntington might have accepted from him.

CHAPTER ONE

Fifteen Years Later

Izzy Baines pulled the scrunchy from her straight, cocoa brown hair and threw it across the room at the grinning ink jet photo of the San Jose city planning director. Lacking heft, the scrunchy fell short of its mark.

Dufus, Izzy mumbled.

Was that what you called idiots, back in the day? Bitsy’s violet color-enhanced eyes twinkled.

Izzy stuck out her tongue at her legal secretary and resident tease Bitsy Delgado. At five foot one, extremely curvy, with a dyed pink bob and eye color that changed daily, mischievous did not begin to describe Bitsy. Izzy was only Bitsy’s senior by few years, yet Bitsy never let an opportunity pass to point out their age disparity. Yes, fifteen years ago during Izzy’s high school years, dufus and idiot had been synonyms.

It was only a few feet from Izzy’s desk to the photo of the city planning director taped to the file cabinet. Her law office in the attic of a converted Victorian was cozy by any measure. The ceiling followed the gabled roof leaving only a ten by ten space in which one could stand erect. By tucking both her and Bitsy’s desks under the eaves as far as possible, Izzy had maximized floor space to the detriment of their craniums if they stood up too quickly.

Izzy swiveled her chair to the credenza and pushed aside stacks of legal briefs and law books. Somewhere buried here was what she needed. Her hand closed around a fist-sized squishy foam thingy in the shape of a house. Imprinted on the side were the words EDR—Everyone Deserves a Roof.

It hit the picture of the planning director square in the nose with a satisfying thwack.

She beamed at Bitsy. Now, I’m happy.

Izzy often joked with her mother about being at the top of her law firm, although her practice was not related to McMartin, Barrow, and Hyde, the firm that owned the building and occupied the lower two floors, and to whom she owed a debt of gratitude. Thinking about it, it was time to deliver the box of chocolate covered macadamia nuts that she had purchased in Hawaii.

Bitsy, I’m going to talk with April.

Well there goes the afternoon, what’ll I do if the planning director calls?

Izzy scooped the squishy thingy off the floor and tossed it to Bitsy. Be nice, then aim for his nose.

April Hyde helped found McMartin, Barrow, and Hyde before Izzy was born. At seventy-two, April still arrived at eight each morning and left at what she considered the unconscionably early hour of six p.m. Izzy peeked into April’s spacious office. Her mentor’s gray head bent over a pile of paper, a red pencil clutched in her hand and silver-wired granny glasses perched on the end of her nose. Evidently she sensed the intrusion. April spoke without looking up.

I smell chocolate.

Izzy slipped into one of the glove-soft leather chairs opposite April’s big mahogany desk.

You cannot possibly have smelled chocolate. Your powers do not extend that far.

I kept Bitsy and Eli out of trouble while you were at the disability law conference. If you don’t think that running herd on your assistant and your fourteen-year-old son is worth a box of chocolate covered macadamia nuts, I will never baby-sit for you again.

Izzy handed over the chocolates.

Are you still at loggerheads with the planning department? April continued to peruse the document before her.

I don’t want to get into it.

April slipped off her glasses and gave Izzy the piercing look that made grown men on the witness stand break out in a sweat. Shall I ask about your love life instead? Did a tryst with a handsome Hawaiian put Dr. B-cup out of your mind?

I don’t tryst.

Humor me, you know I relive my youth vicariously through you.

You want thrills? Talk to Bitsy. I’m done with men.

In Izzy’s limited experience men had the fidelity of dogs on the prowl—except for April’s husband Max. After dating Dr. B-cup, Izzy came to the brutal conclusion that starting in high school she attracted, and was attracted to, cheating scumbags. Even the only decent man in her life, her adopted son Eli, was the product of a liaison with a scumbag. She must have a mutation in her pheromones or hormones. Instead of visiting Dr. B-cup, she’d have been better off having a good conversation with an endocrinologist.

For her birthday, Izzy had decided to get breast implants. She’d been the scrawny, plain, smart-girl in high-school—although not smart enough to keep her panties on in Buddy Cross’ pick-up truck. Working two jobs to support herself and Eli while earning a B.A. and a law degree had left little time to think about her appearance over the years. On the eve of her thirty-first birthday, she looked in the mirror and decided it was time to stop being the scrawny, plain, smart-girl.

The cosmetic surgery practice of Dr. Ralph Vesuvio was the first to have an appointment available. Izzy had parted her hospital gown for the handsome doctor. He took one long look at her and said to meet him in his office.

Ms. Baines, I can’t in good conscious perform the surgery.

The blood rushed out of Izzy’s head and pooled at her feet. Why not, is something wrong with me?

Two reasons. Dr. Vesuvio pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a nice, straight nose, on male-model face.

First, you have perfectly beautiful size B, natural breasts. Breathtaking really, and it’s against my professional ethics to damage something so perfect. Second— The doctor stood, removed his white coat and came around the desk. He squatted in front of Izzy and gazed deeply into her eyes. Second, I’m incredibly attracted to you and can’t ask you out if you’re my patient.

Izzy had nearly fainted then and there. No one had looked at her like that in years. The good looking doctor not only wanted to go out with her, he said she had perfect breasts. The pitying glance the nurse gave her when she failed to make a follow up appointment should have been her first clue that Dr. B-cup had used that line before.

The next few months were a whirlwind of flowers and candlelit dinners. Dr. B taught her that the image she saw in the mirror was not a true picture of herself. Just as anorexic women see themselves as fat despite protruding bones, Izzy still viewed herself as having the body of an awkward teenager. Dr. B helped her to notice the gentle curve of her hips, her long firm legs, and to realize that her face with the big brown eyes and wide mouth, when tilted just so, possessed a unique beauty. And then she caught him with his tongue down the throat of another perfect B-cup. Hence the trip to the disability law conference in Hawaii to clear her head.

So about this hiatus from men, April plucked a chocolate from the box, I trust it will wait until after you accompany me to the Bachelor Auction this evening.

Do I have to?

I promised to ensure that my brother-in-law does not go unsold and you promised to make certain that Roper Nazareth goes for no less than four-thousand dollars.

Five-thousand. Roper has this thing about appearances. Why did I agree to this? I hate men.

Because the money is for charity and daddy Nazareth offered your clients that Sycamore Street property on which to relocate Casa Nueva.

Casa Nueva was operated by Izzy’s client, EDR. It provided board and care for twenty developmentally disabled adults in a building that resembled a sprawling sorority house. Unfortunately, the building was located within the boundaries of the Pierpoint Plaza development and had been purchased by Nazareth Development Group. Nazareth offered EDR ownership interest to a similar property located on Sycamore Street in exchange for forfeiting their lease. The move, however, required a zoning change that was stalled in the city planning department.

Since the planning department hasn’t rezoned it, I shouldn’t have to go.

Isadora, if I have to bid on my hairy-eared seventy-five-year-old brother-in-law, you can bid on Roper Nazareth.

Izzy really had no choice. She had agreed to attend the Bachelor Auction weeks ago, well before dumping Dr. B-cup and before attending the conference in Hawaii. At the time, Roper said he didn’t care that she was involved with someone else. He simply wanted a guarantee that a stranger was not the high bidder. Now that she was unattached, would Roper insist on taking her out? He didn’t appear to be a lowlife, but she had absolutely, positively given up on men.

I will be ready at seven, April said.

On the tenth floor of the Nazareth Building, Ty Cross extracted a framed report card from the last cardboard box cluttering his new corner office. The paper had yellowed and the ink faded. Ty thumbed the dust off the frame. He looked around for a place to hang it. Three of the four walls in his office, including the door, were constructed of floor to ceiling glass panels. They afforded a great view of the city and excellent light, but no place to sink a nail. The white painted wall above his drafting table already held several design concepts for the upscale Pierpoint Plaza development and he’d soon be hanging more. Roper Nazareth, Ty’s partner, claimed that the extensive use of glass made the offices rimming the building feel more spacious. Ty thought it made them feel like a row of fishbowls.

With no satisfactory place to hang his high-school memento, Ty propped the framed report card against the large CAD monitor on his desk. That report card was a reminder of what he could accomplish when he set his mind to it. He’d need that