He lifts the bat, adjusts his feet, and looks toward the pitching mound.

“Hold it there while I do some examining. Is it okay if I touch you?”

“I mean, just don’t cup my junk or anything.”

I know he’s joking, but it still makes my face flame, which I know turns my cheeks an awful shade of red. Ducking under my hat, I walk to the back of him so he can’t notice my embarrassment. “I . . . I won’t be grabbing your, uh, junk.”

He chuckles. “I know, I was just kidding.”

“Oh yeah, I know,” I say awkwardly.

Letting out a large exhale, he drops his hands and turns toward me, his large frame towering over me. “Maybe we should clear some things up before we start getting technical with my swing.”

“We don’t need to clear anything up. We can just—”

“Milly. We haven’t had the best interactions, and I want to make sure we’re cool.”

“Yup.” I stare down at the ground. “Totally cool.”

Apparently, me trying to avoid the conversation doesn’t work for him, because he reaches out and places his finger under my chin. With a small lift, he forces me to meet his eyes, the one place I didn’t want to look.

“Humor me, okay?”

My eyes blink a few times as I swallow hard. I’ll give him this; he’s very handsome. Chiseled jaw, enhanced by a soft tan. The lightest of scruff dances across his face, and his lips have a pink pout I would never have expected in a guy. And then there are his eyes, a brilliant blue bordered by long, dark eyelashes. It’s said the eyes are the gateway to a person’s soul, and I can fully believe that when it comes to Carson Stone.

“Okay,” I answer softly just as the wind picks up, blowing his fresh-soap scent in my direction. What is it about the scent of a spring mountain that makes a girl giddy inside? I mean, not giddy, but that did smell nice, really nice.