Her brows knit together. "Then what's the-"

"I'm a White Sox fan, Miss Adams, born and bred."

"Oh, is that all?" She slipped her arm through his and pulled him to a walk beside her. "It'll be our little secret then."

* * *

Stacey Quinn tried to keep his head down as much as he could. There were television cameras tucked away all over the friendly confines of Wrigley Field, and there was no way he could allow his mug to end up on television. If his father and brothers ever found out he had gone to a Cubs game, his life would be barely worth living.

"Do you want a hot dog?" Audie tapped his knee. "I'm starving."

"Sure, I'll go to the-"

Audie suddenly stood up, brought a thumb and middle finger against her tongue, and let a piercing whistle rip through the ballpark. "Yo! Hot dog here!"

The kid with the metal box of steaming Eckridge red hots caught her eye and nodded. He was on his way, taking two steps at a time to get to her.

This was too much. Quinn let his head fall into his hand and starting laughing for real now. Martha Stewart, Carmen Electra, and what else? Athlete. Beer drinker. Whistler. A sense of humor and a sharp, albeit criminally inclined, mind.

He should probably just get down on his knees now, in the middle of the second inning, and ask her to be the mother of his children.

She took out a wad of bills from some hidden interior pocket of her shorts and began to pay for the hot dogs.

"I've got this," Quinn said, standing and pushing her hand away. He gave the kid a ten-dollar bill and handed her one of the warm bundles.

Audie stood very still, feeling the blood thump in her veins. "You got the beers. I should get the hot dogs."

Quinn sat down with a shrug and began squeezing out a neat crosshatched layer of mustard along the inside of the bun. "I got it."

Audie collapsed in her seat and left the foil-wrapped package untouched in her lap. She'd suddenly lost her appetite.