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write, but Lucy suddenly put out her hand. “No, wait! Will you make it out to my husband, Paul? He’s a huge Mets fan.”
    “How about I do two? One for you and one for Paul?”
    “Would you really ?” she squealed, and squatted down at the booth, watching him write something on one ticket then on another ticket as Kelly restrained herself from barfing. Parker tore out both tickets and handed them to her. “Thank you so much,” she gushed. “This will make my husband’s day.”
    “My pleasure, Lucy,” he said with a wink and watched her rush away, clutching her autographs. Then he looked at Kelly. “Would you like an autograph?”

    Kelly snorted. “I just hope she didn’t have the salads written on the other side of those autographed tickets, because I am starving.”
    “So am I,” he said, pushing a hand through thick black hair. “You must have to be at work very early every morning.”
    “Five-thirty, Monday through Friday.”
    “Wow,” he said, with a lopsided smile. “That’s rough.”
    “Not if you’re not a party animal,” she said with a lopsided smile, too.
    His smile widened to a full grin. “Now Kelly O’Shay, you don’t look like the kind of woman who believes everything she reads in the Daily News .”
    “You’re right. I never believe my horoscope. But everything else, I believe. I mean, why would the Daily News lie to me about you? And can you honestly expect me to believe you are a good boy, early to bed, early to rise?”
    He chuckled low, leaned forward so all she could see was his gray eyes, and said, “I never claimed to be a good boy. And I won’t deny that I get out every now and then. A guy can’t live on frozen dinners alone, you know.”
    She just bet he got out every now and then. Probably in the company of little girl groupies, dressed in tiny micromini skirts and halter tops. Probably the sort that wore microminis and halter tops and hung on his every word. Hell, she couldn’t blame the poor dumb things. Parker was hot.
    “The last time I went out, I went to the Museum of Modern Art,” he said, completely surprising her. “Have you seen it since they completed the renovations?”
    “Ah . . . no.” The Museum of Modern Art? A museum ? He really didn’t seem the type, did he? She couldn’t picture him, a big guy, knocking around a museum. “That must be your attempt to get me to believe you are cultured and refined and not just a jock who can’t bat.”
    “I’m not trying to get you to believe anything. I was justremarking that the last time I went out, I went to see the Museum of Modern Art. I happen to be a big fan of architecture and modern paintings.”
    Well, knock her over with a feather. “Right,” she said, and smiled, waiting for the punch line.
    “Come on, Kelly,” he said genially. “Don’t tell me you’re suffering from the totally inappropriate, completely ignorant, and disgustingly uninformed conception that just because I am a professional athlete, I have no appreciation for the fine arts. I hope you aren’t that narrow-minded.”
    In a word? Yes . She didn’t buy for a minute that Parker appreciated the fine arts. She had him pegged as the sort of guy who came off the field, sat back, popped a couple beers, and watched SpongeBob SquarePants reruns. “I’m just having a hard time picturing you walking around an art gallery.”
    “Huh,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Just how do you picture me?”
    The image of him naked suddenly danced merrily across her mind’s eye, and totally taken aback by it, Kelly blinked.
    “What?” he demanded.
    “Nothing,” she said, feeling a bit of heat beneath her collar. “I don’t picture you at all .”
    “Well, I wish you would try picturing me playing baseball and see if you can’t turn that shock jock bit down a notch.”
    There was that image again, only this time it was a naked Parker in the batter’s box, and Kelly could not keep the smile or the heat from her face.