“Bathroom,” I say. “I need a bathroom before I can properly decline to share details. Now all you get is a grunt.”
She grimaces and motions me forward. “After the bathroom.”
I grab my bag, and we start walking. And yes, I get my bathroom escape, but Linda gets nothing on Roarke. That’s a closed subject, just as it’s a closed chapter of my life, and yet, when I lay down in her spare bedroom that night to sleep, I can almost smell that man’s cologne: an earthy, rich scent that is all man. The wrong man for me.
Chapter Two
Hannah…
Two weeks later…
“Hannah!”
At the shout of my name, I rush out of my newly minted office and into the lobby of Linda Moore Photography where I’m now renting a space (okay, borrowing an office) to find Linda on the floor. “Oh my God,” I gasp, rushing toward her. “What happened?”
“I fell off my own heels,” she groans. “I know. I’m stupid, but I think I broke something.” She starts panting. “I think I might be sick.”
Pain so bad she’s going to be sick. That’s not good. “Let me call an ambulance.”
“No.” She grabs my arm, peering at me through a crazy mass of red curls, the rich red color a dramatic contrast to my light-brown alternative. “I have to be at a photoshoot for the Rangers today,” she announces.
I blanch. “As in the professional baseball team?” I ask, certain that can’t be the case. Granted, despite being old friends, I’ve only been back in Dallas for two weeks. I’ve shared this office with her for a week of that since I officially opened Spring Event Planning.
“Yes. Yes, I do all their photography. I can’t miss this event.” She rises up on her elbows. “Jason Jenks, their new pitcher, is launching a kids camp. That’s why I’m in heels on a Saturday. It’s a high-profile event. And Jason is a really big deal right now. He just returned from retirement to pitch again.”
I know who Jason is all too well, but I keep that to myself. “You have to be seen by a doctor first. Where do you think you’ve broken something?”
“My hip. It hurts too damn badly to be bruised, but I can just push through this.” She sucks in air and tries to stand, only to cry out. “Okay, this isn’t happening. My doctor lives next door to me. Can you grab my phone from my purse on the reception desk? I need to see if he can come here.”
“Of course.” I stand up and run my hands down my black jeans, even as I rush to the desk, find her cell, and return to squat next to her. “Let me get you some Advil.”
“Thank you,” she says. “The stabbing pain is easing, but it’s still bad. I can tell it’s bad.” She punches in a number, and I hurry to my office, grab a bottle from the drawer, and snag a water from the fridge in the break room.
By the time I return, she’s leaning against the receptionist’s desk, and there’s a white ring around her lips. Pain. She’s in pain. I rush forward and kneel in front of her, setting the water down to pop the bottle open and shake four pills onto my palm. “Take these. Did you reach your neighbor?”
She accepts the pills and downs them with the bottle of water I open and offer her before answering. “He’s on his way. I need you to do this job for me. I have a team of shooters meeting me here in fifteen minutes to head to Globe Life Park. That’s where the event is taking place. It’s an announcement and then a party. I’ll introduce you to our team, and you can take charge of the shoot.”
My eyes go wide. “What? Me?”
“You worked for a fashion photographer in L.A. A famous photographer.”
“Right up until he got caught up in the Me Too movement and went down for it,” I remind her. “I’m attached to his reputation. I don’t want to do that to you, especially with a big-league operation.”
“No one is going to know.”
“Not a normal everyday person, but this is the big leagues, quite literally.”
“You’re amazing. You’ve shot some of the world’s biggest celebrities.”
“Yes, but—”
“Please. I’m begging you. I can’t lose this contract. I need them to know that when I couldn’t make it, I sent someone better.”
I swallow hard. She’s been generous enough to offer me an office for half the rent anywhere else would cost. She even found me an apartment two blocks away. The truth is that right now, with this job for the Rangers, she’s delivering all over again, by way of an opportunity to build credit outside the disaster that stole my career in L.A. I owe her. I owe her big-time.
“Look,” she says, still making her case, unaware that I’ve already made it for her. “Jason is a super-nice guy and—”
“I know,” I say. “You don’t have to tell me.”
She blinks. “You know?”
“We grew up together, as in he babysat me. We lived on neighboring ranches in Sweetwater.”
She blanches. “How did I not know that you’re that close to Jason Jenks?”
I wave off the connection. “We haven’t spoken in years,” I say.
“Did he become a big-shot snob?”
“Jason?” I laugh. “Oh good gosh, no. Jason is not that way. Life just got in the way of our friendship.” And so did his best friend, Roarke Frost, but I’m not going to talk about my dirty laundry and Roarke. “We aren’t close,” I add of Jason and me, “but country family is always family. And you’re family now, too. I’ll shoot for you.”
“Thank you so much. This is great. This is going to soften the blow of my not making it. I’ll call now and tell them you’re coming.”
“I’ll go pack up my camera,” I say, pushing to my feet and heading to my office.
I’m not going to run into Roarke, I tell myself as I pack my camera bag. I’m not. Roarke will not be at an event at the Rangers’ clubhouse. Besides, he’s probably traveling again or in Sweetwater.
I grab my purse and my camera bag and glance down at my black jeans, boots, and T-shirt, which, as an outfit, works just fine for crawling around and taking good shots. I’m not changing. I have no one to impress with anything but my photos. I exit into the lobby to find a man in his midthirties, with dark hair and glasses, kneeling next to Linda. “This is Mark,” she announces. “He’s a newly minted doctor who lives next door to me. We have no chemistry, but hey, I’ll fix you up with him if you like.”
Mark laughs and gives me a quick inspection, his eyes warming with approval. He’s cute. Actually, he’s really good-looking, but I feel nothing. Nada. Nope. It’s not happening. But then, the name Roarke always has had a way of destroying any warm fuzzies I might feel for anyone.
“I think the first thing you need to do,” I say, “is get better.” I glance at Mark. “What’s the prognosis, Doc?”
“I’m going to get x-rays,” Linda replies before he can. “Right after I send you and the team off to play with the hot ballplayers in tight white baseball pants. Lucky you.”
Lucky me.
As long as the only person from my past I see today is Jason, not Roarke, then yes, lucky me.
…
Linda’s team consists of four shooters, two who are highly experienced and two who aren’t, none of whom require much supervision. Once we’re at the stadium offices, we’re set up in a private room that is decorated for some sort of Christmas photo op even though Christmas is still a few months away. We sit down on chairs dressed like Santa Claus, where we each set up our cameras. We’re then handed maps while being briefed about the party in the clubhouse and the speech to follow on the field in roughly an hour.
As we’re left to our jobs, I divide up my team, motioning between Liz and Mike, both college-age photography students. “I need you to just randomly shoot whoever and whatever you can get on film. I don’t want one thing at this event not on our film.” They both nod eagerly. “Weave and shoot,” I add. “Follow the crowd but become shadows. Don’t
make anyone feel uncomfortable. If they don’t want to be in a photo, quickly move along. I’ll walk down with you.”
My attention turns to Mary and Kate, both experienced shooters. “Head out to the field. Shoot there now. I don’t want one second missed out there, including the setup. I’m going to walk the party and then meet you out there.” I open the door, and they eagerly head out.
Liz and Mike follow them out, and the three of us head to the club, which isn’t a short trip at all. We travel a long hallway and finally find ourselves showing press passes at the entrance, the packed room just beyond security. Once we’re past the entry point, the room is bustling with people in casual wear, drinks in hand, the swell of voices, and clinking glasses all around us. I split Mike and Liz left and right to begin to shoot.
I’m about to start working the room myself when suddenly I’m standing face-to-face with Jason. He blinks down at me. “Hannah? Holy hell, Hannah. It’s really you.”
“Yes. It’s really me.”
He pulls me into a hug, a bear hug. “I can’t believe how long it’s been.” His hands go to my arms, and he gives me a keen inspection. “Beautiful as ever. Are you here to stay?”
“Yes. I’m back.”
“And you didn’t call me?”
My cheeks heat. “I just got back.”
“You mean you were avoiding Roarke. I’m not Roarke, woman.”
“Jason?”
With the female query, a pretty brunette has appeared by his side, and he quickly wraps his arm around her. “Jessica, baby, this is Hannah. She grew up in Sweetwater. I used to babysit her, believe it or not. God, I feel old. Hannah, this is Jessica, my fiancée, who runs the new Flying J bakery with my grandmother. My grandmother is here somewhere.”
“The cookies being served are the new launch cookies for the Flying J bakery,” Jessica adds before shaking my hand. “And nice to meet you.”
“I heard Martha had cookies and a cookbook,” I say. “I saw her and you, Jessica, on the news. And you, too, Jason. I’m so glad to see you back on the mound.” I leave out any comment about what drove him away: the plane crash that killed his parents.
“It’s all been loads of fun,” Jessica says. “Martha and Jason deserve this attention.”
“What about you?” Jason asks. “I remember you went to L.A. to work for some big-name fashion photographer. I’m surprised you came back to Texas.”
“Who was the photographer?” Jessica asks eagerly. “I love fashion.” She glances at Jason and gives him a smile. “And ugly cowboy boots these days.” They both laugh at what is clearly an inside joke before she glances back at me, eagerly awaiting my reply.
“Tobie Manning,” I supply reluctantly, and considering I’m here professionally, I steel myself for any knowledge she might have of the scandal.
Her eyes go wide. “The Tobie Manning? Oh my God. He’s ridiculously famous. What a dream job.”
“It was,” I concede and decide it’s best to address this head-on when I can direct the content of the subject. “But then,” I add, “he got caught up in the Me Too movement and I got blacklisted with him. That’s L.A. for you.”
“Oh no,” Jessica says. “Did you get harassed?”
“No, he likes men, but honestly, he’s not guilty, or I wouldn’t have stayed with him so long. There were plenty of guilty people that deserved to be booted, but he just wasn’t one of them. This is all about him firing a group of models who were causing havoc on a set. It’s pretty brutal to see this happen. They used a good cause for the wrong reason.”
“So if he beats this, will you go back?” Jason asks.
“No,” I say. “It’s time to do me. I coordinated so many events for him in L.A. that I’ve opened an event-planning service in Dallas. I’m sharing an office with the photographer for this event, and she got hurt, so here I am.”
“Event planning?” Jessica asks. “Wait. Wow. I’m looking for an event planner. We’re holding a Christmas event to launch the kids camp we’re announcing today. It works out perfectly because it’s during Jason’s off-season, but truly, with only a month to go, we have nothing worth mentioning done for this thing. We need you. Please. Say you’ll help.”
I blink. Me? She wants me? I’m still trying to get my head around this idea when she insists, “You have to do it. It’s a great opportunity to establish your new business, and we need someone Jason doesn’t feel will use us for the press.” She eyes Jason. “A friend who’s worked with celebrities. She’s perfect.”
“You are perfect for the job, Hannah,” Jason agrees as a man appears by his side, leaning in to whisper in his ear before hurrying away. Jason refocuses on me. “I need to go deal with a few things here, but you and Jessica should exchange numbers. We’ll get you a check and details tomorrow.” He hugs me. “Glad to have you back.” And then he’s gone. He walks away as if this is settled. I’m doing this job for him.
“I need to run, too,” Jessica says, holding her phone in her hand. “What’s your number? I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I recite my number, and she hugs me. “We’re a friendship in the making. I know it. Talk to you tomorrow.” And then she’s gone, too. I inhale and tell myself this is good. This is great. I’m launching my business in a big way. This isn’t my past. It’s my new future, and if Roarke somehow shows up in the middle of the event, it doesn’t matter. He means absolutely nothing to me anymore. He can’t hurt me. He can’t touch me. My dread is simply about dredging up a past long ago forgotten. So why is my heart racing?
I turn and start walking fast, really fast, without even seeing where I’m walking. I blink, and I’m in the hallway, walking back toward our setup room. I stop and eye the bathroom sign, darting inside. I’m halfway to the stalls when I spy the urinals to my left. Holy crap. This time, I really went into the men’s bathroom. I turn and all but run for the door, rounding the entry hallway only to plummet into a hard chest. Again. Good Lord, what is happening to me, besides Texas?
“Sorry. I’m sorry, I—” My words falter as I find myself staring into the warm chocolate stare of Roarke Frost.
His fingers flex on my arms, the swell of heat between us instant, burning me alive. I don’t want to feel this, not with this man. “Roarke,” I whisper, hating how good his name tastes on my lips.
“Hannah,” he says softly, his voice somehow silk and sandpaper on my nerve endings, and his mouth, that damn mouth I know on my mouth all too well, quirks at the edges, amusement in the depth of his stare. “Why exactly are you in the men’s bathroom again?”
Chapter Three
Hannah…
Why am I in the men’s bathroom? I bristle with that question, which should embarrass me but really just angers me. Really, truly, I bristle with just about everything to do with this man, and I’m not a bristler, and yes, that’s a word. Look it up in the awkward ex dictionary; it’s right there with about ten other words and/or phrases that I can’t speak out loud. But back to bristling. It’s not me. You can’t bristle in the fashion industry in L.A. without getting run over. You can’t bristle over your ex jerk of a fiancé without getting run over, either. You certainly can’t think about all the times you were intimate and naked with him without just being plain stupid. I’m not going to be stupid with this man. Been there, done that, which brings me back to why am I in the men’s bathroom? Inside the very stupidity of that action is a bit of a poetic explanation and a warning.
Roarke is every reason I’ve ever been stupid.
“I blame you,” I say, pushing away from him, his hands falling away from me, and I tell myself that’s what I want. Away from Roarke, with him no longer touching me, but I’m cold everywhere I was hot seconds before. “You’re the reason I’m in the men’s bathroom.”
“You thought this was the place to speak alone?”
“There is no place for us to speak alone, Roarke. I ended up
here, in the wrong bathroom, with the wrong man, because I was flustered, and you know why I was flustered? Because I just saw Jason. I just agreed to do some work for him, and while that’s great and generous of him, I couldn’t revel in the career opportunity he gave me because I knew, I knew, that job leads to you. And here you are.”
“Hannah.” He takes a step toward me. I rotate and walk away, exiting the bathroom into a group of four stunned men about to enter. I don’t explain why I’m in the men’s room. I use them, darting around them even as they block the bathroom doorway. They’re my shelter, my escape, and maybe that’s cowardly and everything my father—a man as tough as nails—would hate me to be, but I can feel the build of something cutting and vulnerable inside me. Something I don’t want to feel. Something I can’t afford to feel and be here in Texas. Something that I haven’t let myself feel since Roarke tore me apart years before.
I dash down the hallway and all but trot to avoid a full-out run, thanking the Lord when Mike rushes toward me, assuring there will be no alone time with Roarke. “We have a problem,” he announces, panting as he reaches my side. A problem I can handle. Well, any problem that isn’t Roarke. “What’s happening?” I ask.
“Nikki Miller, and yes, I said Nikki Miller, the movie star, is here. I thought that was camera-worthy, so I shot photos of her. She got pissed and took my camera. Like, literally yanked it from my hands, and then her security people took it.”
Roarke steps between us. “I know Nikki. I’ll get your camera back.”
Of course, he’s here to be Superman. He’s always Superman for everyone around him but me. Of course, he knows Nikki. For all I know, she’s his girlfriend, the kind he wanted when I wasn’t enough. And, of course, he’s followed me to relieve some nagging guilt from his shoulders. Or maybe he was just walking this way. Why would I think he has a nagging anything where I’m concerned?
“You’re that Horse Wrangler, aren’t you?” Mike asks, and with that, I’m done.
“I’ll let the Horse Wrangler help you,” I say. “We have one camera shooting right now with Liz. I need there to be two.” I walk around Mike and away from Roarke, and this time, Roarke doesn’t follow. This time he’s forced to let me go to offer his promised aid to Mike, but then, he’s good at letting me go. The past proves that and proves it well.
Tangled Up in Christmas Page 2
