by Freya Barker
He’s a good kid, and apparently a good player; something I only know because he just scored a goal. I’m sports illiterate. I can barely keep track of the ball with clusters of kids running from one end of the field to the other without much rhyme or reason—at least to me.
I follow suit and sit down like everyone else does when I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. Again. I’ve ignored two previous calls, wanting to give the game my full attention, but whoever is calling seems to need my attention urgently. My thoughts go to my parents, who moved to Arizona a few years ago, and Dad has had some health issues lately.
“I’ll be right back,” I inform Sally, making my way down the rickety bleachers and away from the soccer field.
The same number called all three times, but it’s not one I’m familiar with. No voicemails but a text from the same number.
Unknown: Where are you?
I’m trying to think who might be looking for me who isn’t on my contact list.
Me: Who is this?
I’ve barely hit send when the phone buzzes again, and this time I answer, but I don’t get a chance to say anything.
“Came looking for you and the office was closed.”
“Cal?”
I haven’t seen or spoken to him since Tuesday. There hadn’t been anything to report, I’m still waiting for a call back from Detective Walker about the surveillance camera feeds. I left him a couple of messages with my office number but he doesn’t seem to be inclined to get back to me. I hoped in this case no news was good news and perhaps the tapes exonerated my client.
I’ll admit, I’ve stared out the front window at the office more than is my norm—maybe trying to catch a glimpse—but I’ve mostly squashed my irrational attraction to him. For all intents and purposes he’s a client, and like I told Sean just the other day, it would be highly inappropriate to even engage in anything but a professional manner with Cal.
I hear his deep chuckle before he repeats, “Where are you?” and it annoys me.
“You know, there is such a thing as telephone etiquette where you allow the person you’re contacting to actually answer the call before you start talking. Also, since when is it your business when I close my office or where I go?”
That seems to silence him. For a second or two.
“Right. Well, I’ll do my best next time to exercise telephone etiquette—” The sarcasm is thick and I can hear the finger quotes in his voice. “But I’ll warn you now, it’s never been a strong suit. Phone calls are, in my opinion, a necessary evil not intended for inane chitchat and only good for conveying information. Right now the information I’m looking for is your current location.”
I have a hard time hanging onto my snit and find myself snorting at his disgruntled rant.
“So noted. No leisurely late night chats for you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
I’m playing with fire and I know it. Still, I can’t seem to help myself.
“Wait. I didn’t say—”
Now I’m laughing out loud and quickly volunteer, “The soccer field at Lakeland High School.”
I wince the moment the words are out of my mouth. What are you doing, Reagan?
“What are you doing there?”
“Watching twenty-two ten-year-olds chasing a ball around.”
There’s a pause.
“Muff never mentioned you had a kid.”
“Not mine. Sally’s boy, Matt.” It sounds suspiciously like a relieved breath on the other side, and I can’t help probe a little. “Not a fan of kids?”
“I didn’t say that. I like kids well enough, but we’re getting off topic here.”
“Which was?” I prompt, since I’m still not clear what he’s calling for.
“Dinner, but we can talk about that when I get there.”
“Where? Here?”
There is no answer, just dead air. He’s already gone.
Sally is looking for me when I start up the bleachers.
“Everything okay?”
“It’s fine.”
I sit down and try to avoid her scrutiny by pretending to watch the game.
“Is that why you look like someone kicked your puppy?” she persists.
Yeah, figured it was too much to hope for her to let it drop. I close my eyes and sigh deeply.
“Cal was looking for me.”
Sally lets out a little squeal and shoves my shoulder. I give her a dirty look.
“Honestly, I can’t for the life of me understand why that would upset you. I would give my firstborn to have a man like that looking for me.”
“First of all, your firstborn is your only child, and secondly; you would never,” I counter. “You love that kid.”
“I won’t love him that much when he climbs in the back of my car after the game smelling like the bottom of a dumpster,” she shoots back.
“You’re full of it. Anyway,” I get us back on track, “I think he’s on his way here.”
That earns me another squeal but she is quickly distracted by something happening on the field. The next moment she’s on her feet, cheering on her son, who appears to be running for the goal and ends up scoring again.
As I get to my feet to join in the cheers, I glance over and catch Cal’s truck pulling into the parking lot. My eyes are locked on him as he gets out and starts walking in our direction. His gait is relaxed; limber even, as his long legs eat up the distance. About halfway to the bleachers, his eyes come up and catch on me.
I don’t even notice everyone around me is already sitting until Cal starts climbing up the stands.
Cal
A dark blush stains her cheeks as she drops down in her seat. I fucking love I seem to impact her as much as she does me.
My common sense takes a flying leap when it comes to Reagan Cole. I know it’s gonna blow up in my face at some point, but I still can’t seem to keep myself away.
She avoids looking at me when I sit down beside her.
“Hey, Cal,” Sally greets me, and I lean forward to look beyond Reagan.
“Sally. Your boy out there?”
“Blue team, he plays forward.” I glance over at the field and spot the kid she’s pointing at. “He just scored,” she adds proudly.
“Good for him.” Switching my attention to the woman beside me, I give her a little nudge. “Didn’t take you for a soccer fan.”
She turns those eyes on me. “I’m not. Not really. I’m more of a Matt fan.”
That says a lot about her, all of it good.
I open my mouth to ask her about dinner when two sharp whistles sound from the field, ending the game. We get swept along when the bleachers clear and wait by the fence until Sally’s son comes running off the field. He ignores his mom and throws himself at Reagan, who grins from ear to ear.
“Did you see me, Auntie Reagan? Did you see my goal?”
“Sure did. Both of them,” she says, setting the boy back as her face scrunches up. “You did really well.”
“What am I? Chopped liver?” Sally complains, and her son turns to hug her as well. “Whoa, buddy. You’re particularly ripe today,” she says, making a face much like Reagan’s. “Go grab your bag and we’ll roll down the windows on the way home.”
“Who are you?” Matt stops in front of me and looks up.
“That’s Cal; Auntie Reagan’s friend. Now get going and we’ll pick up a couple of burgers on the way home.”
The boy glares at me before turning a smile on Reagan.
“You wanna come have burgers with us, Auntie Reagan?”
I duck my head and grin. Apparently the kid has good taste.
“I’d love to—” she starts to answer, but I quickly jump in.
“But she can’t tonight. We already have plans.” I ignore her sharp glare. “Nice to meet you, though,” I add, winking at Sally as I take Reagan by the elbow and steer her to my truck.
“My car is over there.” She pulls at my hold on her arm.
“I’ll drop you off here after d
inner.”
“I can’t go out to dinner. I reek of boy sweat,” she complains, plucking at her sticky shirt.
“I don’t care, I’m used to it,” I offer, but that doesn’t seem to fly as her eyes narrow and she plants her fists on her hips.
“Well, I’m not and I don’t want to go anywhere sticky with someone else’s sweat.”
I quickly bend my head and stare at my boots, because the mental image she paints has my blood heat in an instant. Reagan naked, flushed, and slicked with sweat. I clear my throat before I look up.
“Change of plans. Go home, do what you need to do, and I’ll be there in thirty with dinner.”
I click the remote and open my driver’s side door while she processes the information.
“I don’t think—”
“Indian okay?”
“I love Indian, but—”
“Excellent. I’ll pick up some butter chicken and naan.”
Before she has a chance to say anything else, I get in behind the wheel and close the door. When I drive off the parking lot, I glance in my rearview mirror to see her still standing in the same spot, glaring at me.
This is going to be fun.
It’s more like forty-five minutes by the time I pull up to the old farmhouse.
Finding her address had taken me all of five minutes while waiting for my order to be ready. I’d expected to find her living in one of the newer developments in town and was surprised to see the rural address. Right on the edge of the Great Dismal Swamp Wildlife Refuge, on a fair bit of land, judging from the length of her dirt driveway. The house itself is quaint, with dark red siding and crisp white trim. I’m guessing it was fixed up not too long ago. A large porch wraps around the front and halfway down each side, trimmed with a wide flowerbed. Brick steps go up the center to a rustic front door framed by two cast iron lanterns.
The place doesn’t quite seem to match the classy, and well put-together attorney.
I pull my truck up to the detached ramshackle garage, and park it next to that toy car she drives. I grab the paper bag with food and make my way over to the house and up the steps.
I’m starting to wonder if she’s going to leave me standing here—after knocking for the second time—when suddenly the door opens.
The woman in front of me looks like she belongs here; the shiny straight hair now wet and pinned in a sloppy bun on top of her head, and the sleek, professional suit and pumps replaced with a pair of ripped jeans, a flannel shirt, and pretty bare feet tipped with deep red painted nails. There isn’t a speck of makeup on her face and I’ll be damned if she doesn’t look even more beautiful this way.
“Wasn’t sure you were gonna open the door.”
“To be honest, I wasn’t sure myself,” she answers, sounding a bit breathless. Then she steps aside. “You may as well come in.”
Not the warmest invitation I’ve ever received, but it’s definitely the most welcome one.
There’s a stairway going up to the second floor straight ahead, what looks like an office to my right, and on the left a large open space holding living and dining room. She closes the door and leads the way to the back where the dining room opens up to the kitchen, which is tucked behind the stairs.
The view from the picture windows is fantastic; a garden, maybe fifty-or-so-feet deep where it ends and the swamp begins.
“Quite the view you have here,” I comment, hearing cupboards opening and closing behind me.
“It’s the reason I got the place,” she volunteers, and I turn around to find her staring dreamily out the window. “I always wanted to live somewhere remote, but there isn’t much use for lawyers out in the boonies. This is the best of both worlds; I get to look at this every day and live only fifteen minutes from the city.”
“For sure. Do you get a lot of wildlife?”
I set the bag on the table and unpack the food.
“Deer, mostly. Although a few black bear as well. Last fall I had one on my deck.” She laughs a little. “Almost fainted when I walked into the kitchen and he was standing up against the sliding door. He eventually left. Probably just looking for food to fatten up on before winter.”
“That’d be a bit of a scare,” I concede.
“Yeah, it had me go out and get some protection for when I go outside. Just in case.”
I envision Reagan toting a shotgun, but she points at the odd-shaped canister on the counter by the back door and I chuckle.
“An air horn?”
She grins back at me. “Works like a charm. I chased one off earlier this year. May have even been the same one, I don’t know, but he ran when I blasted that thing out the back door.”
“I bet. Where do you want the food?”
“Dining table?” She hands me a cork mat and I set the dishes on top in the middle of the table. “What would you like to drink?”
“You got beer?”
That earns me a raised eyebrow before she dives into a well-stocked fridge with a door full of beer bottles. This woman is turning into more of a dream every second.
I’m fucked.
I close in behind her, so when she straightens up and turns around, I’m inches away. I take the beers from her hands and set them on the counter. Then I hook a hand behind her neck and pull her close, her hazel eyes widening as I lean down.
“What are you doing?” she whispers breathlessly.
“I’m just speeding along what we both know is inevitable.”
Her mouth opens on a small gasp and I take my opportunity, closing my mouth over hers.
Oh yeah, I’m so fucked.
Chapter Six
Reagan
Sweet baby Jesus, the man can kiss.
“Whoa,” escapes me when he lets me up for air and my eyes blink open.
“No shit.” His eyes sparkle with humor and right underneath I can still see heat simmer. He brushes a thumb over my swollen lips before he steps back. “Let’s eat before I’m tempted to satisfy my appetite another way.”
I suck in a breath and immediately feel the flush on my cheeks heating. This man is my client, I’m his lawyer, this should not have happened, and yet I have a flock of happy butterflies in my stomach. I abruptly turn and busy myself digging through drawers for cutlery and serving spoons, while trying to get a handle on my runaway libido. Christ, you’d think I hit perimenopause with the intense responses my body seems to experience around him.
When I finally turn around, he’s already sitting at the dining table—his back to me—taking a deep tug of his beer. The other bottle is waiting for me across from him. Shoring up my proverbial panties, I go and join him.
During dinner I steer the conversation into safer waters—my brother, BUD/S training, clients we have in common— anything but what happened in the kitchen.
“So good,” I mumble around a mouthful of naan, which I slopped around in the remaining butter chicken sauce on my plate. “Glad these jeans are roomy.”
I look up at Cal’s deep chuckle. He’s leaning back in his chair, taking a sip of his bottle while observing me.
“What? Do I have food on my face?” I start wiping with my napkin but he shakes his head.
“No.” He shrugs. “I like watching you eat.”
Lovely, just what every girl wants to hear.
I know I wolf down food. Heck, growing up with an older brother, it was the only way to ensure what was on my plate actually ended up in my stomach. These days it’s more about not having, or taking, the time savoring what I eat. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy food as much as the next person—maybe even a little too much—I’m just used to shoveling it down as fast as I can.
“That’s not weird at all,” I deflect my own uneasiness with sarcasm, as I stand and start gathering up dishes.
He grabs the rest and follows me into the kitchen where I already have the water running in the sink. I have a dishwasher, but rarely use it; I much prefer to hand-wash my dishes. It’s relaxing, with my hands in warm water, letting my mind go
as I stare out the window.
“Got plans this weekend?”
Cal is casually leaning against the counter, a dish towel in hand, his hand out for the next plate. Could he be any more attractive? He’s so different from my ex, so unlike any of the preppy, clean-cut guys I dated in college—so not my type. Or maybe he’s exactly that and I’m wading into very hot water.
I take him in; those long legs cast in well-worn jeans, a gray Henley, that beard, and then the unkempt hair almost covering his dark eyes. Those eyes are currently looking at me keenly, and I remember I owe him an answer.
“Uh…I’ve got some work to finish and do my regular weekend stuff.”
He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Regular weekend stuff?”
“Normal stuff; groceries, laundry, gardening.”
He looks over his shoulder at my backyard. “You do all of that yourself? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“I enjoy it. It’s relaxing,” I respond, a little defensively which earns me an immediate wide grin.
“Not dissing it. I’ve barely had a chance to get used to you without your professional armor, knowing you like getting your hands dirty only adds to the appeal.” Dammit, now I’m turning beet red again. I quickly duck my head and focus on the dishes, but he reaches over and brushes a stray hank of hair behind my ear. “That blush is cute as fuck too. You know there are ways other than gardening to relax, right?” he flirts, and my body responds with a delicious shiver that has the hair on my arms stand up.
“You’re not helping,” I grumble, rinsing and draining the sink. When I turn to wipe my hands, I try not to notice the smoldering look in his eyes. In an attempt to throw cold water on the fire he’s stoking, I bring up my brother. “So, Jackson told me you’re the Mac he used to talk about.”
My attempt at diversion appears to work when he straightens and his gaze drifts out the window, but not before I observe him flinch.
“Yeah. They called me Mac.” His eyes come back to me, and the heat I saw there before has cooled down significantly. “What did he tell you about me?”
