by V. K. Sykes
He put his coffee cup down and smiled. “I like it when women don’t try to cover everything up with makeup.”
Maybe it was just a line, but he sounded completely sincere to her. “No fear of that with me,” she said in a light tone. “I’m practically a makeup-free zone.”
That broadened his smile to a grin. “Good for you. But, listen, I do have to own up to an ulterior motive in taking you to lunch, although I am happy to be spending time with you.”
Though Teddy hadn’t really expected him to be interested in her, she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. She’d probably completely misread him.
He suddenly looked uncertain, at least as uncertain as a guy like him could look. “So, Teddy, it must be karma that brought us together today, because I really could use your help. Your professional help. Starting a couple of days from now, I’m going to be the guardian of my aunt’s two Standard Poodles.”
She blinked with surprise, which probably made her look like an owl. That was the last thing she’d been expecting from him. “Guardian for a while, or forever?”
His expression changed again, his dark gaze going somber. “Forever. My aunt has Parkinson’s and she can’t handle them anymore. It’s practically killing her to give them up, and she made me promise I’d bring them back to Texas during the offseason, which of course I will if. But while I’m living here, I’ll need someone to walk the dogs every day.” He gave a funny grimace that made him look a little vulnerable for such a big, strong guy. “And I’m getting the feeling I’m going to need even more help than just walking them.”
Teddy thought she got the picture. “I’m guessing your housekeeper wasn’t exactly thrilled when you gave her the news?”
His rueful grin was damn near irresistible. “I’d say that’s the understatement of the year. I thought Cristina was going to hand in her notice on the spot, but I managed to talk her down off the ledge. I had to make her some promises, though, because she’s a great housekeeper and I sure as hell don’t want to lose her.”
“Promises such as hiring someone else to take care of the dogs?”
“Exactly. I can’t blame Cristina—she didn’t sign on for that kind of work, and she says she’s always been a little afraid of dogs. So, we agreed that I’d look for somebody to come in and exercise Toby and Sadie twice a day when I’m out of town. When the team’s at home, I’ll take care of them in the morning, but I’ll still need someone in the afternoon because I head for the ballpark at three or four o’clock.” He blew out a sigh. “Cristina’s not thrilled about any of it, though, and I’m still not sure how it’s going to work when I’m on the road.”
Her fantasy self might have been happier with a sexy come-on from Noah, but the real Teddy liked what she was hearing very much. She and Emma had been working to attract a high-end, Main Line clientele, and people like the Bennetts and Noah Cade were just the ticket. Even so, their business was still operating at barely more than half capacity. And Teddy was struggling to make ends meet, unable to save enough to go back to college full-time instead of grabbing single courses here and there.
“How old are the Poodles?” she asked, anxious for details.
Their server arrived before he could answer, dropping a huge plate in front of Teddy. A gigantic mound of sweet potato fries almost engulfed the Reuben and the little dish of coleslaw. Restaurant portions were ridiculously large these days, and she rarely ate more than half, taking the rest home for dinner. Not that she was a fanatical dieter, but carrying extra weight when you were trotting around with dogs all day was a recipe for exhaustion.
“They’re eight, but they haven’t slowed down much yet, believe it or not.”
“I totally believe it with Standards,” she said with a laugh.
“They’re gorgeous dogs, Teddy. Real sweethearts,” Noah added earnestly before biting into his burger.
Though not everyone shared her opinion, Teddy had always like Standard Poodles. One of the smartest breeds on the planet, they were also exuberant and affectionate. Some were hard-headed, but Teddy had always enjoyed the challenge they posed. The gig Noah was proposing sounded perfect to her, and she and Emma surely could use the business. That kind of service didn’t come cheap. Most people hired Dog Nanny Pros for one visit a day and on weekdays only—sometimes less than that—but this guy could obviously afford her rates. Emma would be over the moon happy and probably a little jealous, too, because Noah Cade would be pretty much the perfect client.
She gave him a warm, grateful smile. “Thank you, Noah. I’ll be happy to take care of Toby and Sadie as much as you want. And let me know if you want any references, because I’m happy to provide them.”
His face split into a grin. “Not necessary. Not after what I saw today.” He held out his big fist in an invitation to bump. “Hey, I’m thrilled.”
Teddy gently tapped her knuckles against his. That fleeting physical touch did nothing but zap her again with the electricity that continued to spark between them.
At least she felt that jolts. Noah, on the other hand, had instantly shifted his focus to his burger, taking a ravenous bite. His attitude suggested relief that his problem had been resolved.
Teddy gave a little mental sigh. His sexual response to her clearly went only so far. It was likely an automatic response to any moderately attractive female. After all, he was a total stud. Still, she told herself, it was better that way. Noah had just offered her a great job, one she didn’t need to muck up by even thinking that it could ever become more than that.
“I can’t wait to meet Toby and Sadie,” she said in a cheery voice.
Noah merely gave a soft chuckle that suggested some interesting times ahead.
* * *
Jed Jones was a stern taskmaster and Noah loved him for it. The Patriots’ long-time head trainer had spent a crap-load of hours driving him hard since Noah’s surgery last summer. Getting him back on the mound and pitching in a real game had become as much of an obsession for Jed as it was for Noah.
“Ten more wrist curls, then we’ll work on elbow extensions to finish up,” Jones said, the overhead lights shining on his shiny bald head. “You’re doing great, but we’ve gotta make up for all that time you lost screwing around in Texas.”
His loose fitting workout gear already drenched in sweat, Noah straddled a weight bench inside the clubhouse’s training facility. Jones loomed over him, offering occasional encouragement along with his old-timer’s version of trash talk. Even as he worked, Noah couldn’t minimize his awareness of the long, ugly scar that ran along the outside of his elbow joint.
For a while, the sight had made him feel sick, re-kindling his anger at fate over a possibly career-threatening injury. But those wasted emotions were fading every day. A supremely skilled surgeon had given him the chance to resume a full career, something that had been unthinkable only a few decades before. But these days, complicated reconstructive surgery was commonplace among both professional and amateur pitchers.
He knew he was a fortunate man to still be able to throw a baseball. He had a ways to go before he resembled the old Noah Cade, but the doctors and trainers swore that his arm should be just as solid as it was before the injury.
“I’m ready to go, Jonesy,” he said to his trainer. “Thanks to you and your guys.”
A rare smile creased the other man’s broad face. “No, thanks to how hard you’ve worked. Like I told you before, you’ve made it back from a TJ as quick as I’ve ever seen anybody do it. Yeah, your velocity’s down some, but I still figure that’s conditioning, not the elbow.”
Noah hoped like hell that Jones was right, but he had his doubts. After all, his body had aged a year in the meantime, and there was still a nagging voice in his head telling him not to push his arm too far and too fast. He was finding it hard to figure out how much of his problem was physical and how much was mental, but whatever it was, his stuff wasn’t quite the same anymore. Not yet, anyway, and that had made for a lot of sleepless
nights as his first big-league start of the season approached.
He finished his reps and set the heavy weight down on the floor, then got up and stretched. Only a couple of other guys were working out—the rest of the team would trickle slowly into the clubhouse as the afternoon wound its way down toward the pre-game practice.
After a few more exercises, Jones finally cut him loose and Noah headed next door into the locker room, flopping down into the leather chair that looked like it would be more at home in an executive office than in front of a clubhouse locker stall. When fellow pitcher Nate Carter ambled into the room, Noah spun his chair to face him. “Hey, how’s Holly doing?”
Nate and his wife, a pediatric surgeon, were expecting a baby in the fall.
The lanky lefthander grinned. “She’s perfect, same as always.”
Noah gave him a look of mock disgust. “You’re one lucky dude, man. Holly’s one of the nicest women I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet, not to mention drop-dead gorgeous. Why she picked a jackass like you is a complete mystery.”
“Don’t I know it,” Nate said as he flipped open the small cabinet in his stall where players locked up their valuables. “Though I have to admit I’m still having a little trouble getting my head around becoming a daddy.”
“Yeah, I can relate.”
Like Noah, Nate had been a relationship-free zone until he was finally corralled by Dr. Holly Bell—although it was probably more accurate to say that Nate had been forced to corral the fiercely dedicated physician. But now he pretty much had it all—a beautiful, brainy wife, an All-Star career, a mega-contract that had him set for life, and a baby on the way. Noah couldn’t help the odd flash of envy, though it was more for the ace’s golden arm than for his marital status. As great as Holly was, Noah had yet to feel the desire to tie himself down to one woman, despite his stepmother’s ball-busting about getting on with the job of producing Cade grandchildren.
While Noah had achieved more in his career than any man had a right to ask for, injury or no injury, he had precious little hope of making the Hall of Fame. Carter, on the other hand, was virtually assured of achieving that pinnacle of success. If Noah’s arm held up and he was able to pitch for another seven years or so, he might have a shot at racking up the magic three hundred wins that all but guaranteed you a plaque in the Hall—unless you were one of the steroids boys, of course. He’d breached the two hundred mark before he blew out his arm, but getting the last ninety-six W’s had started to look like a shaky prospect at best—especially after his decidedly mediocre performances on the mound this spring in simulated and rehab games.
But only when he pitched in actual major league game conditions would the tale truly be told.
Nate began tapping away on his iPhone. “Your numbers were pretty good in your last rehab start,” he said without looking up at Noah. “Six innings, two runs. That should be good enough for Jack to clear you to start.”
Yeah, it would ultimately be up to Jack Ault, the Patriots’ field boss. “Only two runs, but I gave up seven hits and three walks,” Noah said. “Hell, I was scuffling all night, man. Hit the pitch count in the sixth and had to be pulled. I really hoped to go seven innings.”
“What were you hitting on the gun?” Nate said, still not looking up but typing furiously with his thumbs.
“High eighties at best.” Noah grimaced as he remembered. His fastball had always topped ninety-four miles per hour before the injury.
“And the slider?”
Noah’s money pitch, his slider, had been giving him grief all spring. It didn’t have its usual hard break to the outside against right-handed batters, instead tracking over the plate and getting hammered by too many guys. “I can’t say it was any better. But at least I was getting my curve across for strikes, so I didn’t have to throw that many sliders.”
When Nate raised his head, he gave Noah a skeptical frown. “But the slider’s always been your payoff pitch. You can’t give up on that, man. The curve’s gonna get hit if that’s the only breaking ball they see.”
No shit, Sherlock. Noah repressed the impulse to snap at Nate, who was only trying to help. He’d been his strongest supporter since the day Noah signed on as a free agent two and a half years ago. They shared pitching tips, secrets and war stories more than any other two pitchers on the club.
And Nate was right. Noah could snap off a wicked curve, but damned if he could get that slider to consistently break down and off the plate.
“I keep telling you, man,” Nate continued, “if they’re gonna lean out over the dish and tee off on your slider, your answer is to get them the hell off the plate. Burn ’em inside—again and again until they get the message.”
Noah nodded. “Got to pound it inside and back ’em off.”
The only problem with that wise counsel was that Noah’s control the past few weeks had lacked the pinpoint precision to pull off that strategy. While the goal was to intimidate the hitters by throwing fastballs in tight, often Noah was either straying too far inside and hitting the batter, or leaving the ball over the inside corner and watching it get smacked by opponents with quick bats.
“We’re counting on you to have a great half-season,” Nate said. “We need you if we’re going to win it all this year. We’d have knocked off the Dragons in the Series if you’d pitched two games.”
His friend obviously meant it in the most positive way, but the words still hit Noah like a punch to the gut. Sitting in the dugout, watching the Patriots get edged by the L.A. Dragons in last year’s World Series, unable to help the team win the one crucial game they needed, had been one of the most painful experiences of Noah’s life. It had totally sucked.
At the sound of footsteps, he turned to see first baseman Ryan Locke, always early to arrive in the clubhouse.
Thank God. An opportunity to change the subject.
“Speaking of guys with hot significant others…” Noah tossed out.
Ryan gave him a smile that looked more fierce than friendly, though by now he was used to being kidded about his relationship with Taylor Page, the team’s assistant general manager. “You should talk, man. That cheerleader you’ve been dating should be on the cover of Maxim.”
“Ah, yes, Miss October on last year’s Eagles cheerleader calendar,” Nate said, again looking more interested in his phone than the conversation. “She must be disappointed that you don’t have it hanging in your locker.”
“Bite me,” Noah said. “You two are just jealous because you can’t screw around anymore. The old ball and chain’s got you now, right?”
Though they all chuckled, all three knew Noah was talking bullshit. If anybody was jealous, Noah thought it might be him, though he couldn’t really put his finger on why. Most guys would give an arm to hang with babes like Miss October, the spectacularly endowed Callie Holloway.
“Besides,” he added, “I’ve already moved on.”
Ryan cocked an eyebrow. “Somebody new, again? Another model, maybe?” He and Nate both snorted in obvious amusement.
Noah shrugged. “You’ll find out. I’m thinking it might be time to change things up a bit.”
And damned if the picture in his head wasn’t of some leggy blond model or one of the super-hot Eagles or Sixers cheerleaders. To his surprise, the young woman he saw in his mind had a red ponytail, freckles on her nose, and a banged-up elbow.
Obviously, Noah’s new dog-walker—as all-American and apple pie as they come—had already made an impact.
- 5 -
Teddy lugged two bags of groceries into the kitchen.
“Emma?” she called out, dropping the bags and her purse onto the slightly battered oak table where place settings for two had already been laid out. The heavenly aroma of garlic and tomatoes wafted up from the pot on the stove, telling her pasta was on the menu. Thank God Emma had arrived home early to get dinner going. After rushing around Whole Foods to pick up groceries and walking Buster again at 4:30, Teddy was starving.
Emma po
pped inside from the small back yard, a clipping in her hand. “I’m here. I was just getting a little thyme to throw in the sauce.” Then she spotted the bandage on Teddy’s arm and gave a little gasp. “Oh, my God, what happened to you?”
Teddy grimaced as she started unpacking the groceries. “That idiot Buster did it again. The little devil dug his way out of the yard and took off. When I was running around the park searching for him, I somehow managed to trip and scrape the hell out of my elbow.”
“That’s insane. This is the third time you’ve had to chase that digger. Did you go to a clinic to get your arm bandaged up like that?”
Emma had been feeding and walking dogs for much of the day, too, but she’d obviously made it home in time to shower, change and get the sauce for the pasta going. She looked great, as always, with her blond, pixie-like hair and clear blue eyes that danced with life. Her tiny white shorts emphasized perfectly shaped, tanned legs that Teddy envied like hell over her own long and, to her mind, too skinny ones.
“Not exactly,” Teddy said as she stowed various boxes and cans in the cabinets of the small galley kitchen. “It’s a long story, but at least we found the dog and got him home safe and sound.”
Emma stopped in mid-motion as she lifted a bunch of kale from a grocery bag. “We?” she said, tilting her head.
“The next door neighbor helped me out. The guy in the cool house we both said we’d die for.” When Emma looked interested, Teddy finally let loose the grin she’d been holding back. “And he’s going to be a new client, actually.”
“Oh, my God, yes!” Emma punched a fist in the air. “In that case, let’s have a beer right now and celebrate. I think you could use one anyway after an adventure like that.” She opened the fridge and pulled out two bottles of Sam Adams. “Now, we’re going to forget dinner for a while and you’re going to give me every single detail.”
She handed Teddy a bottle and dragged her by the hand through the doorway into the living room. “Not only a new client, but a loaded one, too. Sounds like you’ve had a hell of a day, girlfriend.”
