Aside from noting the time, Grayson paid little attention to the announcer or the applause he was coaxing from the crowd. Instead, he watched Max say something to Lou that had his old friend’s expression tightening before Max stomped out of the arena, leaving his hazer to deal with Deca.
Without thinking too much about it, Grayson casually moved to one side, knowing that he’d be blocking Max’s exit if the kid ever looked beyond himself.
“Good time,” he said, a second before Max would have plowed over him.
Max’s head came up. He glared at Grayson. “Would’ve been better if my hazer woulda done his job right.” His voice was tight and low. “As usual, everyone’s loyalty is to you.”
Grayson clamped his arm around the shorter man’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Kid, you’ve got talent, but you’ve got a helluva lot to learn if you think a pro like Lou doesn’t do his best every single ride no matter how much of an ass you are. You’ve been at this long enough to know there are three things that matter in bulldogging. You. The steer. And your hazer.” He ignored Max’s effort to shake him off. “You want a better time? Stop blaming someone else and stop straightening your legs so damn much every time you throw the steer. Standing up that much just adds time on the clock.”
“If I wanted your advice, I’d ask.” Max shoved his way past Grayson.
He took a step after the kid, only to stop short when he spotted his mother sitting in the stands. He hadn’t seen her since arriving in Reno.
She gave him a smile and a thumbs-up.
All normal stuff.
What wasn’t normal was the glimpse Grayson got of a man sitting about a dozen rows from Deborah who’d just risen and was walking away.
The man wore a ball cap on his head, a dark colored T-shirt and jeans. But Grayson could swear the man was Gerald Robinson.
Grayson’s hands curled into fists as he squinted, trying to see the man better before he moved out of sight. But Deborah had risen, too, and was heading down the bleachers toward Grayson.
If she knew the man who’d left her pregnant and abandoned was anywhere near, she gave no sign of it.
And when Grayson looked back to where Robinson had been—if it had been Robinson—the man was gone.
His mom’s smile seemed perfectly normal when she finally reached him. “Good time.” She was carrying a printed list that he knew would be his schedule for the coming week. “How’s the rib feel?”
“It’s fine. How was Paseo?”
At his abrupt tone, her eyes narrowed. “It was fine.”
“Was Robinson there?”
She frowned. “What are you talking about?”
He scanned the arena yet again. “Forget it. Nothing.” He plucked the list from her hand and studied it. Autographing session at noon. Conference call at three about Grayson Gear’s proposed collaboration with Castleton Boots.
His mom snatched the list back, giving him a close look. “Nothing my fanny.”
He exhaled. “It’s not unheard of. He’s shown his miserable face in Paseo before. As Jerome Fortune, the guy faked his death a long damn time ago and recreated himself as Gerald Robinson. Now that he’s found you, who knows what else he’s capable of.”
“I should think you’d know what I’m capable of. Just because I wanted to go home and catch up with my other sons, you start thinking the worst?”
“He’s a married man with more kids than he can count.”
Temper filled her eyes. “That sounds like you’re warning me, son.”
“I’m not warning. I’m just... I just don’t want him hurting you again.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Grayson. I was in love with Jerome once, but that was a long time ago. It happened too fast, and maybe if I could turn back time, we could have found our way. But I can’t turn it back and I’m no home wrecker. If you’re intent on worrying about something, worry about yourself.”
“What do I have to worry about?”
“Making more out of your life than work! Finding someone who’ll keep your bed warm at night. I mean the same someone who’ll be there night after night after night. Look at your brothers—”
“I’m not my brothers.” He cut her off before she could head on down that road again. Since he’d learned about his biological father, his worst fear was that he’d turn out to be more like Jerome/Gerald than like his own brothers. Neither Jayden nor Nathan had ever shared Grayson’s proclivity against entanglements. “Only thing I need to worry about is showing up on time where I’m supposed to show up.” He tried to take the list from her again. “I’m gonna need that, you know.”
She tossed the paper at him, obviously still annoyed. “Autographing and press conference today. Grayson Good session with an elementary school tomorrow and a senior center the next day. I’ll work out the rest of the week when we know your next go-round.” She waited a beat, studying him closely. “You saw Billie yesterday, didn’t you?”
He picked up the list from the ground where it had fallen. “I looked at a house yesterday with my real estate agent.” Spilled half his guts with her, too.
“With Billie.”
He folded the sheet and shoved it in his back pocket. “Dammit, Ma. Would you give it a rest?”
Her eyebrows rose. “I’ll give it a rest when you tell me what’s really got a burr under your saddle.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. There was no way he was going to tell her he thought he’d seen Robinson in the arena. She’d be upset that he was hallucinating, or upset that he wasn’t.
But he was even more reluctant to talk about Billie. It was a guarantee that Deborah would make too much of anything he said. And it was hard enough not thinking about Billie, particularly after the way he’d left.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Max Vargas stomping around, still peeved. It was a toss-up who the young man wished six feet under more—Grayson or Lou, as the hazer passed nearby, still leading Deca.
His mother was still giving him the stink eye and Grayson threw out a Hail Mary. “I saw Bethany Belmont last night before my flight. She’s pregnant.”
His mother’s eyes widened with dismay. “With your—”
“Hell no.” He’d never slept with Bethany, even back in the early days, though he’d given it his best shot for a time. “She didn’t say who the father was.”
Deborah looked confused. “Then why’d she tell you?”
He spread his hands. “I guess she needed someone to talk to. She’s got no family. Or maybe because we both grew up in Paseo. Take your pick. You were single and pregnant once.” He looked over the bleachers again. “What else should I have done? She asked me for a job at Grayson Gear. She’s thirty-six years old and pregnant. She can’t compete right now. She’s behind on her bills.”
His mother’s lips compressed. Then she sighed. “Even after all these years, I remember what that’s like. What did you tell her?”
“To talk to Jessica on Monday.” He’d already told his manager at the company to find a spot for Bethany. “Meanwhile, I gave her about five hundred to tide her over.”
“She might use it for an abortion.”
“I doubt it. She was anxious about finding a job, but still seemed pretty happy about the baby.”
“Hey, mister.” The greeting was accompanied by a tug on his shirt and Grayson looked down to see a young boy holding an autograph book and wearing a hopeful expression. “Can I get your autograph?”
Glad for the interruption, Grayson crouched down until he was at the boy’s level. He had dark brown hair and dark brown eyes and looked about five. “You bet. What’s your name, cowboy?”
The boy beamed. “Billy.”
“Billy, eh?” Grayson had always suspected the universe had a strange sense of humor. He took the book and opened it to a blank page. “I knew a Billy a long time ago.” That was true enough. “Billy Wood was a great bronc rider. Taught me a lot back in the day. How old are you?”
“Six.” The boy preened. “
I’m gonna be a mutton buster!”
Grayson smiled as he scrawled his autograph across the page.
“You know, that’s how Grayson started,” Deborah told the boy. “Mutton busting.”
Billy looked at Grayson, awed. “Really?”
“Sure did. But you know, every mutton buster needs a good hat on his head.”
The boy rubbed the toe of his scuffed boots in the dirt and looked toward a dark-haired woman standing protectively nearby. “My mama said I could get boots or a hat but not both.”
“My mama used to tell me the same thing.” Grayson smiled at Billy’s mom as he returned the autograph book. Then he took his hat and plunked it on the boy’s head. “Hold on to that, cowboy. One day it’ll fit you just fine.”
Billy’s eyes widened like saucers. He clamped one hand down on the oversize hat as though Grayson might change his mind. “Thanks, mister!” He raced back to his mama, who beamed and mouthed a “thank you.”
Deborah waited until they’d moved out of earshot. “That was a nice thing. But you gave him your favorite hat.” Her eyes were speculative. “You’ve never done that before.”
He shrugged. “Kid reminded me of EJ.”
“Sure it wasn’t the boy’s name?”
It wasn’t often he lied to his mother. But he lied then. “Positive.”
Chapter Seven
Stepping off the elevator on her apartment floor, Billie juggled her purse and the bag of groceries with her keys while she listened to her phone messages. She’d spent most of the afternoon pinch-hitting for Elena, who had scheduled three different open houses all at the same time, and the rest of the day trying to save a sales contract for one of her own clients from falling through because of a disagreement over carpet.
It was nearly eight at night. She was tired. Her feet ached. All she wanted was a cool bath, half the package of peanut-butter cookies inside her bag of groceries, and a glass of wine. Not necessarily in that order.
But the sight of Grayson sitting in the hallway with his back against her door made her forget all that. A large paper shopping bag sat on the floor beside him.
She stopped short and had an overwhelming desire to hurry back to the elevator and make her escape.
But he’d already noticed her and was rolling to his feet.
He was dressed in full-on “cowboy” from the snaps on the front of his torso-hugging shirt to the oversize championship belt buckle, drool-inducing blue jeans and gleaming boots. The only thing missing was his trademark black cowboy hat.
She knew he hadn’t busted out already in Reno, because one of her voice messages had been from Max as he’d ranted about losing to Grayson by a fraction of a second in their first go-round.
She dropped her phone inside her purse and gave him a sideways look as he shifted so she could put her key in the door lock. “Aren’t you supposed to still be in Reno?”
“I have to go back for my second go.”
What she really wanted was an answer to what he was doing there outside her apartment, particularly after his abrupt departure the day before. But since she didn’t want to ask the question outright, she supposed she deserved what she got.
“Let me help you.” He didn’t wait for her permission before taking the heavy grocery bag from her.
She turned the key and pushed open the door, going inside. He followed. Again without permission. He set the grocery bag on the counter in her kitchen. “You always work this late?”
“When I need to.” She dumped her purse right beside the groceries, before crossing her arms and leaning back against the cupboards.
He still didn’t provide an explanation for his presence. Instead, he started removing the items from the grocery bag.
Tall bottle of chardonnay.
Lavender-scented bubble bath.
His gaze roved over her. “Expecting company?”
“Is that so surprising?”
He didn’t reply as he turned once more to the grocery bag. Of course she knew what was coming. But short of making a big deal about it, she didn’t figure there was anything she could do to stop it.
Out came the giant-sized package of cookies. The small vat of ice cream.
The industrial-sized box of tampons.
“You plan to make a meal on this stuff?”
“Well, not these.” She tapped the tampon box, damned if she would be embarrassed. Instead, she picked up the ice cream and stuck it in the freezer, where it could keep company with her ice tray.
He folded up the bag. Without asking, he opened her refrigerator door and plucked out the container of Chinese takeout that sat on the empty shelves alongside a withering orange and two green apples. He opened the container and gave it a wary sniff. “And not that, either.” He stuck it back in the fridge. “It occurred to me,” he said, as he shut the refrigerator door, “that we sort of had our first fight.”
“No,” she retorted, before she could stop herself, “you dumped a load of obviously personal information in my lap and then ran.” Not to mention running straight to another woman.
His lips compressed. He turned on his heel and left the kitchen. But he returned a moment later with the bag from the hall. “And it occurred to me that I probably owed you an apology.” He set the shopping bag on top of the neatly folded grocery bag, pulled out what looked like a boot box, and handed it to her.
“What’s this?”
“Open it and see.”
She flipped off the lid, half expecting to see a pair of Grayson Gear boots inside.
But she was wrong, and despite herself, she felt a smile start to tug at her lips. She lifted one of the tall rubber muck boots out of the box. “At least you know better than to take me for the glass slipper type.”
His expression lightened a little. “I don’t know about that.” He pulled out another shoebox. This one was cashmere-tan in color, much smaller, and had a very famous name printed on the top.
It was ridiculous the way her mouth went dry as she unsteadily reached for the box. “You didn’t really bring me Christian Louboutin shoes.”
“I didn’t?”
She swallowed and carefully lifted off the top. The patent high-heeled pumps inside were black. Peep toe. Deathly high heel. With the kind of brilliant red sole that she’d seen only in magazines and on Rhonda Dickinson’s feet. “You...you shouldn’t have.” She put the lid back on the box and nudged it with the tip of her finger toward him. “I can’t possibly accept them.”
“What’s the difference between them and the rubber boots?”
“Besides several hundred dollars?”
He nudged the box back. “You like shoes.”
To be accurate, she loved shoes. But she never spent a fortune on indulging that love, primarily because she ordered all her dress shoes off the internet at a discount site she’d discovered years ago.
Once more, she pushed the box toward him. “They’re too expensive. And—” she kept pressure against the box before he could slide it back her way “—how would you even know what size to get?”
“I’m a good guesser.”
“I can just imagine how you got good at that.”
He lifted one of the ridiculously beautiful shoes out of the box and suddenly crouched in front of her. “Let’s test it out.”
It was galling to feel a little light-headed, seeing him kneeling that way, and she pressed a steadying hand against the counter beside her. “Grayson, I—” Her words strangled in her throat when he wrapped his long fingers around her bare ankle.
“Lift.”
Knowing she ought to resist him was a far cry from being able to do it. She lifted her foot and he slid off the neon-yellow pump she had on.
“You were wearing these the first day we met,” he murmured as he set it aside.
“Was I? I, uh, I don’t remember.” Her lie sounded as strangled as she felt. She swallowed hard and looked away from how his hair waved against the back of his neck. Her fingers curled against the cool granit
e. But her imagination was conjuring warm skin and thick hair.
He slid the peep-toe creation on to her foot.
Where it fit perfectly.
Then he was rising, and for a moment, his fingertips trailed lightly along the back of her calf, skipping away before he reached her knee.
The damage was done, though. Warmth was flooding through her every nook and cranny.
“Seems like a good fit to me,” he murmured. “What d’you think?”
She thought he was standing much too close. She thought that, even with the addition of a five-inch heel, he still towered over her by half a foot. And she thought that he might well be worth her chancing her job. “I think you guessed well.” That wasn’t her voice, was it? All breathy?
He shifted and the minor distance separating them became nearly minuscule. She could make out every single one of the lashes thickly surrounding his dark eyes. “If you don’t accept them—” his voice dropped “—then we’ve got a problem.”
“What problem?”
His gaze roved over her face, seeming to settle on her lips. “I’ll have to find another way to apologize.” He shifted again and she felt something hard and intrusive nudge against her midriff.
She moistened her lips. “Grayson—” Then some kernel of common sense rescued her. It was the other shoe he was holding between them.
What was wrong with her? Had it been that long since she’d felt such a visceral attraction to a man?
Yes!
She ignored the answer circling inside her gut and took the shoe as she edged away from him. Feeling almost grief-stricken, she leaned over and slipped the beautiful shoe off her foot. She set it and its mate inside the box and carefully placed the lid back in place. “There’s no need for expensive apology shoes because there was no fight.”
“Felt like it to me.” He waited a beat. “You know, there’s nothing going on between me and anyone else.”
She couldn’t help herself. “Does Bethany Belmont know that?”
“And that’s why it felt like a fight.” He lifted his hand and she froze when he slid his fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “She’s just an old friend, Billie. We grew up in the same town and both ended up in rodeo. It’s nothing more than that.”
Fortune's Homecoming Page 9
