by Eliza Daly
She winced. “Bet that was embarrassing.”
“It was a stupid thing to do, considering Aggie always worried about me being kidnapped. Couldn’t imagine having kids and having to worry about something like that.”
“Even people without money have that worry. There’s no guarantee nowadays with kids. They could end up on drugs or who knows what. You do the best you can as a parent and hope your love leads them down the right path.”
He nodded faintly, appearing uninterested in the subject of having kids. He stared longingly at the field, cut off from the average person. Like most of his life, no doubt. This was the first time she’d seen him care so passionately about something other than his family.
Cassidy sprang from her stool. “Wait right here.”
She took the escalator down to the field level and purchased two pairs of mirrored sunglasses. A start, but that wouldn’t quite do it. Too bad they weren’t at a Packers game. Packers fans were maniacs, painting their faces, bodies, and hair green and gold, making it easy to blend in. A couple of Cubs fans were having their picture taken with the Racing Sausages—people dressed in eight-foot foam wiener costumes, peering through a screen portal in the outfit’s chest, with only their arms and legs poking out. She’d seen them on the news. Great disguise. The Cubs fans, not the sausage. She laughed at the thought of Ryan dressed as breakfast meat.
When the middle-aged couple finished taking their photo, they went over to stand in line for beer and Cassidy stood behind them, sizing them up. The woman towered over the guy. Her Cubs sweatshirt would fit Ryan, and the guy’s would be just a tad big on Cassidy.
“Where are you sitting?” she asked, as if making idle conversation.
“Five rows behind home plate,” the guy said.
“Did you come here alone or with friends?”
“Came up on a bus from Chicago.”
Jackpot. What better way to blend in than among a busload of opposing fans?
“How’d you like to sit in a private skybox?”
The couple exchanged curious glances. “How much would that cost us?” the guy asked, rubbing his graying beard, assessing her offer.
“Your sweatshirts, hats, and those.” She pointed at the large pennants attached to sticks.
The woman looked skeptical. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. I don’t like heights and sitting up there is making me sick. There’s all the free food and beer you can drink.”
“Screw the others. I don’t even know most of them. I’ve never sat in a skybox before.” The guy handed the woman his beer, then stripped off his hat and Cubs sweatshirt, revealing a Cubs jersey underneath.
Cassidy smiled at the escalator attendant, who remembered her, and the Cubs fans flashed the tickets. At the skybox, she pulled Ryan off to the side and handed him a sweatshirt and cap. He turned his nose up at the sunglasses.
“Aren’t they worth sitting five rows behind home plate?”
He looked impressed and took the glasses from her.
“And if the camera scans the crowd, just hold this in front of your face.” She waved a pennant. “What do you say?”
An appreciative smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Sounds like a better idea than a suicide squeeze with two outs in the bottom of the ninth.”
Her gaze narrowed. “That’s a good thing, right?”
He nodded, giving the brim of her hat a playful tug. “I’m going to have my work cut out for me, aren’t I?”
Join the crowd. She had been saying that about him since day one.
• • •
“All right sausages, take your marks. Ready . . . set . . . GO!” the announcer yelled, echoing through the baseball stadium.
With the blare of the bugle call “Charge!” the four Racing Sausages were off, wobbling down the third base line toward the Brewers’s home plate.
“Go, Hot Dog; go, Hot Dog,” Cassidy chanted, cheering on the celebrity sausage.
Ryan stood, feeling like a kid again. “Go, Hot Dog!”
Appearing surprised by his outburst, she smiled at him, then continued cheering.
This was the best game he’d ever been to, and the Brewers were losing. Even though he was sitting among forty thousand fans, nobody recognized him. It helped that the group surrounding them were Cubs fans. He was holding his own with them discussing the Cubs. And watching the sausage race from five rows back was incredible. Money couldn’t buy dreams like this. Thanks to Cassidy, it didn’t have to.
“Woohoo, come on, Hot Dog!” Cassidy jumped up and down, losing her balance. She stumbled into him, and he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close and breaking her fall. Her body molded against his, and she slowly gazed up at him. Damn mirrored sunglasses. He couldn’t see her eyes to tell what she was she thinking. Did she think he felt as good as he thought she did? Shit. He’d sworn after the benefit he’d never get this close to her again.
“Sorry,” she muttered, straightening. “Guess I got carried away.”
“Not a problem.” He reluctantly released her. She turned her attention back to the race.
The sausages bumped into each other, spun around, and ran in the wrong direction before finally coming around home plate and across the finish line.
“Hot Dog’s the winner!” Cassidy squealed, jumping up and down. He prayed for her to lose her balance again and fall into him, but she didn’t.
Hot Dog wobbled over to the stands. Two guys stripped the costume off the man and handed him a microphone. He peered into the stands and his voice echoed through the stadium. “I can be a real wienie sometimes, but will you marry me, Lynn?”
The stadium organ played “The Wedding March” as a woman ran down the stairs past them, tears pouring down her cheeks. The couple kissed. The crowd cheered.
Cassidy turned to him. “Oh my gosh, how romantic was that?”
“Being proposed to by a hot dog?” He sounded like she was nuts, yet he had to agree, it was kind of romantic.
“There’s an idea for your engagement.”
“I don’t think so.”
She slipped her glasses up on her head, revealing her green eyes. “Why not? It involves baseball, your one true love.”
God, her eyes were gorgeous.
“So why not?”
Why not what? Oh yeah . . . “Ah, because, I guarantee I’m not dressing up like a piece of meat.”
Although Cassidy’s reaction over this proposal made him think dressing up like the sausage in the vintage Brewers uniform wouldn’t be half bad to be able to have her look all dreamy-eyed at him. Suddenly, she had him feeling sappy, like some hopeless romantic, which he certainly wasn’t. Maybe it was a combination of too many malt beverages and the sun glaring down on him. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead, he sat down.
Cassidy dropped down next to him. “So, that race is in place of halftime?”
“You still can’t believe baseball doesn’t have a halftime, can you?”
“I could have sworn it did.”
“It doesn’t.”
She was completely clueless when it came to America’s favorite pastime, and she ducked at every fly ball, just like his mother when she used to help him practice. Cassidy seemed genuinely eager to learn. He liked teaching her, and the fact that she readily admitted she knew nothing about the game. Serena had been able to rattle off the Brewers’s lineup and stats from memory. Once again, she’d done her research.
Oddly, the less he and Cassidy seemed to have in common, the more he was attracted to her.
• • •
When the game ended, Cassidy and Ryan waited for the crowd of fans to leave the stadium so they could slip out unnoticed. She was on a high. This was one of the best days ever even though she still didn’t understand the game. The Racing Sausages were a blast. What an awesome idea for an engagement proposal.
Cassidy zoned in on a petite, dark-haired woman gathering up a group of kids in the next section over. She recognized her from her appl
ication’s photo. Erica Turner, the event planner for Children’s Medical Center. The woman Cassidy was supposed to seek out at the art museum charity event to determine her possible compatibility with Ryan.
Seeing Erica was like a line drive to the gut, bringing Cassidy back to reality.
Since she hadn’t done her job last night, she needed to do it now.
She took a deep, encouraging breath. “Ah, isn’t that the planner who organized the art museum’s charity event?”
Ryan peered over at Erica waving down a kid standing on a chair. “Yeah, it is.” He arched a brow. “Do you know her?”
“Oh, ah, no. I’ve seen her in local articles or an event planning industry magazine. You should say hi.”
“Suppose so. I never did see her last night.”
Had he also left immediately following their kiss?
Heart racing, Cassidy headed down the aisle toward Erica and the kids, Ryan following behind her.
They all exchanged hellos, and Erica gave them a genuine smile rather than glaring at Cassidy like Veronica always did. She didn’t inquire why Ryan and Cassidy were attending a game together. Respecting people’s privacy would be a necessary quality in Ryan’s fiancée.
Erica eyed Ryan’s sweatshirt. “Since when did you become a Cubs fan?”
He let out an uneasy laugh. “Thought I’d see what it’s like on the other side. But I’d take your jersey any day.”
Her jersey was pale blue with the number nineteen on it. She turned around. The back read Yount.
“It’s a throwback jersey,” he told Cassidy.
She nodded, knowingly, as if she had a clue.
“I picked it up a few months ago at a baseball show for a steal. The card I sold more than paid for it.”
Ryan looked shocked. “You sold your Rollie Fingers card?”
She laughed. “No, a Yount one. Don’t worry, if I ever sell Rollie’s, I’ll give you first dibs on it.”
This woman collected baseball cards and attended shows when all Cassidy knew was that Rollie Fingers reminded her of Snidely Whiplash.
Ryan gestured to the group of kids running up and down the steps. “See you’re still bringing fans to the games.”
She nodded. “Every week. Thanks to your generous donations. Maybe you could join us for a game sometime. They’d be thrilled to hang out with a former player.”
“It was just the minors.”
Ryan and Erica discussed several plays in the game. He attempted to include Cassidy in the conversation, but she had nothing to contribute, totally lost.
Just as Cassidy thought, Ryan’s perfect match would have to love baseball.
Cassidy’s sixth sense was flirting with the idea of Erica and Ryan as a couple. Erica would make the ideal philanthropic, do-gooder rich man’s wife.
Now Cassidy knew why she’d avoided the woman the night before.
Chapter Eighteen
After the stadium cleared following the game, Charlie picked up Ryan at a side entrance. Driving a van for a pool cleaning service, Charlie looked the part in his shorts and logoed company shirt, the exception being his black chauffeur’s hat. Charlie didn’t disclose how he’d acquired the vehicle and uniform, and Ryan didn’t ask. He had enough to worry about besides Charlie landing in jail.
Yet, the game made him feel like a carefree kid. Most women he dated would have preferred the privacy and pampering of the skybox. Cassidy fit right in with the fans, knocking back wine coolers and cheering the Cubs—and Racing Sausages—to victory. Forget about merely donating to a children’s fantasy baseball camp, he was going to start one. Or better yet, come up with some unique baseball events for kids. He hadn’t been this psyched about something in a long time. Maybe once things slowed down after . . . he was married. Once he was married and never saw Cassidy again.
Something he didn’t want to think about right now. Especially since he couldn’t get that damn sausage marriage proposal out of his head. Obviously, his appreciation over sitting in the stands had clouded his judgment and his feelings toward Cassidy. She was the hopeless romantic, not him.
His avoiding the mansion for two days hadn’t kept the media away. The hoard of photographers and reporters congregated around the fence were visible a half mile away, coming from the opposite direction. His back stiffened. Which one was responsible for today’s headline about his TV interview?
Ryan Mitchell’s Future Wife: His Best Investment or a Bust?
He ducked down in the back seat, and Charlie drove their secret route. He bolted inside, and the aroma of fresh baked goods loosened the tension in his back. It appeared Fiona was in the middle of a bake off. Flour, batter, and baking dishes were scattered everywhere. And it had to be twenty degrees warmer than outside. He stripped off his Cubs sweatshirt and tossed it on a chair. A memento of the day.
He sliced off a piece of Irish whiskey cake and took a bite. Soggier than usual, and the taste of whiskey was even more overwhelming. He grabbed a napkin, but Fiona entered, forcing him to swallow the cake rather than spit it out. The black lace scarf on her head was grayed by flour, and flecks of batter speckled her face.
“What are ya doing?” Fiona marched over and snatched the piece of cake from his hand. She polished it off in two bites, then wiped her hands on her green apron that read When Irish Eyes Are Smiling . . . You Know Something’s Cookin’.
“Sorry, didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to eat it. What are you baking it for?”
“Err, nothing.” Her stern expression relaxed. “Just don’t want ya spoiling your dinner is all.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Ahh . . . ” Her green eyes skittered around the kitchen in search of an answer.
Since when was Fiona speechless?
“Pizza,” Charlie piped up. “Aggie always ate beer and pizza on Saturday night.”
“She did?” He couldn’t dispute the fact because Wednesday night was his dinner night. However, he didn’t recall ever having a pizza night.
“Ya probably don’t be wanting no pizza. Don’t think we ordered enough, besides. Never said you’d be coming for dinner.”
Fiona must really be ticked about his staying away to deny him food. “I need to get home anyway.” He glanced around at the mess. “Any buttermilk scones I could take with me?”
“Ahh, err, took ’em to the church bake sale.”
“Church bake sale?”
Fiona was an Irish Catholic by birth only. Her constant signing of the cross and Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph exclamation were the extent of her religious fervor.
“They looooved the punch.” Charlotte breezed in with an empty glass pitcher, her yellow chiffon dress billowing in her wake. “That one in the checkered shirt drank four—”
“Look who’s here. It’s Ryan,” Fiona said.
Charlotte’s gaze darted to him. She smiled nervously. “Oh, hello, sweetie. Give ole Charlotte some sugar.” She walked over and planted a kiss on his cheek, undoubtedly leaving behind the usual blotch of red lipstick.
Ryan eyed everyone suspiciously. “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing.” Charlotte giggled, setting the pitcher on the counter. “Nothing at all.” She giggled some more.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Charlie said.
“Here, have some cake.” Fiona attempted to appease him with the cake she’d just banned him from.
“Nothing, my ass.”
He marched out of the kitchen and down the hallway, the others trailing close behind. He pulled back the curtain on the front door and peered out at the reporters on the sidewalk. A near empty pitcher of whiskey punch and a half-dozen glasses lined the lower brick wall of the fence. Along with several plates containing baked whiskey goods.
“They’re drunk,” Ryan said.
Fiona peeked out. “Would appear so, wouldn’t it? Some people just can’t hold their liquor.”
“Why the hell would you get them drunk?” he demanded.
“It was
my idea,” Charlie blurted out. “Thought if they got shitfaced, they’d pass out.”
“Me arse, your idea. Your idea was to wear Charlotte’s dress when waxing the golf cart this morning.”
“That was Charlotte’s idea.”
“Was not,” Charlotte said. “I would never have recommended my red dress. The color washes you out.” Hector trotted barefoot through the back door, a wicker basket filled with plastic violets on his arm. “I recommended Hector hand out flowers.”
“This place is a friggin’ circus,” Ryan yelled. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Aggie always said to give the media something to talk about so they won’t be having to search for stuff,” Fiona said. “Cassidy agreed. We need to be open.”
When had Cassidy told them that? Was she in cahoots with Fiona about this whole fiasco? Was it their plan to keep him away all day so he wouldn’t interfere?
“You don’t need to remind me. I’ve had that drilled into my head my entire life.”
“Keeping them occupied will divert attention away from ya, it will.”
Ryan eyed Fiona. “You didn’t talk to them, did you?”
“’Course not,” Fiona spat.
He glanced over at Hector sniffing a plastic flower. The press would have a field day with the staff. He hated to pander to the same degenerates who caused his parents’ deaths, but he wasn’t about to let them also hurt the people he loved.
He’d complete Cassidy’s questionnaire that the women were also submitting and grant her an interview she could feed to the press. A more controlled method than a live television interview.
Besides, he owed her one after today.
• • •
When Cassidy arrived home from the game, the funeral was over and Sally was gone. The room reeked like pumpkin pie rotting in a dumpster behind the Seafood Delight Buffet. Lucy scurried around the room, frantically lighting incense and fall-scented candles. A large fan in an open window fervently sucked the air from the room, but the stench remained.
