Calling It

by Jen Doyle

  But he couldn’t look away.

  Her eyes were a deep dark brown, the same color as the hair piled on top of her head. He wanted to trace the golden skin along her collarbone to the hollow of her throat, wanted his tongue on every part of her. And the glasses she now wore almost undid him.

  If she’d been wearing those with the robe? When she’d hiked that bat up over her shoulder?

  Holy. Shit. Turned out he liked a woman who would take him on without even blinking an eye. Who knew?

  He especially liked it when her interested gaze traveled down his chest, past his waist... He liked it too much, actually. Only the quickly summoned thought of David Ortiz slamming into him at home plate stopped him from embarrassing himself in a way he hadn’t since he was practically a kid.

  Even that almost wasn’t enough when she said, “I, um, changed the sheets. So you can take the bed.”

  All control vanished as the words just came pouring out of his mouth. “The only way I take the bed is if I take you in it with me.”

  His heart nearly raced its way out of his chest in the seconds before she replied, “I bet you say that to all the girls.” Laughter danced in her eyes and a wicked grin came over her face when her eyes again dropped to his cock and then quickly came back up. She bit her bottom lip before whispering, “Hungry?”

  Miguel Cabrera. Adrian Beltre. Derek fucking Jeter.

  He gripped the doorjamb tighter.

  “I could eat,” he answered as evenly as he could manage.

  For a moment they just stayed where they were, staring.

  When she stood and walked toward him, he almost blinked. This was a dream. It had to be. Or some elaborate setup that Pete had come up with in order to get Nate’s mind off everything else. Put this fantasy of a woman in front of him—feisty and looking so innocent and cute while she offered up anything he wanted to take—until he was so goddamn spent he could finally get over himself and start living his life again.

  Except then she brushed past him as she walked out of the room, pausing only to whisper into his ear, “I think you need another minute.”

  Chapter Four

  Making conversation with the object of her seventeen-year-long obsession wasn’t easy. It was even harder, Dorie was realizing, after nearly getting herself off while fantasizing about him in the bathtub only moments before meeting him in the cold, hard flesh.

  Or, rather, in the not-at-all cold, but mouthwateringly hard flesh.

  That she’d managed not to lay herself down on that bed and invite him to join her was a miracle. Either that or the dumbest thing she’d ever done in her entire life.

  Really. A night with Nate Hawkins? Who turned down a chance like that?

  Dorie Donelli, apparently.

  The problem, she realized as she headed to the kitchen, was that she’d seen the haunted look in his eyes when she’d handed him the phone. She knew more than enough of his backstory thanks to the media being all over him for the past six weeks, plus there was the whole obsession thing. Put all that together and it equaled Bad Idea. In flashing red letters.

  “So how about some meatballs?” he asked from so close behind her that he almost made her jump. Again.

  She turned to look at him. Holy crap, the man was truly that beautiful. “I’m sorry?”

  “Meatballs,” he said again. “Unless you’re saving them for Tommy, of course.”

  Losing every ounce of cool she’d managed to maintain up to that point, she blurted out, “Tommy’s my brother. In Boston. And please don’t use the word balls again.” Then she whirled around and opened the fridge.

  She got out the meatballs, threw them in some gravy on the stove and made Nate Hawkins a sandwich. After he ate that one, she made him two more. At various points, she also managed to speak. But it was the most surreal experience of her life. And, possibly, the most difficult. Because he was funny. Nice. Not at all the coldish, aloof Master of his Domain-type he’d seemed like in recent years.

  “So, um, time for bed.” If she didn’t remove herself from his presence soon, she’d lose her resolve and jump him right here.

  Maybe she would have if he’d admitted who he was, bad idea be damned. He was Nate Hawkins, after all. But he didn’t, which meant she couldn’t, and so she resolutely ignored his grin, glared and then directed him to the couch before locking herself in her room.

  When she woke up the next morning to find him gone, she was grateful. She wasn’t sure she’d have been able to keep up the charade, especially when she came upon the thoughtfully folded stack of sheets and blankets. The bat was sitting on top of them, holding a note in place: Thanks for keeping me off the street. And thanks for the meatball (hoping you’ll make an exception for my use of the word here) sandwiches. Rather than a signature, there was an arrow pointing to the initials on the bat. She was not at all pleased that it made her laugh out loud.

  She spent her first two hours at work in a daze, finally calling it quits when she realized she’d shelved fourteen infant board books alongside some erotica. Thank goodness she still had a few weeks before there were patrons around.

  Taking her cup of coffee into her office, she sat in her chair and booted up her laptop. Plugging Nate Hawkins into Google pulled up the headlines from the past six weeks: the picture of the upside down SUV at the top, right next to one of Courtney, clearly shaken, being escorted out of the hospital by a bodyguard the following day, then one of them together in happier times.

  Moving past the accompanying headline, Courtney Smacks Hawk Down, she skimmed through all the NateGate ridiculousness, the heartbreaking part about Courtney losing her baby and the speculation over whether his career was over due to the injury of his knee in the crash—and whether that meant the end-before-they’d-even-begun of the Chicago Watchmen, who had signed him as an anchor of their new expansion team. Instead, she skipped down to the part about the Iowa Dream.

  The story of five high school boys from tiny Inspiration, Iowa, had taken the country by storm seventeen years before. Literally. They’d come out of nowhere to win the Iowa state high school basketball championship despite the fact that most of their town had been destroyed in a horrific tornado right before the season had begun. Wash Fairfield, Max Deacon, Jason Pike, Cal Turner and, of course, Nate Hawkins.

  The story probably would have faded if not for the fact that they’d all chosen to stay together, turning down offers from bigger, well-known schools in order to attend the tiny Finley College, only forty miles from their home. There was a movie about them. Several books. And now, every time Nate Hawkins made the news the story came out all over again.

  Dorie swirled her chair so that she was looking out her window at the town’s central green, now picture-perfect with the falling snow. Though she’d already had a good job in Boston, the job ad for Inspiration’s library director had jumped out at her, taking her back to those years of watching the little-basketball-team-that-could. She’d come home that night to find a living room full of obnoxious men—several of whom she was related to—watching mud wrestling. The kitchen was full of dirty dishes and no fewer than five people demanded “Beer!” when she went in. Ignoring them, she had gone into her room to find some random guy passed out on her bed.

  She’d sent her resume in the next day.

  She’d never expected an interview, much less the actual job. And although she’d done enough homework to know that the Iowa Dream Foundation underwrote half the library’s budget—as well as that of a good deal of town services—it was also clear they were very hands-off. She figured she’d eventually meet one or two of them. But having Nate Hawkins himself sleep on her couch?

  Not even in her wildest dreams.

  Turning away from the window, she shut down the browser, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. In the light of day, it was hard to believe it had actually ha
ppened. She didn’t usually bother to flirt. She was blunt, a little clumsy at times and sometimes snorted when she laughed. She did not say things like, “I think you need another minute.” Not to men like him.

  Except she had said it. And even though she’d fantasized about him for years, it frightened her how normal he’d seemed. How easy it would be to forget that his real world was nothing like hers and that it was currently all-consuming. How easy it would be to fall into bed with him—to actually fall for him—and think he was falling back. And that was without even touching on the fact that he was her boss’s son.

  Oh, wow. Things had been so much less complicated when he was in dream form.

  Ugh. She knocked her head against the desk.

  “Um... Hello? Are you Dorie?”

  Dorie whirled around so fast that her chair almost shot out from under her. “Yes. Hi.” Chimes. She needed to get some door chimes. Plastering a smile on her face, she launched into the spiel for the occasional droppers-by. “I’m so sorry, but we’re not actually open quite yet. There will be a grand reopening in February. If you’d like to give me your name and address, I’ll make sure to send you an invitation.”

  Undeterred by Dorie’s attempt at a send-off, the woman came forward and stuck her hand out. “Sorry. I should have called first. I just dropped by on a whim.” They shook hands. “We spoke last night. I’m Fitz.”

  Oh. Dorie jumped up. “You’re Fitz?” She knew she shouldn’t have sounded so surprised. She just hadn’t expected someone quite so young. “Was there a problem with my rent check?”

  Fitz shook her head and smiled. “Nope.” She took an envelope out of her messenger bag. “I actually have a check for you. I think Mama Gin mentioned that the Foundation had approved five thousand dollars in seed money?” Handing over the envelope, she added, “We can’t wait to see what you do with it.”

  Taking the check, Dorie looked down at it. “You and me both.”

  As they’d told her before she accepted the job, the library had suffered nearly a decade’s worth of neglect and there was an overwhelming amount of work to be done. That, more than anything, was what had sold her on it. She wanted to put her mark on something, and this library was perfect. “Thanks.”

  Fitz nodded. “If you have any questions, feel free to come to me.” She came farther into the room, wandering in an aimless sort of way as she looked around.

  Or, rather, not quite aimless—more like she was procrastinating. Before she could say anything else, a phone rang. With a frown, Fritz answered it. “I know,” she mumbled into the phone. “Yes, I can do it.” She turned away and practically growled, “I’ve got it.” She hung up the phone and faced Dorie again. “Sorry. That was, um...”

  Rather than finish the sentence, she dug into her bag and took out another envelope and handed it to Dorie, although this one was much bigger than the one with the check. Dorie took it from Fitz and opened it. “A confidentiality agreement?” she asked. “For the seed money?”

  With an embarrassed laugh, Fitz shook her head. “Not quite.” She gestured for Dorie to read the document.

  As Dorie began to leaf through the papers, a phrase caught her attention. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. Nate Hawkins wasn’t just a man, he was a multimillion-dollar industry. Of course they’d want to protect him. But still, it took a lot of nerve to ask someone to agree to pay one million dollars if they didn’t provide their own protection during sex.

  “Are you serious?” Dorie put it back in the envelope and pushed it across her desk, right back at Fitz.

  The corner of Fitz’s mouth twitched, and from the glint in her eye, Dorie could have sworn she was in complete agreement. Without looking away, she took out her phone and dialed a number; a few seconds later, she said, “Sorry, no go.” After a short pause, she handed Dorie the phone. “Your turn.”

  Um, okay. “Hello.”

  “Ms. Donelli, my name is Peter Morales. I represent Nate Hawkins. Do you know who he is?”

  As much as she hated to admit it in front of Fitz, she answered, “Yes, I know who he is.”

  Fitz stiffened, then looked away.

  “Then I’m sure you understand,” Pete was saying, “that this is a standard agreement. It isn’t anything personal.”

  A laugh escaped. “Who he sleeps with and what he does with them isn’t personal?” She looked at Fitz.

  Fitz’s mouth twitched again, but this time the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She reached for the phone. “I’ll call you back, Pete.”

  Dorie could hear Pete’s squawking as Fitz ended the call. The man wasn’t happy.

  Neither was Fitz, who said, “So you lied last night.”

  “I didn’t lie.” Dorie kept her tone as even as possible. “But if I’d known I’d have company while I was taking a bath, I would have kept my contacts in so I could see more than two feet in front of me.” And if she’d had any idea that Fitz was his sister—of which he had three: Daniella, Juliette and Angelica, i.e., not someone named Fitz—she probably would have handled everything differently.

  Although Fitz’s nod pretty clearly said touché, what she actually verbalized was, “Did you sleep with him?”

  “Really?” The word was out of Dorie’s mouth before she could stop it.

  Dorie took a deep breath and walked over to the window. “He said his name was D.B. You agreed. By the time I could actually see well enough to realize who he was, it was late and I wasn’t exactly in a position to call you both out.”

  That sounded like the lamest excuse ever, especially as she heard herself say it out loud. But she had no memory of handing him the phone or walking down the hallway. She’d just found herself in the bedroom changing the sheets. And then she’d turned to see him framed in her bedroom doorway, clenching every muscle in his body tight as he’d watched her, holding himself in place.

  Even if she’d wanted to tell him she knew who he was at that point, it would have been impossible. Breathing had been impossible.

  So, yes, she’d taken the easy way out, although it wasn’t like either Nate or Fitz had seen fit to contradict her in the first place. Hell, they were the ones with the D.B. thing. But she may have sounded a bit defensive when she added, “I don’t know why he said what he did or why you went along with it. All I did was make him a meatball sandwich—”or three “—and then I went to bed. Alone.” With a sigh, she turned back to Fitz. “I came here for a job, not to make trouble for a man who has more than enough already. Nothing happened. And I can’t imagine we’ll ever cross paths again.”

  Honestly? She was even more sure now that she didn’t want them to. Having him as an imaginary boyfriend was clearly much less complicated than the real thing.

  As if that was even an option.

  There wasn’t even a hint of apology in Fitz’s voice. “I don’t want to see him hurt.”

  “Then maybe next time you should ask him to join you at poker night rather than leave him fending for himself,” Dorie snapped.

  Fitz’s face flushed. But rather than snap back and tell Dorie to mind her own beeswax, she turned away and quietly said, “It’s complicated.”

  Right. And no matter how much about him she’d read, Dorie really didn’t know anything about the man behind the stories. What she did know very well, however, was what it was like to have brothers. And between what she knew of The Dream and their history, the little she’d heard over the phone last night and her own useless attempts at keeping the peace between six volatile and hot-tempered Irish-Italian men, she empathized with the woman standing in front of her.

  Leaning back against the windowsill, she said, “Families are hard. I know. But you guys obviously care about each other. I’m sure it will work out.”

  With a quiet exhale, Fitz said, “I sincerely hope so.” Then she stood up and walked out the
door, ending the conversation about Dorie’s nonillustrious night with her superstar no-longer-completely-imaginary boyfriend.

  And that, Dorie was sure, was that.

  Chapter Five

  So much for a few low-key days at home. Nate’s first night had definitely not gone as planned. Knowing he couldn’t spend another moment near Dorie, whose name he’d finally pried out of her—and having hours to kill before he was due at Wash’s—he’d headed to his oldest sister’s spread around 5:45 a.m. Ella raised horses on the outskirts of town, where the sunrises were unreal and the people were few and far between. But as he was driving past his aunt and uncle’s farm and saw the huge tree that looked like it had come down in the previous week’s blizzard, he took a detour.

  He’d been there an hour when his uncle came out of the farmhouse with a pair of work gloves in his back pocket and a Thermos in his hand. “Thought you were Wash for a while there,” he said, making his way down to where Nate was chopping wood. “Your aunt Laura said I should convince you to come inside for breakfast, but I told her there must be some reason you chose to be out here in the cold.”

  “Uncle A.” Although warmth spread through Nate as the man neared, he was too out of sorts to say much more. That his own uncle’s first thought was of Wash, not Nate, did nothing to help matters. He swung the ax one last time so that it was resting in the stump. “Looking good for an old man.”

  “Seventy-eight years young—and don’t you forget it.” He uncapped the Thermos and poured a cup of steaming coffee, then handed it to Nate.

  Nate drank from it gratefully, closing his eyes as he tasted home. Plus, the caffeine was welcome. He’d tossed and turned on the couch all night, not so much because it was uncomfortable, but because it had taken every ounce of willpower he had not to follow Dorie back down that hallway and climb right into that bed with her.