by Lori Wilde
“I can’t have you pulling those tonsil-hockey moves again,” she said firmly. Nooo, wailed Snoopy Dancer.
He held up a Boy Scout palm. “I swear to a strict hands-off policy.”
She shook her head. “I don’t trust you.” Oh what a lie, she didn’t trust herself.
Seriously, whispered Snoopy Dancer, I really want to slap you right now. Hard.
Rowdy upped the wattage on his smile. “Did I mention the salary?” He quoted a sum so impressive her eyes bugged. She could do so much with that. Move from her parents’ house, get a new car, start her life in earnest.
Yeah, gloated Snoopy Dancer. Say no to that.
“Say yes, Breeanne,” he coaxed. “It’s that easy. Just one word. Yes.” He leaned in, the dizzy scent of him knocking any last scrap of resistance out of her. She wasn’t built to resist. She was a go-with-the-flow kind of girl.
If you don’t say yes, threatened Snoopy Dancer, I’m packing my bags and moving out and taking your one scrap of personality with me.
“You didn’t let me finish,” she said.
“Fair enough. What else?”
Breeanne hardened her chin, and fortified her resolve. She’d been accepting things her entire life, rolling over, acquiescing, being agreeable, deferring to opinions, giving in, accommodating, avoiding confrontation because it made her sick to her stomach. He had no idea how hard it was for her to set boundaries. She ached for an easy world filled with yesses and smiles and happy people. But if she gave in to him now he would steamroll her and she’d end up flat on her back in his bed. A pleasant idea that was far too tempting, and far too dangerous.
“Let’s get something straight. I’m not one of your women,” she said, quite calmly, and proud of herself for such a steady, succinct delivery. She could do this. She was a professional writer, a small businesswoman. Her whole career was at stake. No way she was going to allow a teenage crush and runaway lust to ruin her chance at big league publishing.
The higher his grin tipped up, the more his eyes crinkled. “My women, huh?”
“That’s right. If I take the job this would be a strictly professional relationship, and I expect professional behavior.”
“Hmm.” He canted his head, studied her. “Do you have specific parameters for what you consider professional behavior? You know, a little FYI so I don’t cross any lines?”
“First off, don’t use me again the way you used me with those other women. Telling them I’m your girlfriend just because you didn’t want to appear available. I am not your girlfriend. Please don’t behave as if I am. If you need a shield against predatory women call Warwick.”
“Okay. What else?”
“We have regular working hours. Nine to five.”
“What if something unexpected comes up and we need to reschedule?”
“We can renegotiate at that time.”
“What else?”
“We don’t socialize together.”
“That it?”
“It’s all I can think of right now, but I reserve the right to add ground rules as the need arises.”
“All right,” he said. “I agree to your conditions.”
Breeanne blinked. Well, that was easier than she expected. What now?
“Is it official?” he asked.
Was it? She wanted this job more than she wanted to breathe, but she was scared.
“If you’re still on the fence, think of the money,” he went on. “You could buy—”
Snoopy Dancer just damn well took her hostage. “Yes.”
He paused, thrown off by the interruption of his spiel. “Huh?”
“You can stop selling. Yes, I accept the job.”
“Wow? Okay. Good. Great.” He rubbed his palms together like he’d just gotten a great deal on a used car, and then stuck out his left hand. “I’ll call my agent and put this puppy in motion. Let’s shake on it, Breeanne Carlyle.” He said her name slow, deep, and throaty, his tongue caressing those last two words in an erotic I-wanna-have-sex-with-you sound that shocked her spine with a series of hot shivers.
Still in a daze, and wondering if maybe she was in a dream after all, Breeanne sank her hand into his.
Zap!
Zing!
Static electricity crackled the air, jumping from her to him. Or maybe it was the other way around. Either way there was no denying the hot, succinct snap. Even Snoopy Dancer hollered, Whoa, wait, what was that?
Grinning, Rowdy pumped her hand, and a proprietary look came into his eyes as if he’d just claimed her as his.
Leaving Breeanne’s pulse skittering for shelter. What had she just gotten herself into?
Hours later, Breeanne could still feel the imprint of his lips on hers. She marveled over the softness of his kiss versus the hardness of his body, but both had been hungry.
For her.
Dear Lord, how long would it take for her to feel normal again? She was wound tighter than Elizabeth Bennet over Mr. Darcy. She stood in the middle of her parents’ kitchen staring blindly at the extravagant spread laid out on the table.
Her family had insisted on cooking a special celebratory dinner to commemorate her landing the position as Rowdy Blanton’s ghostwriter. The Carlyle clan loved celebrations, and used any excuse for fanfare. Dad grilled filet mignon. Jodi made her famous garlic mashed potatoes. Kasha bought champagne. Suki prepared caprese salad with a balsamic vinegar reduction. Mom baked a cake, and wrote “Well Done Breeanne” on it in pink icing.
She felt honored and loved and, quite frankly, more than a little worried as reality nibbled away at her self-confidence. First off, she was nervous about writing on a tight deadline. She’d spent three years researching and writing her book about Great-Aunt Polly. There had been no pressure. This was big league publishing, her make-or-break opportunity. What if she didn’t have the writing chops to pull it off?
Secondly, there was that world-altering kiss. If she was around him she feared she’d want more of those kisses, and then she would be the one to break her own rules. Also, she was pretty sure Jackdaw Press would frown on a ghostwriter fooling around with her subject.
Thirdly, and the scariest of all, was the cheetah scarf. No matter how many people she polled, she and Rowdy were the only ones who thought the scarf felt soft. What that meant, she did not know, but she was glad she hadn’t told her family that Rowdy felt the softness too. They were bound to turn it into a thing.
“Breeanne, honey, are you listening?” her mother asked.
“Huh?” She blinked rapidly as if it could dispel her obsessive thoughts about Rowdy Blanton.
“We were just talking about the day we brought you home from the hospital,” her dad said. “How we had to prepare ourselves in case you died.”
“But at the same time, we were determined to keep you alive, no matter what it took,” Mom added.
“And now look how far you’ve come.” Pride lit up Dad’s face.
“To Breeanne,” Suki said, and raised her glass of iced tea. “And to dreams coming true.”
They all lifted their glasses. “To Breeanne.”
She flushed happily.
“Just think,” Jodi said. “You’ll be working side by side with your teenage crush. How many of us can say that?”
“A crush that just happens to be a superstar.” Kasha sent her a knowing wink, as if she was privy to the chaos going on inside Breeanne’s head.
“Better watch out.” Suki grinned. “Rumor has it Rowdy is the best kisser in Stardust.”
She hoped the heat rising to her cheeks did not give her away. She was so glad that she had not told them that Rowdy had already kissed her. They would turn that into a thing.
Dad growled. “I should have a talk with Rowdy. Make sure he knows to keep his hands to himself.
Breeanne’s face blanched icy. “Dad, no!”
“Rowdy Blanton is a great ballplayer and I admire his pitching skills, but he’s got a reputation as a ladies’ man, and when it comes to my daughter, I want to set
him straight—”
She pressed her palms together. “Please don’t humiliate me.”
A frown pinched his face, and his eyes narrowed as if he’d just as soon punch Rowdy as not. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Come on, Dad,” she wheedled. “Think about. Why would someone like Rowdy be interested in someone like me?”
“Why not? You’re an amazing young woman.” Dad folded his arms over his chest. “All my girls are.”
“He’s not interested in me in that way,” she insisted.
“You sure? Why did he hire such an inexperienced writer if he didn’t have ulterior motives?”
Ouch. There it was, the real truth. Her father didn’t believe in her writing. He thought it was much more likely that Rowdy wanted to take her to bed, than she’d been hired for her knowledge and talent.
Stung to the quick, she sank her fingernails into her palms to keep her eyes from misting. “He hired me because I know something about baseball.”
“And no male ghostwriter fit that bill?”
“Who’s up for cake?” Mom interrupted, giving Dad a lay-off look.
Breeanne smiled gratefully at her mother. “I’ll take a slice.”
When dinner was finished, the family dispersed. Jodi and Kasha headed to their homes. Suki disappeared upstairs to her room to make jewelry. Dad went outside to clean the grill. Breeanne stayed in the kitchen to help her mother with the dishes.
“Dad doesn’t think I can do this,” she murmured.
“Your father is just worried about you.” Without glancing up, Mom rinsed off a plate and handed it to her to load in the dishwasher.
Callie was under foot and in an affection mood, eeling around Breeanne’s legs as she stacked the dishes. The cat’s proud fluffy tail brushed against her calves.
“I know.” Breeanne was acutely aware that she had been the biggest single drain on her parents’ marriage, physically, financially, and emotionally. It was one of the reasons she tried so hard not to rock the boat. She couldn’t help being born with a defective heart, but she could make sure that she was easy to get along with.
“I don’t think your father fully realizes that you’re twenty-five years old.”
“He doesn’t seem to have any trouble letting Suki grow up.”
“For one, Suki has a completely different personality. She’s much harder to corral. For another thing, you’ve been your father’s little shadow since you could walk, and because you were so sickly, he still sees you as much younger than you are. Besides, you’re special.”
Special.
She hated that word. Had heard it her whole life. Don’t carry that Breeanne. You’re special. Don’t try that, Breeanne. You’re special. Don’t eat that, Breeanne. You’re special. There had always been love behind those words, but to a kid who just wanted to be like everyone else, it felt like a judgment, and she absorbed the message as: It’s not okay to assert yourself.
Absentmindedly, she rubbed her breastbone and, without intending to, let out a sigh.
Mom’s chin shot up. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Callie hopped onto the sill of the kitchen bay window, sat watching them like a tennis match judge.
“Something is bothering you. Are you feeling all right?” Her mother turned the water off, dried her hands on a dish towel, and moved as if to test Breeanne’s forehead for a fever.
Feeling like an ungrateful daughter, she stepped back, shook her head, and held up her palms to stave off irritation as much as her mother’s attention. “I’m fine. Really.”
Concern darkened her mother’s eyes. “You haven’t been yourself since your father and I got back from San Antonio.”
She shrugged, not knowing how to broach the topic that had been on her mind for a while now. How did she begin to tell her mother that she felt constricted by her family’s love?
“Are you second-guessing your decision to write this book?” her mother asked.
“No. Yes. Maybe. A little.”
“Is it your ability to do the job that’s worrying you, or your attraction to Rowdy?”
“Both,” she admitted.
“You know you don’t have to do this. The bookstore is yours, and you’ll always have a place to live right here with your father and me. There’s no reason to step outside your comfort zone, or put yourself in a situation you can’t handle.”
There it was again, her family’s mistaken belief that she wasn’t strong enough to take care of herself. It might have been true once, but it wasn’t any longer.
“You and Dad can’t keep carrying me around on a pillow. I’m fine. I’m not on death’s doorstep anymore. I’ve got a long, healthy life ahead of me.”
“I know, honey.”
She moistened her lips, worked up the courage to say what she needed to say. “It’s time I started acting like a healthy twenty-five-year-old woman.”
“I see.” Her mother’s lips pursed. “You mean sex.”
Yes, among other things, she meant sex, but she didn’t want the conversation with her mother to veer off in that direction. She needed to get a life of her own, and while that included sex, it wasn’t her only objective.
“If you’re ready for sex, I’ll book an appointment with—”
“Mom! I can book my own doctor appointments. I’m not talking about sex.” Well, not to her mother. “I’m talking about finding myself. Now that I’ll be getting an advance for ghostwriting Rowdy’s book, it’s time I moved out.”
Her mother looked crestfallen. “All on your own?”
“I’ll get a roommate. I’m placing an ad in the Stardust flyer looking for someone to share a house with.” She’d thought about it, and decided a roommate was the best option just in case the ghostwriting thing fell through. She didn’t want to have to come crawling home.
Her mother’s hand crept across her throat. “What house?”
“There’s no specific house. Not yet.”
“Getting a house is a big step, Breeanne.”
“You didn’t say that when Jodi moved into the boxcar she renovated when she was nineteen.”
“Jodi’s different. She’s always been more mature than other young people her age, and she’s got a good head on her shoulders.”
Meaning Breeanne didn’t? “And what about Kasha? She’d backpacked through Europe after her sophomore year of college.”
“Kasha was homeless until she was six years old. She knows how to take care of herself.”
“And you don’t think I can.”
“Honey, it’s just that you’ve been so ill and—”
“You’re right. I was a sickly kid who needed a lot of attention. I’m not self-assured like Jodi, or strong like Kasha, or spunky like Suki, but I’m not going to be if you and Dad won’t let me stretch my wings. I need to make up for lost time.”
“Well.” Mom blinked, and rearranged her features, struggling not to show how upset she was. “If that’s the way you really feel.”
Her mother had no idea how hard this was for her. The last thing she wanted was to hurt her parents, but she had to do this. “Please, Mom, try to understand.”
Her mother didn’t say anything for a long time. The second hand on the kitchen wall clock clicked so loudly it was all Breeanne could hear.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Does this mean you’re not coming back to the bookstore once you’ve finished writing Rowdy’s book?”
“No, no. I love working at the bookstore.”
“Oh good.” Her mother’s eyes lightened. “Because we depend on you. If you’re worried that you’re a financial burden to us, please don’t be.”
“I’m so very grateful for everything you and Dad have done for me. You’ve got to know that.”
“Of course we do. And we love you.” Mom hugged her. “So very much. We’re always one hundred percent behind you.”
“Thank you.”
“Now.” Mom reached to tuck a strand of erran
t hair behind Breeanne’s ear, a loving touch. This woman had saved her life. She and Dad had nursed her to health when no one else believed she would live. “When are you supposed to start writing this book?”
“Rowdy and I begin the interview process on Monday, but I’ll start doing preliminary research right away. I told Rowdy that I had to train my replacement at the bookstore. Plus my agent has to iron out the contract details with the publisher.”
“You don’t have to worry about training someone. Suki can take over at the bookstore until you get back.”
“She’ll hate that.”
“She’ll gripe but she’ll come through. It’s only until you finish this book. Right?” her mother asked, needing reassurance.
“Yes.”
Her mother exhaled audibly. “Good. Then you have time to consider if writing this book is what you really want to do. And you have plenty of time to find the right roommate, the right house. There’s no need to rush into something you might end up regretting.”
But she didn’t need time. As much as her family loved her, or maybe precisely because of how much they loved her, they would never take her seriously until she struck out on her own. Accepting Rowdy’s job offer was her first step toward independence, and achieving her heartfelt dream of being a writer. She was about the endeavor, she was fully committed to this path.
No matter what.
But up in her room, as she was slipping into her nightgown, getting ready for bed, she stopped and opened the hope chest she’d moved from the bookstore to the foot of her bed. She knelt, took out the cheetah-print scarf, ran her fingers over the silky smooth cloth, read the quote on the box.
Two pieces split apart, flung separate and broken, but longing for reunion; one soft touch identifies the other, and they are at last made whole.
“One soft touch identifies the other,” she whispered.
When she and Rowdy touched this scarf, they felt the same thing. Extreme softness. How could that be? And what did it mean?
The sensible part of her scoffed, unable to believe the way she and Rowdy had connected so instantly. How he looked at her as if she were truly something special. How that look in his wild eyes, the amazing blue of an East Texas summer, had twisted her up inside.
