by Lori Wilde
“Nothing.”
“Oh you liar.” Suki leaned over and plucked something from Breeanne’s hair, and held it out for her to see. A blade of grass.
Breeanne ran a hand through her hair, dislodged two more blades of grass on the floor. She bent, picked up the grass, along with the grass blade squeezed between Suki’s fingers, deposited them in the wastebasket, and then dusted her palms together.
“My mind is drawing conclusions,” Suki said. “And if it’s what I think it is, I approve.”
Breeanne lowered her voice “Can you keep a secret?”
“What is it?” Suki held up a stop-sign hand. “Wait. No. Don’t tell me. I’m lousy at keeping secrets.”
“You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Breeanne clamped her lips together.
“Now you’ve gotta tell me.” Suki plucked at Breeanne’s sleeve. “I’ll keep your secret, I swear. What is it? Did you finally have sex? Who is he?”
“I didn’t have sex.”
“OMG, is it Rowdy? You had sex with Rowdy?”
“I didn’t have sex!” she said, louder than she intended, and immediately clamped a palm over her mouth.
“Well pooh. What other big secret could you possibly have?” Suki said “you” as if nothing significant could ever happen to a dullard like Breeanne.
“You can be annoying sometimes,” Breeanne said. “You do know that.”
“I apologize. That was bitchy. I’m just jealous because you were outside and I’m stuck in here.” Suki pressed her palms together in mock prayer. “Please tell me your secret, please, please, please.”
Breeanne pleated the ends of the scarf she still wore tied around her neck. Why had she started this? “You can’t tell anyone, Suki.”
“Pinky swear.” Suki stuck out her pinky.
Breeanne latched her little finger with her sister’s and stared her in the eyes. “Swear it.”
“I vow to keep your secret, no matter what. Even if keeping it means putting someone’s life in peril. Even if I’m kidnapped and tortured relentlessly. Even if—”
“Rowdy took me ziplining.”
“What!” Suki squealed and grabbed her arm.
“Shh.” Breeanne pressed an index finger to Suki’s lips. “Mom and Dad will hear you. If they find out, they’ll think Rowdy is a bad influence and pressure me to quit the job.”
“He is a bad influence,” Suki whispered. “But in a good way.”
“I think so too.” Breeanne grinned.
“That’s awesome, sis.” Suki hugged her. “I’m so happy for you.”
Breeanne cast a glance over her shoulder, making sure they were alone. “There’s something else.”
“This is the most interesting you’ve ever been,” Suki said. “I love it. What’s the scoop?”
She almost told her sister that Rowdy kissed her, but in the end, she thought better of it. That secret might be too hard for her sister to keep. “This cheetah scarf feels soft to Rowdy too.”
“No kidding?” Suki screwed her face up the way she did when trying to work a Sudoku puzzle. “What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“What was that saying written on the box the scarf came in?”
“ ‘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,’ ” Breeanne quoted.
Suki scratched her head. “Maybe it means that Rowdy is your soul mate?”
“What?” At the notion, goose bumps spread up over Breeanne’s body. “No. It’s just a silly saying carved into a box.”
“The hope chest was just a saying too, but then you wished for a boost in your writing career and voilà.” Suki did a tap dance shuffle complete with jazz hands. “Your wish was granted.”
“Coincidence.”
“Is it? Rowdy could be your soul mate. Your one and only. The scarf feels soft to the two of you, and no one else.” Suki clapped her hands softly. “This is so exciting!”
“He can’t be my soul mate.”
“Why not?”
“Because Rowdy is all wrong for me.”
“Not according to the scarf.”
“Stop saying that.” Breeanne shook her head vigorously to clear it of romantic nonsense. There was no such thing as wish-granting trunks and soul-mate-locating scarves. “I don’t even know that I believe in soul mates.”
“What about Mom and Dad? You don’t think they were destined?”
Floorboards creaked beneath soft footsteps. They weren’t alone in the bookstore.
Was it Mom? Alarmed, Breeanne glanced toward the stairs.
On the landing stood the redhead who’d interviewed with Rowdy. The same red-haired woman who had made the wisecrack about Breeanne being good at blow jobs.
Breeanne’s cheeks flooded hot. “May I help you?”
“Hi.” The redhead wriggled her fingers, managing to look both adorable and contrite with a tentative smile. “Are you the one who posted the ad looking for a roommate?”
“I am.”
The redhead’s name turned out to be named Stephanie Jensen and she’d just gotten her master’s degree in journalism from the University of North Texas. She’d also self-published, under a pseudonym, an erotic novel that sold like hotcakes. She admitted to Breeanne that the suddenness of her success had taken her aback. She wanted to be a serious journalist, not a novelist.
Breeanne couldn’t help feeling a stab of jealousy. Her own efforts at self-publishing had been abysmal, but then she reminded herself she’d gotten the job working for Rowdy and the other woman had lost out.
“I do apologize for being catty to you the day we met,” Stephanie said. “That was tacky.”
Breeanne hated not getting along with people, so she smiled, happy to let go of a grudge. “Apology accepted.”
“I have no excuse for my bad behavior other than I was jealous,” Stephanie admitted.
“Of me?” Breeanne pressed a palm against her chest. “Whatever for?”
“Of the way Rowdy looks at you. Like you’re so delicious he could eat you up with a long-handled spoon and lick his lips afterward to make sure he sucked up every drop.” The expression on the redhead’s face said she couldn’t fathom why that was the case. “You’re so lucky to have him as your boyfriend.”
Oh yeah, Breeanne had forgotten about that boyfriend thing. “He’s not my boyfriend. He just told you guys that because he was feeling overwhelmed.”
Stephanie waggled a finger. “You’re not fooling me. I saw how he kissed you. Besides, Rowdy Blanton has never been overwhelmed a day in his life. That man is a force of nature.”
True enough. Breeanne stuck her hands deep in the pockets of her skirt.
“Be proud you landed him, sugar,” Stephanie said. “But don’t get your hopes up. He’s not the marrying kind.”
Breeanne was well aware of that.
“So . . .” Stephanie lifted her shoulders to her ears, and then let them drop in a cutesy shrug. “There’s a two-bedroom for rent over on Peach Street. We could go take a look at it if you want.”
Did she? It had been a week since she’d taken out the ad, and so far no one else had applied. She could always ask Suki to room with her, of course, but she wanted to do this on her own, without any family support. That was sort of the whole idea of moving out.
The zipline adventure put things into perspective. Why not take a chance? It was past time to start her life in earnest. More importantly, she couldn’t do that as long as she was living with her parents. Cut the apron strings. Strike out on her own. Leave the safety of the nest and fly. All the coming-of-age clichés her peers accomplished years ago.
What was the worst that could happen? If she and Stephanie didn’t get along, one of them could always move out.
“I’m game if you are,” Breeanne said.
“Let’s do this,” Stephanie said, and stuck out a palm.
On Tuesday, she had a detailed telephone conversation with the book editor at Jackdaw, who suggested starting the book with Rowdy walking off the Gunslingers in protest over Price’s firing, digress to Rowdy’s childhood and formative years in baseball, and then conclude the book with the attack that ended his career. They set up delivery deadlines for the book. An outline and first chapter were due at the end of June.
On Wednesday, Jackdaw put out an official press release announcing that they’d acquitted the rights to Rowdy’s autobiography. Since she was a ghostwriter, her name wasn’t mentioned, but she didn’t mind. She was doing it for the work and the money, not the glory.
They began the interview in earnest. As the editor suggested, Breeanne started by asking Rowdy about his relationship with Price Richards and the reasons he’d walked out on the Gunslingers. Rowdy’s dislike for Dugan Potts was palpable. Every time the general manager’s name was mentioned, a dark expression overtook his handsome face. He must really dislike the guy, since Rowdy was normally such an upbeat person.
When she pressed him for more details on his feelings regarding Potts, he would give her a long, unreadable look, as if trying to decide when to break some terrible news, and say, “We’ll get to that in time.”
Even though the look unsettled her, she let it go. There was plenty of other stuff to talk about until he was ready to confide in her.
Because Rowdy found it hard to sit still, she interviewed him in the gym while he worked off nervous energy, or they took Nolan Ryan for a walk around the property. Not wanting to miss a thing, Breeanne used a recorder to capture his every word, even as she also took notes.
On Thursday, she turned the conversation to his childhood, but every time she brought it up, he’d switch the subject, or make a joke, or give her a look that flustered her so completely she lost her train of thought. Finally, frustrated with the way he kept dodging her questions, she asked him point-blank how he felt when he learned of his father’s devastating diagnosis.
“I’m hungry,” he said. “You hungry? How about I make my famous spaghetti carbonara with caprese salad and garlic toast?”
“We’re going to have to talk about this, Rowdy,” she said gently.
“I know, but I can’t think when I’m hungry. How are your knife skills?”
“What?”
“Can you mince, dice, slice?”
“I’m woefully lacking in the kitchen.”
“C’mon,” he said. “Give it a shot.”
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to cook with him, but the thought of working side by side with him in the kitchen made her hormones do things they shouldn’t be doing.
Feeling shy, she shook her head.
“Ah, Breezy, you gonna leave me hangin’?”
“I’d just be in the way.”
He crooked a finger at her. “Let me be the judge of that.”
She tried to think of a way out of it, but he took her hand and tugged her toward the kitchen.
“Rowdy . . .”
“Breeanne . . .” He grinned, and looked so disarmingly handsome that it took hold of her feminine parts and shook them. Hard.
“This isn’t . . . I’m not . . .”
He canted his head and studied her. “What?”
“I tell you what,” she bargained. “I’ll help you cook if you’ll stop avoiding my questions about your childhood.”
He paused. “All right, but we cook first, talk later.”
She bobbed her head, more to reassure herself that she could stand beside him in the confines of the kitchen, and not wig out with lust if they accidentally bumped elbows, than to convince him.
Rowdy set her to chopping the garlic and pancetta while he put the pasta on to boil, and then turned to make the sauce. She sliced a sidelong glance at him standing at the stove in faded jeans and a blue T-shirt, in a state-of-the-art masculine kitchen, with artful lighting that made all the chrome shine like diamonds. He looked like an Adonis.
“It’s unfair,” she muttered under her breath. “You’re so damn perfect. How is a woman supposed to defend herself against such unstoppable charm?”
“Huh?” He swung his head around, clipped her gaze with his. A tuft of hair stuck up at the back of his head, but instead of detracting from his attractiveness, that recalcitrant cowlick made him all the more adorable.
She didn’t stand a chance. She’d been a goner from the moment he first winked at her.
He smiled at her, and the way he was turned caused the track lighting over the stove to silver his blue eyes and highlight his long dark lashes. She could so fall in love with him.
Then she yanked her gaze away and went back to cutting precise cubes of pancetta. Every single woman in Texas—and a few married ones too—probably thought that whenever they looked at him, so it wasn’t as if Breeanne was special. Not in that regard. Not when . . .
Oh to hell with it.
She shifted her eyes back to him and he was still staring at her, so she smiled like this was something usual, like it was okay, like they belonged together, and he grinned as if he was in on the joke. She wanted to laugh at herself, but it would hurt too damn much, so she just scooted out of the way when he reached around her for the olive oil.
Nolan Ryan joined them in the kitchen, sitting on the floor watching to see if anything got dropped. Breeanne couldn’t resist sneaking the bloodhound bits of pancetta.
“I saw that,” Rowdy teased.
“I just gave him a little.”
“You’ll spoil him.”
“He deserves it.”
“No wonder he’s madly in love with you.” Rowdy’s eyes met hers.
Looking into those flame-blue irises roused scary desires. His scent, combined with the delicious fragrance of the food, smelled sweet. The shiny chrome appliances gleamed brighter than ever. Her mouth had already started watering for so much more than the pasta dish he plated. From start to finish, the entire meal took only twenty-five minutes to prepare.
Standing there in the kitchen, doing domestic things with Rowdy Blanton, made her want to laugh at the sheer romance of it all.
Calm down.
Everything she was feeling could be traced back to one source.
Sex.
Or the lack thereof. She’d never had sex. She wanted sex. And he was sex personified.
Whenever she was around him, she couldn’t keep from thinking about sex. One look from this man and boom! She was thinking shockingly lusty thoughts. Like what would he do if she were to reach out and touch his zipper? Would he drop those plates piled high with spaghetti carbonara? Would he groan, lift her up on the kitchen countertop, and have his way with her?
Oh yum!
Fantasies were fine. She could dream about him all she wanted. But she couldn’t cross that line no matter how much she wanted to do so. Because he had the power to move her in ways far beyond sex, and that was the truly scary part.
He said something, but she didn’t hear what it was because she was busy imagining him naked.
“Breeanne?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Are you ready to eat?”
You bet she was, but not just for food. “Yes.”
He carried the plates to the dining room table and they sat down across from each other. Thrown by the intimacy of the situation, she dug into her food, but avoided meeting his eyes.
“Oh my gosh.” She moaned helplessly at the first bite. “This is so delicious.”
“Told you.” He puffed out his chest, full of pride. “Carbonara is my specialty.”
“Forget baseball. You could be a professional chef.”
/>
“Nah,” he said. “I cook to relax. If I had to cook for a living I wouldn’t enjoy it anymore.”
“If I were on death row”—she waved her fork—“I would request this as my last meal. Seriously.”
He laughed at that, and she thrilled knowing she had made him laugh. “Why, thank you for the compliment, Breezy.”
Breezy.
No matter how much she protested, she couldn’t get him to stop calling her Breezy. So she’d given up and decided to roll with it. Now, whenever he called her by the special nickname, the “z” sound humming softly off his lips, sparking a secret buzzing sound that vibrated through the cells of her body, tickling her insides in a wholly erotic way.
“Did your mother teach you how to cook?” she asked.
“Nah. Mom is a miserable cook. It was Uncle Mick. He told me women love a man who can cook.” He took off on a tale about his bachelor uncle and the man’s multitudinous girlfriends.
“I really don’t need to know about your uncle’s sexual adventures,” she said. “Although I can see how living with him impacted your view of the world. What I really want to hear about is how your family life changed after your father’s diagnosis.”
The smiled dropped off his face. “You’re going to keep harping on this until I talk about it.”
She lifted a shoulder to show she didn’t mean to cause him pain, but that this was important for the book. “I’m trying to get under your skin. To see the world through your eyes so I can write authentically about you.”
“You want to understand me?” His eyes narrowed.
She notched her chin to staunch the wobble in her knees. “I have to understand you to write about you.”
“You can’t understand me.”
“Why is that, because you’re the poor little misunderstood rich playboy? Boo-hoo.” Okay so he’d pissed her off. Which was something new. She wasn’t accustomed to losing her temper, but he had a knack for pushing her buttons.
His blue eyes flashed like cold steel. He was upset with her.
It was hard to sit still under the heat of his glare. Instinctively, she wanted to apologize, backtrack, smooth things over, but she had nothing to apologize for. She waited a heartbeat, then two, three, waiting for the impulse to pass before she spoke.
