by Lori Wilde
He still looked stunned by her confession. Nut bunnies. She’d gone and made things weird.
“Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m madly in love with you or anything,” she said. “I’m not that silly seventh grade kid anymore.”
“But you’re still a fan, right?” If any woman ever held him at gunpoint, he could disarm her just by looking at her like that.
“Seriously?” she said. “You’re Stardust’s hometown hero. I’ll always be an überfan.”
“Well, shucks, Miss Carlyle, you’ve embarrassed me.”
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” he assured her.
“This feels—”
“Fated,” he said.
“Fated?” What did he mean by that? She thought about the softness of the cheetah-print scarf, the odd saying on the box, Suki’s contention the quote was talking about soul mates. Knocked off guard, she struggled to mask her nervousness by watching butterflies flit among the flowers, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t escape the heat of his intent stare.
“Our working relationship,” he added quickly. “Like we were meant to work together on this project.”
Duh. Of course he meant their working relationship. How stupid of her to think he meant anything else.
Lord, he had such gorgeous lips, angular and darkly pink. She wanted to lick them, taste them, feeling them pressed hard against hers.
“Could you just turn around so I can get dressed? I’m feeling a little overexposed.”
“My apologies. I forgot you were undressed.” He retrieved her clothes and her glasses, and handed them to her.
“Thanks.” She slipped on her glasses and twirled a finger in the air. “You know the drill.”
He turned. She dressed.
“Okay,” she said. “All done. I’m starving. How about you?”
They ate sandwiches while sitting on the damp blanket in the soft grass. The sun warmed their skin. The taste of roasted portobello mushrooms sandwiches with sun-dried tomatoes, melted mozzarella, and olive tapenade on rustic Italian bread enlivened their taste buds.
“Thank you for telling me about your illness,” he murmured. “I better understand some things now.”
“Um . . . what things?”
“Why you’re such a late bloomer. Why you’ve never been skinny-dipping or played hooky or rode on a zipline. Why you’re—”
“Still a virgin.” Internally, she cringed. Had she really just said that?
“I was not going to say that. I was going to say why you’re one tough cookie, surviving all you’ve survived.”
A ribbon of yearning unfurled deep inside her, a big messy pile of it. Leaving her aching and lonely. Never mind that he was close enough to kiss. She wasn’t going to kiss him, and he wasn’t going to kiss her.
“What else was I going to do?” She shrugged like it was no big deal. “Die?”
He laughed. “Spunky to the core.”
Unnerved by his compliments and the look in his eyes, she lowered her chin to her knees again, smelled the musky odor of pond water, and stared at the ground.
“You’re thinking I feed all women a line of bull.”
“Don’t you?”
“Okay, yeah. I enjoy pleasing women, and if a compliment can make someone feel better—”
“Right,” she said, both disappointed and vindicated. Ever since she took the job, she’d been lecturing herself about her dangerous feelings for him. “You were trying to make me feel better.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No? What did you mean?”
“I’ve never brought a woman here before,” he said, clearly trying to make her feel special. It was kind of him.
She slanted him a sidelong glance. “Not even when you were a teenager?”
“No,” he said. “And you do have truly beautiful eyes.”
“But the rest of me . . .” Her laugh came out harsher than she intended. “Not so much, huh.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I know well enough that I’m plain.”
“You’re not plain.” He sounded peeved. “You’re just not flashy.”
“I never learned how to attract male attention.”
“Why not?”
“When you’re sick for a long time, you forget how to be normal. Or in my case, since I was born this way, I didn’t learn how to be normal in the first place, and it’s easier for me to hide behind books, and my glasses.”
“What are you so afraid of, Breeanne?” he whispered.
You. The way you make me feel. The things I want to do with you and to you.
“I spent years living in a cocoon of one kind or another—hospitals, pain, the bosom of my family, Stardust. Now I’m paralyzed by life’s options.”
“Just pick a path and go down it.”
“But what if it’s the wrong path?”
“Make a U-turn. Nothing is irrevocable, except for kids. Don’t have children unless you’re one-hundred-percent sure you want them.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” she said. “You can skip out on kids. People do it all the time.”
“Not responsible people. Not honorable people.”
“How can we ever know what’s in someone’s heart? Running out on their kid might be the kindest thing some people could do.”
“You’re too forgiving. Sorry, but I can’t get on board that thought train.” Rowdy stretched out on the blanket, propped up on one elbow, stared down at her. “Why do you think it’s okay for parents to abandon their kids?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it?”
The sun cast a halo over his head. Breeanne stared into those hypnotic blue eyes. Her heart swelled against her chest, grew bigger and tighter, pushing into her rib cage until she could scarcely breathe.
The wind blew a strand of hair across her face. Gently, he brushed it away, smiled at her as if she was a surprise gift he’d found on his doorstep and wanted to take his time opening.
Something warm and grateful crept through her veins and the words rolled out of her of their own free will, even though it wasn’t something she talked about often. “I’m adopted. All my sisters and I are.”
“No kidding?”
“I was adopted first. Although I’m not chronologically the oldest, I’ve been with Mom and Dad the longest.”
He did not take his eyes off her. His attention flattered. Other than her father, she’d not had a man’s undivided attention before. She soaked it up. Watch your step. He’s a heartbreaker. Even knowing that, she didn’t stop talking. Opening up. Letting him in. Showing him every inch of her vulnerability. She closed her eyes, felt the heat of his gaze on her face. “My birth mother abandoned me in the hospital when she found out about my heart condition.”
He interlaced his hand with hers, squeezed hard. “What a stupid mistake she made.”
Still keeping her eyes closed, she shook her head. It was easier to talk when she couldn’t see the sympathy in his eyes. “No. Leaving me was the best thing she ever did. She was sixteen, a runaway. No one knew who my biological father was.”
He stroked her palm with his thumb, reassuring and tender.
“My adoptive mother volunteered to rock babies in the neonatal ICU. She and Dad couldn’t have children of their own. She says the second she laid eyes on me that she fell in love.” Breeanne opened her eyes. “But I don’t see how that’s possible. I’ve seen the pictures. I was six weeks premature and I looked like a scrawny, naked baby bird.”
“She saw past the superficial, to the beautiful baby inside,” he said.
The lump in her throat threatened to choke her. He knew how to make women feel good. It was part of his charisma, but she couldn’t mistake that charm for true caring.
Unable to bear the tenderness in his eyes, she sat up, dropped his hand.
“Mom and Dad brought me home. Took
shifts tending to a sick infant with special needs. Many times, I was knocking on the Grim Reaper’s door. The community helped out. People took up donations to help cover my medical expenses. They threw bake sales and held car washes. My parents’ love and Stardust saved me.”
She stopped, let out a deep breath that sounded like a sigh, and finally risked looking at him.
His gaze did not leave her face, and he took her hand again. “That explains why you try so hard to make other people happy.”
“There’s nothing wrong with making people happy. It’s a virtue.”
“There is if you make yourself unhappy in the process.”
“I am happy,” she insisted. “Growing up, as long as I had a good book to read, I was happy. I couldn’t run and play the way the other kids did, but books got me through.”
“And your love of books turned into a love of writing.”
“Yes. If something gets under my skin, I write about it, and when I’m done, I’ve purged myself of the feeling. I can let it go and move on. Things in my world stay safe and calm.”
“Writing as a form of anger management, huh?”
“Emotional management. It’s not just for anger. Let the words come out of the pen and it’s less likely to come out of your mouth. You probably should have tried writing about your feelings over the Gunslingers cutting Price Richards instead of walking out and calling Dugan Potts a hamster on national TV.”
He dropped her hand. Not suddenly like she’d offended him, but a subtle letting go, his fingers loosening, slowly slipping away. She’d brought up the thing he wanted to avoid. Stirred his pain. It was fine for him to stir her pain, but she couldn’t agitate his?
“Did you ever try to find your birth mother?” he asked, deflecting her attention. His tone had changed. It inched higher, more distant. Like a helium balloon breaking away from a crying child, and floating toward the clouds.
He wasn’t ready to talk about it. Okay. She let go.
“No. I have no interest in finding my birth mother. Why would I hurt Mom and Dad that way?”
“Surely they would understand. Every kid is curious about where they come from.”
“Not me,” she said. “The woman didn’t want me. Why would I ever want to know her?”
“I don’t know. To show her what a terrific person she abandoned.”
“There’s no need for me to gloat. I have loving parents, awesome sisters, lots of friends and neighbors. What else do I need?”
“You’re something else, Breeanne Carlyle, you know that?” He bestowed compliments so easily, never guessing how much they affected her.
He didn’t necessarily mean those nice things. He was a charmer. That was what he did. Charm. She knew that.
Yes, yes she did, but she’d fallen for it anyway. She had revealed all her secrets to him, while he’d held tight to his.
She had nothing left to give.
Except for her scarred-up heart.
CHAPTER 13
The great thing about baseball is that
there’s a crisis every day.
—GABE PAUL
On the drive back to his place, Rowdy kept the conversation light, discussing their favorite foods, the last movies they’d seen, their favorite TV shows. They’d covered some heavy ground today¸ and she seemed as eager as he was to leave the secrets they shared back there in the woods.
But like it or not, things had changed between them. Irrevocably, he feared, and he wasn’t sure whether those changes were good or bad. They’d grown closer for sure, but that brought a whole set of new problems, and he wasn’t in the frame of mind to think about what that meant.
Day by day his life was getting more entangled with Breeanne’s and he could hardly wrap his head around the strange new feelings that caused his entire body to light up whenever she was around. He could kick his own ass for suggesting skinny-dipping.
By the time they got back to his house, he didn’t know how he was going to make it through the next several months. When he held the front door open for her, all he wanted to do was slide his fingers through that hair, grown curly from her dunking in the pond. He caught a whiff of her scent and instantly felt himself grow taut with urgency. He wanted to kiss her. Kiss her until her eyes burned bright with passion. He wanted to taste that sweet mouth again, feel her tongue with his, inhale her into his veins.
Bothered by how severely he wanted to snatch her into his arms, understanding how the last thing he needed in his life was to get involved with his virginal ghostwriter, he hung back. Gulped. Twice.
She stopped at the end of the foyer, turned back to look at him still standing in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing. Everything. Instead of answering, he caught up with her. “I’m thirsty,” he said. “Do you want something to drink?”
“That would be nice.”
They entered the kitchen. Breeanne went for the bar stool. He headed for the refrigerator.
The doorbell rang.
Warwick would probably get it, if he was in the house, but Rowdy was still feeling out of balance, and answering the door seemed like the reprieve from their surging chemistry.
“I’ll get that,” he said, and jerked his thumb in the direction of the door.
But before he could move, the front door opened, and a familiar voice hollered, “Where the hell is my big brother? Is his lazy ass still in bed?”
Zach? His heart gave a jubilant hop. Rowdy hadn’t seen his kid brother since he was in the hospital. But his joy was immediately replaced with an ominous thought. What was his little brother doing here? He was supposed to be in North Carolina pitching for the Mudcats. Oh crap, had Zach gotten cut?
“Is that your brother?” Breeanne asked.
“Sounds like it.”
Zach rounded the corner and strolled into the kitchen. Nolan Ryan got up to greet him. His younger brother tussled mildly with the dog for a minute, and then straightened, grinning like a loon.
“Hey, there old man.” Exuberantly, Zach wrapped Rowdy in a bear hug and lifted him off his feet.
“Kid, put me down, you’ll ruin your back.”
Zach put him down, and then struck a pugilistic pose, feigning boxing punches that Rowdy couldn’t resist returning. He loved his kid brother something fierce.
“Don’t fight!” Breeanne exclaimed.
Zach straightened and cast a glance in her direction. “Who is she and why does she think we’re fighting?”
“Zach, meet my ghostwriter, Breeanne Carlyle. She grew up with all sisters. Breeanne, this knucklehead is my little bro.”
“Sisters don’t throw punches at each other?” Zach teased.
“Not generally and certainly not for fun,” Breeanne said.
Zach tried to get off a roundhouse kick, but Rowdy caught his foot, knocking him off balance. Zach hopped away, and came back with another flurry of punches that Rowdy deflected.
Rowdy knocked the Mudcats baseball cap off Zach’s head and ruffled his hair just to irritate him. It was damn good to see him, and the kid looked happy. Not at all like someone who’d just been cut.
Finally, Zach settled down and he shot Breeanne another glance. “Ghostwriter, huh?” He poked Rowdy in the ribs. “That means you have to listen to this old man’s glory day stories. You have my sympathies.”
Breeanne smiled. “It’s not so bad.”
“What the hell are you doing here, buddy?” Rowdy asked, putting Zach in a headlock.
“You’re not happy to see me?” Zach squirmed away, picked up his cap, and adjusted it on his head at a cocky angle.
“I’m happy to see you, just curious why you’re not in North Carolina.”
“ ’Cause . . .” Zach dusted his hands together, made a drumroll noise. “I’m going to The Show!”
“What?” Rowdy blinked. The kid had talent, and a strong fastball, and he was performing well this season, but not good enough to move straight to the bigs.
“Yep, you heard right. And get
this, your agent signed me.”
His agent, Barry Goldfine, had signed Zach, and not told him? Bad form.
Rowdy fought off jealousy. He was happy for his brother. Truly. But something didn’t feel right about this.
“Yep, uh-huh. That’s right. I’m takin’ the place of the pitcher that Potts’s just cut. The pitcher who took your place on the mound.” Zach tossed his cap on the floor, stomped it with glee. “In your face, bro. In your face!”
After Zach dropped the bomb that the Gunslingers had called him up, Rowdy suggested Breeanne go home, telling her they’d make a fresh start of it on Tuesday after the long Memorial Day weekend.
This was good, she told herself, extra time to pack for the move to the house on Peach Street with Stephanie that weekend. But she couldn’t stop worrying about Rowdy, and how the news of his brother’s success would affect him. He was very good at hiding his feelings, but there was much more to the man than met the eye. What she’d learned today had only brought that fact home.
Absentmindedly, she rubbed her breastbone with her knuckles, felt the ridges of her scars, and wondered how this latest development was going to influence the book.
But it wasn’t until she walked in the back door into her parents’ kitchen that she remembered about the party.
Since Memorial Day was one of the busiest days at the store, her parents had closed Timeless Treasures early to host a backyard get-together for friends and neighbors to kick off the big weekend. Tonight it was a crawfish boil.
Dad manned the kettle over a propane cooker, his trusty stirring paddle at the ready along with a big jar of Cajun seasoning. Mom was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on a chocolate pie. Jodi set the picnic tables with newspaper instead of a tablecloth, paper towels in festive holders, and strategically placed small metal buckets. Kasha put on Zydeco music and she was stringing Japanese lanterns through the redbud trees. In charge of the drink station, Suki iced beer and sodas in a galvanized bucket, and put out iced tea and lemonade on a folding table that also held crudités, chips, dips and other nibbles.
Her parents loved parties, and threw at least one a month.
When Breeanne was a kid she loved the flow of people who brought extra color and excitement into her drab world. Many times, she’d been forced to watch the goings-on from her bedroom window as she recuperated. As a moody teen, she’d often felt on the fringes. Not a real part of the gregarious Carlyle clan, and she’d sneak off to her bedroom to read in peace. Now she usually enjoyed being in the thick of things. Happy to just be included. Today she felt guilty for having forgotten all about the party.
