by Lori Wilde
She offered him a tiny smile, and instantly his heart swelled. He smiled back, hoping he looked more self-confident than he felt.
He moved toward her.
Everyone else stopped talking, and except for the lively Zydeco music, the backyard went silent. Without turning his head, he knew every eye was on him. That was okay. He was accustomed to the limelight.
He’d slipped off without Warwick. He should have learned his lesson about that on New Year’s Eve, but he hadn’t wanted his bodyguard hovering while he talked to Breeanne. What he hadn’t counted on was her entire family and neighborhood doing exactly that.
He started up the porch steps after her.
Breeanne turned around, stepped into the kitchen.
“Go get her, Rowdy,” someone hollered. It sounded like the cheeky older woman with the spiky hair and tattoos.
That brought a round of laughter and more urgings to go after her. It made him feel a little panicky. How were they going to view him after he fired her?
A stunningly beautiful calico sitting in the window narrowed her eyes at him, and her whiskers twitched as if to say, Watch your step, buddy.
He moved to the screen door, peered in at Breeanne. Suddenly, his heart was chugging the way it did when a heavy hitter took the plate in a tie game with the bases loaded. He raised a palm. “Hi.”
She hugged herself tighter. “Hi.”
“Can I come in?”
“Can you?”
“I’d like to come in.”
“Please yourself.” She shrugged like she didn’t care, the casual gesture belying the tension in her voice.
The screen door hinges squeaked and he was inside. He paused a moment to turn back the audience. “Y’all can go on back to eating.”
He waited a minute for the conversation outside to resume. Breanne didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She was good at staying still.
“What happened to your mouth?”
He raised a hand to his busted lip. “Zach.”
“Sibling rivalry?”
“Something along those lines.”
She took a deep breath, but didn’t say anything else, just stood there sizing him up.
“Are you going to come get something to eat?” he asked.
“In a minute,” she said. “After I put whipped cream on the chocolate pie.” She took a tub of Cool Whip from the plastic bag and set it on the counter.
“Need any help?”
She turned to face him. “Why are you here?”
Gosh, how he wished he could take her hand and lead her back out to the party, tell her he’d come here to see her because he missed her something fierce, which was true, but it wasn’t the real reason he was here. When had he started counting the minutes until they could be together again?
Forget that. As soon as he told her what he’d come there to say, it was all over. No more book. No more Breeanne. Dammit, he wished there was another way.
“I came to see you.” He took another step toward her, the floorboards of the old Victorian creaking beneath his feet.
“What for?” The pulse at the hollow of her throat jumped visibly. She was nervous.
Hell, so was he. Today they’d seen each other naked. Things had shifted between them, but he was about to shift them again.
She moistened her lips.
His gaze hooked on that sweet, strawberry-colored mouth. Christ, how he wanted to kiss her. Wanted it so badly he knotted his hands into fists to keep from doing just that.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said. “You know, after this morning in the pond.”
A pink stain the same color as the flowers on her dress sprang to her cheeks. “You came all the way into town to ask me that?”
“No,” he admitted.
“What’s up?” She canted her head, seeing straight through him. She had an uncanny ability to get to the meat of things.
“This isn’t a good time,” he said. “Your family is—”
Breeanne sank her hands onto her hips. She wasn’t going to let him wriggle off the hook. “Out with it.”
He stepped closer, trying to figure out how to phrase the sentence to soften the blow. She stood her ground, but the ends of the scarf trembled. She was shaking. Was she scared or excited? Maybe both? He was, for sure.
It was never his intention to touch her, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Rowdy reached out and ran a finger over the cheetah scarf, soft as a cloud. The scarf made him think of the day she’d gotten beaned on the head with the baseball and he’d got a provocative glimpse at her cheetah panties.
She was pretty. How in the hell had he ever believed her plain? He caught a whiff of her sexy scent—shampoo and cream and flowers.
Her lips parted, as if she was going to speak, but she didn’t say anything. They both drew in deep, simultaneous gulps of air. He could kiss her now. They would no longer be working together. No more rules, nothing to hold him back. Maybe she wanted him to kiss her. Did she want him to kiss her? He wanted to kiss her.
Not smart. Not smart. Not smart. Especially when he was about to fire her.
His eyes captured hers. She was barely breathing.
“Well?” she said.
Resist, resist.
But he could not. He’d been resisting since the first time he’d kissed her, aching to taste those luscious lips again. To find out if lightning would strike twice.
“Rowdy,” she whispered, her green eyes clouded murky, beseechingly. She pursed her lips, licked them so that they glistened wetly. She wanted to kiss him as much as he wanted to be kissed.
The air fairly crackled with sexual tension. They could have been anywhere and nowhere. Nothing existed but the two of them.
She took a step toward him.
Rowdy let loose with a helpless groan and drew her into his arms. The feel of her skin against his, her warm breath fanning over his chin, and he was done for.
His head pounded, blood pushing tightly through his veins. This was sweet, naïve Breeanne Carlyle in his arms, not some random groupie who had shown up at the locker room door, and she was looking up at him with complete trust. He owed her the respect she deserved.
Ah shit, ah hell, ah no, no. How could this feel so right, but be so wrong?
She was everything he’d never known he wanted. Everything he shouldn’t have. He was taking advantage of her, of the moment. If anyone else tried to do this to her, he’d beat the crap out of them.
Her eyelashes lowered, a sultry shade of acquiescent, her body melting soft in his arms. The emotion between them was so solid he could slice it like a prime rib roast, meaty and raw.
God, he wanted her more than he ever thought possible.
What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he stop fantasizing about her? Stupid. Stupid. She wasn’t some party girl out for nothing but a good time, and he couldn’t treat her as if she were, no matter how desperately he wanted to imprint her with his mouth. Take her. Claim her. Make her his woman.
Honestly, he treasured her. Admired her. She was easy to be with, cheery and smart.
“You’ve got a weird look in your eyes,” she said, and then stopped talking as he leaned in closer, and hovered there.
Those gorgeous green eyes widened to half dollars and her teeth parted and she whispered, “Rowdy,” and then he just went ahead threw her a crazy screwball pitch of a kiss, tenderly, easily, savoring every second of their bond—the way she tasted, the map of her lips, pliable and honeyed—and he heard her sharp intake of air and felt somehow baptized, fresh and new, his sins absolved. He didn’t care that the kiss made his busted lip hurt. Her mouth was a sweet balm. Her arms tangled around his neck, pulling his head down lower, and then she was kissing him back, putting every bit of heart she possessed into it, leaving only one thought in his head, Magic, and he forgot that he’d come here to shatter her dreams, and cupped her cheek against his palm, and surrendered everything to her.
No other woman had ever made him feel this way. S
o helplessly out of control. No woman had ever stirred his hunger to this degree that wiped every rational thought from his brain. How had he gone an entire lifetime without this, without her?
After a generous time with the kitchen clock ticking off the seconds in long, jerky tick, tick, ticks, he separated his lips from hers and gazed down into her face. Her eyes were half closed and a creamy smile pulled the corner of her lips up into a moony crescent.
“What did you want to tell me,” she asked in a dreamy whisper, and he said, “I don’t remember,” and kissed her again, deeper this time, chuckling when her delicate hand fisted the back of his shirt, and then someone cleared their throat, loud enough to make them jump apart.
Suki slammed through the back door. “Ignore me. I’m not here. They sent me after the pie.”
“Bad timing,” Breeanne mumbled, sounding sleepy. “I haven’t topped the pie with the Cool Whip yet.”
“I’ll do it. I’m rescuing the pie before you drool all over it,” Suki said, waving her hands like laundry flapping on a clothesline. “Shoo.”
“Come with me.” Breeanne took Rowdy’s hand and dragged him into the living room.
“Treat my sister right,” Suki called after them. “Or I’ll bust your nose to match that lip. She’s fragile as a hothouse orchid.”
“I can take care of myself,” Breeanne hollered over her shoulder. “I’m a damn sunflower, not an orchid.”
“Hurt her, Blanton, and my entire family will hunt you down and kill you,” Suki said cheerfully, ignoring Breeanne’s angry declaration.
“Your family loves you very much.” Rowdy wrapped his arm around her waist.
“Tell me about it.” Breeanne rolled her eyes and yanked up her spine. He noticed a toughening around her edges, her mouth zipping into a straight line, replacing the usual accommodating smile. “Now, where were we before my sister so rudely interrupted?”
Yeah, about that. Hell, why had he kissed her? It only made things worse. He dropped his arm, stepped back, chuffed in a lungful of air, threaded his fingers through his hair, avoided looking directly into those green eyes damp with the desire he’d stirred up in them.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some unfortunate news,” he said.
She expelled her breath through pursed lips, a slow hissing sound like a tire going flat. “I knew it.”
“How?”
“I could feel it on you.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I just can.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologized.
“Don’t drag it out. Just tell me.”
He saw courage in her eyes, for sure more courage than he felt. She might look frail, and her family might consider her a breakable orchid, but the woman was much stronger than anyone realized. His decision would be a blow, but she’d survived ten open-heart surgeries, she would survive this too. But he hated being the cause of her pain.
“I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind.”
She frowned. “About what?”
Just say it. “I’m quitting the book.”
“What?” She blinked the way he did when he was on the mound and the batter hit a homer off a pitch he thought was a strikeout.
Rowdy winced. “I’m not going to write the book. I’m canceling the contract, paying back the advance. I’m calling my agent first thing after the holiday, but I wanted to tell you first. It’s over, Breeanne.”
CHAPTER 15
Every strike brings me closer to the next home run.
—BABE RUTH
His words hit her hard as a slap, coming out of nowhere, a sharp clip to the jaw. She thought he’d come here to enjoy the party, and instead, he’d just kicked her world in.
Ouch.
She raised a palm to her mouth. First he kissed her and now he smashed her dreams as easily as that.
“I know this comes as a blow.”
He looked so twisted up about it that her initial inclination was to tell him it was okay, that while she was disappointed, she understood. Make things easy on him. Be accommodating. Smooth the waters. But she’d come too far to go back and simply say what she thought he wanted and needed to hear. She was tired of sweeping aside her own feelings to make others feel better.
Anger blistered a hot path up her neck. “You can’t do that,” she said.
He shook his head as if he’d misheard her, and even patted a hand against his ear. “What?”
“This is my dream. The only thing I’ve wanted is to be a successful writer and you’ve taken it away from me.”
He rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. “It’s nothing personal.”
“Not personal? I made plans. I rented a house and put the payment on my credit card. I made commitments to a roommate. I—”
“You jumped the gun.” He looked guilty for saying the words, but he said them nonetheless, as if it was her fault he was quitting the book. “You spent money you didn’t have.”
Oh no, he didn’t just say that! The man needed a good, swift kick in the ego.
“You, you . . .” She couldn’t think of the right word.
“Bounder,” he said. “I know.”
“This isn’t fair.”
“I know.”
“You led me on.”
“I know,” he said.
There was sorrow in his voice, she heard it, but now that she was wound up, she couldn’t seem to stop.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“It’s not got anything to do with you, Breeanne. It’s my own issue. I wish you the best of luck with your writing career,” he said, and then he turned and headed for the front door, like the discussion was over.
Breeanne stood there watching him saunter away as if he hadn’t just annihilated all her hopes and dreams.
The front door snapped shut.
No!
Her skin blotched. She clenched and unclenched her hands repeatedly. Her neck tightened, and she let out a roar so angry it scared her. “No!”
She bulleted after him, stumbled across the front porch veranda and down the steps, watched him climbing into his Escalade parked beneath a streetlamp.
Full of fury, she ground her teeth and sprinted across the lawn. She didn’t know what had happened to change his mind about writing the book, but she damn well deserved an explanation. He owed her that much.
“Stop right there, Rowdy Blanton,” she yelled.
Neighbors out in their yards turned to stare.
He paused, one leg inside the vehicle, the other still on the pavement.
“No,” she said, toeing off with him. The air was rich with his manly scent but she refused to let that distract her. “You do not get to quit.”
“Excuse me?” He put added emphasis on the “cuse” syllable, his tone dark and moody.
“You made promises. To me. To your agent. To Jackdaw Press. A responsible person does not behave this way.”
“Something unavoidable has come up.”
She shook her finger under his nose. “Unacceptable. No excuses. It’s time for you to learn that your behavior has consequences. You make commitments, you live up to them.”
“Oh yeah?” An amused expression lit his eyes, and his amusement made her even madder.
“I was right the first time I met you. You are a bounder and a cad and a—”
“Butthead.”
“Yes, that too.”
“Next time I piss off a woman, remind me to pick one with a smaller vocabulary.”
“You made me hope.” She knotted her fist, shook it at him. “You made me dream, damn you.”
“I’m not responsible for your hopes and dreams, Breeanne.” His voice was mild, but his eyes turned fiery.
“No, but you are responsible for keeping your word.” Her chest moved like bellows, air wheezing because she was so angry. “What happened? You’re not a coward. Or at least I didn’t think you were. What has you running scared?”
“You.”
“Me.”
“Lo
ok at yourself.” He twisted the side mirror around so she could see her reflection.
Her jaw was set, her brow furrowed into a don’t-mess-with-me scowl, her chest thrust out, and her body language aggressive. She looked determined, forceful, and strong.
For once, she liked the way she looked. “I’m sorry, but I am not going to let you leave without an explanation. You owe me that much.”
His eyelids lowered halfway indolently, but she could feel the intensity rolling off him like summer heat. “There are circumstances you know nothing about.”
She sank her hands on her lips. “So tell me about these circumstances. Let me decide if it’s a bullshit excuse or not.”
His body stiffened. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Yes, you do. You reeled me in on this deal and now you’re cutting bait and throwing me back? Postpone the book if you have to, but you are not quitting.” Battling him took every drop of energy she had in her.
“God, I love it when people tell me what to do,” he said, his tone dripping sarcasm.
“I’m serious.” The adrenaline rush of anger was draining away, leaving her organs quivering.
“I can see that.” He was grinning now. Mocking her?
She widened her stance. “May I ask you a question?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Just tell me why you’re quitting.”
He shrugged.
“Is it because of Zach? Everything was fine until Zach showed up.”
He lifted his shoulder in a half shrug, as if he didn’t care, but the fire in his eyes told her he cared. He cared a lot. He just didn’t want her to know it.
“You’re jealous of your little brother.”
He neither confirmed nor denied her accusation.
“I can’t believe you’re acting so petty. I thought you were a bigger person than that,” she said.
“Watch it, Breezy.” His tone was casual, but underneath, she heard the warning buzz as deadly as a rattlesnake’s rattle. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then tell me about it. Help me to understand why you’re acting like a jerk.”
“Look,” he said. “You’re right. It’s wrong of me to pull the rug out from under you. I did make you a promise by hiring you. I’ll cover the advance money that Jackdaw was going to pay to you. You won’t be left high and dry. It’s a win-win. You get the money, and I get to quit the book. No harm, no foul.”
