What’s going on? That’s very similar to the question I’ve been asking myself for the last two days, and if I had a solid answer I would give it to him, but I don’t. I don’t feel like explaining myself, and I also don’t want to make things worse for her. The expression less is more is the best approach here.
“Not really.” As much as being shoved into the public eye comes with the territory of playing a sport on a professional level, this is nobody’s business, end of story. I rub my free hand across my thigh to shake off some of the uneasiness this conversation is provoking in me.
“Is she pregnant?”
A laugh breaks free and echoes around the room. Kids are great and all, but since I never planned on getting married, I’ve never really thought about them. In fact, I’ve spent years making sure all precautions were in place to prevent them.
“Not that I’m aware of.” My eyes skip to the wedding dress hanging on the back of the door and then to the one she wore last night, which is draped over the back of a chair. Both dresses fit her like a glove, and she looked incredible.
He lets out a sigh. “Well, that’s good. I’m not going to lie, I’m shocked.”
This is the reaction I’m going to get from most everyone. Yes, I’m shocked, too, but I can’t help but wonder if their shock is because they’ve not heard of us together, or because they have a hard time believing we’d end up together—someone like her with someone like me.
“You and me both,” I mutter.
“You’re aware of the organizational policies, Reid. They don’t make allowances, as you know.” Although the ink is barely dry on my five-year contract, that doesn’t mean much if they view me as a wildcard and a liability to the team. There’s always someone waiting in the wings, ready to prove how hungry they are and how replaceable we are.
“I do.” It’s the second time in two days I’ve said these words, and whereas yesterday was spontaneous and all for her, today feels leaded with expectations and is all about me.
“Here’s what’s going to happen: I’ve spoken to your publicist and the organization’s PR department, and everyone is in agreement on releasing a statement about you and your new bride. We are very happy for you both, and we respect the privacy you’ve requested since the very beginning of your relationship and encourage others to do the same. We wish you and Mrs. Jackson a long and happy marriage.”
“We appreciate that, Derek.” We. I’ve never been a we with anyone in my life. “If you need anything, you know how to find me.”
“Will do.” He hangs up.
Fuck me.
What the hell do I do now?
Think, Reid. Think.
Pacing the room, I run my hand over my face and shake my head. People are going to blow this situation out of proportion, and instead of viewing me as some type of chivalrous hero, they’ll paint me as a public embarrassment. I did a good thing for her, but somehow it has already turned into a bad thing for me.
That’s when I see it: a five-by-seven framed photograph sitting on top of the nightstand on her side of the bed.
Picking it up, I study the two girls in the picture. Both are wearing dance clothes, like they’ve just come from practice, and they’re both the same height and shape. This has to be Camille with her sister; they both look young, but that’s where the similarities stop.
Camille’s hair is pulled tightly in a bun on top of her head, her feet are in a dance position, and she’s smiling at the camera with that expression she wears to play the proper part. She looks a little different, but it’s still her; it must be the age difference. The other girl, however, has her hair dyed cotton candy pink, it’s in a sloppy ponytail, she’s not standing any way in particular except her arm is thrown around Camille, and her head is thrown back with her eyes squeezed shut as she’s laughing. Camille is gorgeous—she can’t help but be—but my eyes keep drifting to the sister. Whatever she’s laughing at, I find I want to laugh with her.
I think back to the guests at the wedding and the other bridesmaids. Did I see this girl there? Maybe I did, I don’t know. I was so focused on Camille, a herd of elephants could have run through and I wouldn’t have noticed.
Also, if she was dying her hair pink at this age, rebelling against her upbringing, there’s no telling what she looks like now. Good for her for getting out and doing her own thing. I can’t say I blame her for not wanting to stick around for last night.
Putting down the frame, I walk over to the window, look down at the carriage house, and see them.
Oh, hell no.
I’m up here trying to figure out how I’m going to deal with this shitstorm I’ve just landed myself in and she’s down there with him? No way. Anger ripples across my skin as I grab my shirt, throw it on, and head down the stairs and out the back door.
Neither one of them hears me approach, and I know I should interrupt their conversation, but I don’t. Instead, I lean against the wall between the door and the window, giving me just a small view of them, and eavesdrop. I’ve officially stooped to a new low.
After we shut him out yesterday, he and Camille haven’t had a chance to talk. I realize they need to, and hopefully he’ll hear her loud and clear. Also, if she has any lingering doubt about leaving this guy, I need to know.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” he says animatedly. “All our plans!”
“Again, all your plans,” she counters. “You stopped including me years ago.”
Throwing his hands on his hips, he lets out a deep sigh, and a tense silence hovers over them as they stare at each other, neither backing down.
Using this opportunity, I take a good look at him to try to see what it is she liked in the first place. Sure, he’s tall, but there’s hardly any muscle on him. He’s dressed nicely, if you like that country club collared shirt look, but there’s something about him that’s not right. Maybe it’s because he’s found himself in a situation he doesn’t want to be in, but he seems on edge, anxious and antsy.
“Whatever. We’ll figure this out.” He crosses his arms over his chest like his decision on this is final.
Hate seeps into my veins, and Camille and I simultaneously ball our hands into fists.
“No, we won’t! God, I’m so sick of this. No more, Patrick. No. More.” She takes two steps away from him, but all he does is smirk as if what she just said has no bearing on reality.
“I really don’t know what’s gotten into you. You’ve never talked this way or behaved like this. You know better, so shaking off whatever this is sooner rather than later will definitely be in your best interest. You know what all of this means to families like ours, and now we’re going to have to clean up another one of your messes. Enough. Also, I’ve told you before—stop dressing like this.” He waves his finger up and down. “What if someone sees you?”
She looks down at her clothes, and so do I. What’s wrong with what she’s wearing? Tiny denim shorts show off her gorgeous toned legs, and the black tank top says Plié Jeté Chassé Every Day. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun and she has a bandana rolled up and tied around her head. She looks hot.
Her eyes meet his, and her cheeks flush red with anger.
“Leave,” she grits through her teeth as she points to the door.
“She wouldn’t want you to be doing this.”
Who is she? Who wouldn’t want her to be doing this? I can’t imagine anyone who knows Camille and loves her would want this life for her.
“That’s rich coming from you, because I know this is exactly what she would want me to do.”
I do love how she’s not backing down. She may be little, but she’s got fire in her that shows her strength.
“Fine. I’ll leave, but this isn’t over. You and him will never work, and the minute it ends, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces.”
“Patrick, for the last time, you need to hear me when I say you and I are done. There will never be an us. No more. Never again.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure
of that if I were you. Your father will be here soon enough. He’s already working to clean up your mess, and he spoke to Judge Williams about destroying that whipped up marriage certificate your grandfather produced. Thank God the press hasn’t caught wind of this yet so there’s still time.”
Her father’s on his way? Just great. Is it even possible to just destroy a signed and registered document? I don’t think so, but then again, I know nothing about this world or these types of people. They can probably do whatever they want and no one would bat an eye. Whatever. She and I will figure it out, and I’ve officially heard enough.
“Time for what?” I ask as I stride into the room, purposely bumping into Patrick as I head straight for Camille. “Morning, princess.” I cup the side of her face and run my finger across her jaw and down the side of her neck. Taking a few seconds to soak her in, I scan over her features to make sure she’s okay, and her big eyes light up with relief at the sight of me. My heart thumps hard within my chest. Damn. Leaning down, I press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, and her cheeks turn up as she smiles.
Patrick doesn’t answer, and I can feel him watching us. As we turn back to address him, his face has shifted into a deep scowl and hate is pouring off him.
“You had better have a really good reason for being here the morning after our wedding.” I pin him with a fierce glare and drape my arm around Camille to pull her close. She wraps her arm around my waist.
His eyes widen just a bit but then narrow as he takes us in. He’s confused, just like I’m sure the rest of the world will be given our backgrounds and our current lifestyles. Nothing about the two of us looks like we fit together, and I understand that, but somehow we do. She fits perfectly tucked into my side, and I like it.
“You do realize her father will never stand for this,” he says, his words shooting daggers at me.
Camille’s fingers dig into my side as she grips me hard. As much as I’ve never considered marriage to be on my radar, let alone getting a father’s approval, I think it’s normal to want it. Isn’t getting it like a rite of passage? It says, You’re good enough.
Patrick has hit below the belt, and he doesn’t even know it.
“Well, it’s a good thing I never asked him, and you need to realize . . .” I step away from Camille and stalk toward him. His face blanches, but he straightens his back to stand his ground. “I. Don’t. Care.”
“Do you have any idea the kind of people you’re messing with?” he spits out at me.
I snort and one side of my mouth tips up. Someone else might find that line intimidating, but this guy has no idea the shit I’ve seen or where I come from.
I crack my knuckles and flex my fingers. He watches the movement as I lean over to get closer to his face. “Leave.”
He opens his mouth to say something as his eyes bounce back and forth between me and Camille, but then he changes his mind, turns on his heel, and strides for the door.
“Oh, and, Patty.” I move back to Camille, pull her in front of me, and wrap my arms around her. “You’ll be happy to know my publicist and my team’s PR department have already issued a formal statement congratulating us. Cat’s out of the bag now, and we couldn’t be happier.” I dip down and kiss her cheek. She pushes back against me, wanting to be closer, and I feel her smile against my lips.
“This isn’t over.” He gives Camille a lingering angry look before he walks out and the gate slams behind him.
Camille and I stand there in silence. Glancing down, I see anguish is written on her face, but I don’t know at what. Is she upset that he’s upset, that the world will know she’s tied to me, or that his threat of it not being over may have some weight to it?
“Did they really issue a statement?” She leans her head back against my shoulder.
“They did. Are you okay with that?”
She smells so freaking good, like strawberries and vanilla. It’s almost distracting.
“I guess I have to be.” She turns, wraps her arms around my waist, and tucks her face into my chest. “Thank you, Reid.”
As I rub my hand up and down her back, the tension slips away from her as she leans farther into me. I’ve hugged women over the years, but never like this, where they really settle in. It’s nice.
Scanning the carriage house over her shoulder, I spot the saw that woke me. It’s sitting on a large drop cloth next to a power sander and several other pieces of equipment.
“What’s all this?”
She pulls back and I tip my head, surveying the room.
“It’s my workshop.” She smiles excitedly and looks around to see what I’m seeing.
“Workshop,” I mumble. “Do you do all this yourself or do you have someone do it for you?” Around the perimeter are beautifully finished pieces covered with a light layer of dust.
“I do. I love transforming furniture people don’t want anymore into something fresh and exciting.”
My eyes stop on two headboards leaning against the far wall. Both are wooden, and where one looks like it belongs in a grandmother’s house, the other has been stained darker, a fancy ivory padded fabric has been added between the posts, and it looks tacked down with large ornate bolts.
“What do you do with them when they’re done?”
“I consign them in shops around town and up into Charleston,” she says proudly.
“Really? So this is like a hobby of yours?”
Her face drops at the way I’ve described something she clearly loves, and she turns away to pick up the tools she was using.
“I guess you could call it that.” So quickly she went from being animated to defeated. I’m certain I can guess who’s made her react this way.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” She picks up her cup of coffee and takes a drink.
“Downplay something you love just because it’s new to me. Tell me about this. What would you call it? I mean, I know nothing about you other than you were dancing in New York, friends with my brother, and marrying an asshole.”
She looks at me and her eyes flare with a tiny bit of the fire I’ve seen rise up in her. She’s mentally debating how much she wants to share with me, and I’m hoping she’ll share it all. Setting down her cup, she faces me and stands tall.
“This is something I think about almost every minute I’m awake. It’s more than just a hobby to me, so I don’t know what I would call it. I love working with my hands, building, creating, taking things no one wants and turning them into something beautiful.”
“I know what I would call it: your dream job. I think this sounds great.”
She lets out a sigh.
“If this is your passion, why were you dancing in New York?”
“It was expected.” She frowns and redoes her hair on top of her head.
Walking to her coffee, I pick it up and take a sip. It’s cold; she’s been out here for a while.
“Have you always done what’s expected of you?” I’m trying not to judge her, but it’s kind of hard.
Pressing her lips together, she takes the coffee out of my hands and moves to a coffeemaker that’s sitting on a countertop near the back. “No.” She doesn’t elaborate, just brews another cup, and steam floats out the top.
“Sugar?”
“No, just cream.”
She pours it in, stirs, and then walks the cup back to me.
“Thank you.”
She nods.
“So, what were you doing before you came to Savannah?” she asks, changing the subject as she jumps up and sits on top of the dresser she’s currently working on. Her feet dangle and she swings her legs. I’m momentarily distracted and clear my throat.
“Not much, since it’s the offseason for us. Mostly we spend time catching up on things that are put on the backburner during the year, like traveling. Some get married”—I wink at her—“and others have businesses or charities they run on the side. I’m involved with the Boys and Girls Club of Tampa Bay, which is where I’ve been spe
nding most of my time, but I don’t have to report anywhere until the third week of April.”
“Kids, wow. Do you want kids one day?”
I laugh and she smiles along with me. “No. I never plan on getting married or having kids.”
Her smile drops. “You don’t want to get married one day?”
“No.”
There are at least a dozen questions sitting on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t ask them. Even if she did, I wouldn’t answer.
Taking a sip of the coffee, I walk over and lean on the table closest to her. “Have you given any thought to what you want to happen next?”
She lets out a long, slow sigh. “I have, but honestly, I just don’t know. For so long I’ve had this vision of what my life was going to be, and now I feel like I’ve dumped everything into a blender and things are all muddled and undefined. There’s my family, Patrick, and my life here, but now I’ve been given the opportunity to do and be what I want, and I don’t know if this is it anymore. I just need a little more time to figure out how to manage this mess I’ve made.”
“How much time?” I ask, probably a little too quickly, and she misinterprets my question.
Guilt slips across her features and she shrugs her shoulders. She doesn’t want to ask, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t feel she has a right to, but what she doesn’t realize is this just might work out for both of us. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m the one inconveniencing your life, so you tell me. Whatever you want, whenever you want, I’ll do it.”
I cross my arms over my chest and decide to just lay it all on the line. “Turns out, the team’s PR department doesn’t like to be blindsided. The owners and management of our team have a zero tolerance policy for drama or scandal of any kind, and apparently, me marrying a senator’s daughter on a whim is just that.”
She flinches.
“I stand behind what I said last night—nothing has to be decided today—but . . . how does two months sound?”
“Two months?” Her brows shoot up. I had been worried she would say no, but with that reaction, it might be a yes.
“That’s how long I have until I report to offseason training camp. Once I leave, we can figure out the details then—quietly.”
Chasing Clouds Page 8
