by Linda Morris
“Oh, surely that’s not true.”
“Do you have siblings?”
“Yeah, an older sister. Bay. She’s three years ahead of me.”
“Uh-huh. When is the last time you listened to her advice?”
“Hmmm, good point. I can’t say that I ever have.” She removed the tea bag and spooned in a bit of sugar, stirring ’til it dissolved. “Okay, I’ll take my chances, as long as you promise you won’t interfere with me talking to Sarah. I don’t want you going behind my back and telling her not to agree to an interview.”
“I won’t interfere, but you’re on your own. If she says no, I won’t intervene for you either.”
“I can live with that.”
“All right then. I’ll have Tracy send you the details of the Dirty Dog.”
“Excuse me?” Hmmm, when her eyes opened like that, he could see they weren’t really plain brown, but had a touch of cinnamon to them instead.
“The Dirty Dog Mud Run. That’s what it’s called.”
She didn’t answer. That was unlike her.
“You don’t have any comments about that?”
“None at all.” Her voice came out as a half squeak.
“I thought maybe you’d have something snarky to say.”
“Who, me? Never.” She looked like she was weighing something. “I would say, though, that from what I remember, it seems appropriate in your case.” Her lips curved, and a bolt of lust shot through him.
He put down the drumstick and wiped the grease from his lips and fingers. “There, now, that’s more like the troublemaker I remember from Florida. I was beginning to think you’d developed amnesia.”
“I’d like to forget, if only for my own self-protection.”
“You think I’d hurt you?” His smile faded away.
“Not on purpose.”
“I don’t understand you, Willow.”
“I’ll participate in your mud run. That’s something, right?” She eyed the clock and bit back a groan. “I’ve gotta go.” She threw a ten on the table next to the check. He tried to give it back, but she shook it off and rose.
“I’m warning you, Willow. I’m not giving up on you yet.”
She shot him a look, and he shot it right back to her. With a roll of her eyes, she left.
Was that supposed to discourage him? Luckily, he’d never given up easily.
He enjoyed the view as she walked away. Stubborn woman. Her defiance should have irked him, but it didn’t. Instead, all he could think of was how hot Willow Bourne was going to look in a mud-covered T-shirt at the Dirty Dog run.
*
Two weeks later, Willow pulled up to the vast obstacle course outside of a local warehouse and parked the rental. She’d probably done weirder things to get a story but, offhand, she couldn’t remember when.
She was headed to the registration table when her gaze snagged on a familiar figure.
In place of his usual business attire, Paul wore a bright yellow T-shirt with the Dirty Dog logo and a pair of dark running shorts. Clearly he still got out from behind the desk on a regular basis. His arms and legs were muscular and tanned enough to make her mouth water. This was the first really good look she’d gotten at his body, and it didn’t disappoint. Funny—she’d been intimate enough with him to create a child, but she hadn’t really seen him clearly in the darkness under the pier.
Funny. Yep, the whole situation was hilarious.
He caught sight of Willow and headed her way. Just as he reached her, his eyes slid away and he gestured to a lean, athletic brunette to join them. A shaft of totally unreasonable jealousy shot through her until she recognized the woman from the research she’d done: It was Sarah Dudley, Paul’s sister.
“Hi. How’s it going?” Paul asked. Before Willow had a chance to respond, Sarah joined them, and he performed the introductions. Willow shook hands with Sarah, who also wore a bright yellow Dirty Dog jersey.
“You’re the reporter my brother has told me so much about.”
Willow glanced at Paul, an eyebrow up. “Really? Come on. You promised you wouldn’t interfere.”
“I didn’t. What I told her had nothing to do with your interview.”
“Oh?” She didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned about that.
“Where’s that no-good party-boy husband of yours?” Paul asked. Tom Cord and Paul had attended college together, so he had a right to talk about his future brother-in-law that way, Willow supposed. Tom had, until recently, been known for both his 100 mph–plus fastball and his taste for even faster women. Sarah Dudley seemed to have cured him of that last characteristic, however.
“Come on, Paul. Have you developed a convenient memory about these things? I seem to recall you being quite the hell-raiser when you and Tom were teammates in college.” Sarah smiled at Willow. “You’d never guess it now, but Paul did plenty of partying back in the day, no matter how many pious lectures he gives about my fiancé.”
“Really?” Willow looked at him curiously. Was that a faint blush creeping over his cheeks? She’d grown used to thinking of their night on the beach as a strange aberration for an otherwise locked-down man. Unreadable. Maybe it wasn’t as much of a step outside of his usual bounds as she’d thought. If so, what did that mean for the likelihood of him settling down to become a father?
“She’s exaggerating,” Paul said. “I was practically an angel.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, Tom’s on a West Coast road trip this week. I came home to talk to Dad and finalize some wedding details.”
Willow didn’t miss the somber look that passed between Paul and Sarah, but she couldn’t interpret it.
Paul cleared his throat. “You’d better get checked in, Willow. The race starts in fifteen minutes.”
Were they trying to get rid of her? “Okay. Catch up with you later. Maybe we can talk more after the race, Sarah?”
“Maybe.” She made no promises, but at least she hadn’t refused outright, which Willow took as a hopeful sign. She needed Sarah’s perspective on this story.
Paul and his sister moved off to greet someone they recognized, and Willow got in the checkin line. As the line moved forward at a snail’s pace, she rehearsed the questions she would ask Sarah if she got the chance. She’d definitely ask about the relationship between Paul and his father: That seemed like the crux of the matter. And it wasn’t simply a relationship between a father and son—this was the father and grandfather of her son she’d be talking about.
No. She couldn’t think like that. She was a journalist, and these were her subjects. The past was in the past. She had to focus on the present and the story she was being paid to write. Whatever future they had was uncertain at best. The story was what mattered.
For Jack’s sake, if no other reason, she would keep the personal and the professional ruthlessly separate. She wouldn’t compromise her journalistic ethics for a muscular bod and a pair of stormy sea-gray eyes. Nate had bailed her out of a hell of a mess. She owed him the best story she could write. She’d do what any good journalist did—go where the facts took her. And if that turned out to be damaging to Paul Dudley, that was too bad.
Chapter 5
Fifteen minutes into the run, Willow had mud in places where no mud should ever be. Between her breasts and in her ears were two of the more mentionable spots. Her disarray was only the start of her troubles, however. Every time she drew a deep breath, her lungs burned, and a stitch had appeared in her side five minutes ago. She hadn’t had a lot of time to exercise since Jack’s birth, but she had no idea she’d gotten so out of shape. The finish line loomed ahead, but it might as well be a million miles away because of the last obstacle: a five-foot wall with a giant mud pit on the other side.
“You okay?”
She looked up from the ground, where her tired gaze had fallen. Paul was standing, hands braced on his hips, a look of concern on his only slightly mud-spattered face.
How did he manage to look so good with dirt streaking his
whiskered cheeks and mud spattered up his calves? She probably looked like a hog in a wallow, whereas he simply looked like a man—a rough-and-ready man who’d spent a lot of time in the outdoors. Despite her exhaustion, her hormones stirred to life.
“Seriously, you all right?” he asked.
“Fine.” She didn’t have enough energy for multi-syllable words.
His look of kind concern irritated her beyond all reason. Why had she agreed to this, to let him see her like this, wheezing and exhausted, covered in mud? She started forward, determined to end this hell sooner rather than later, and promptly wrenched her ankle on an uneven spot of ground.
“Ow! Damn.” Gingerly, she wiggled her foot back and forth, testing it. Definitely not broken, thank God. Maybe a sprain, though.
Paul’s hand reached out to steady her as she balanced on one foot. “You know, you don’t have to finish if you’re injured. When I suggested this, I thought it would be a fun way to raise money for charity. I wasn’t trying to put you through boot camp.”
“I’m fine.” She limped on, her eyes never leaving the ground. She had to keep moving forward. Only by moving forward could she get this damn thing over with and get on to the good part: the interview. By God, Sarah would give her that interview. She wasn’t going through this for nothing.
“Are you sure?”
“Sure. Yes, I’m sure.” She waved a hand in the general direction of the finish line. “Don’t you have a race to go win?”
He shook his head. She knew she was acting like a jerk, but something about being made to look a fool in front of him made her cranky, which then resulted in her acting an even bigger fool.
“Fine. Don’t say I didn’t offer to help.” He joined the pack of runners moving past her.
Yeah, he’d offered to help, making her feel like a complete idiot in the process. The more he’d help, the more he’d linger around, seeing through her mud-soaked shirt and hearing her wheeze with every breath. She still hadn’t been able to quite lose those last few pounds of baby weight, and she had the sweat-soaked T-shirt to prove it.
Another pack of runners raced by, and she braced her hands on her knees, eyeing the last obstacle. If she could get over that damn wall, she’d be fine. There were showers waiting at the end, and Paul was hosting an after-party for all the runners at his house. Perfect interview opportunity.
The wall looked to be a hundred feet tall from where Willow stood at its base.
Don’t be ridiculous. I did things like this back in college all the time. Hikes, rappelling. I was really active.
Unfortunately, that was a few years and one childbirth ago.
She went up on her toes and grabbed the top of the wall. She braced one foot halfway up, feeling a twinge in her ankle as she did so. Ignoring it and gritting her teeth, she pulled hard, the muscles in her arms and shoulders burning. A splinter worked its way into her palm, but she ignored the pain. Something went wrong halfway and she slammed against the wall with a thud. After a second of thrashing like a landed fish, she couldn’t help it. Her fingers gave up their grip and she fell, landing on her butt and rolling back.
“Damn, damn, damn.” She pushed herself up to her elbows and eyed the obstacle in front of her. Times like this, she wished she was more of a quitter, but no way was she going to tiptoe around the obstacle. This race had been a stupid idea, but she’d committed to it, and she’d see it through to the end.
“Try getting your shoulder over the wall.” Alex Moreno-Lopez’s voice came from somewhere above her. She looked up to see him, as disgustingly unwinded and clean as Paul had been. Was she doomed to look like an idiot in front of gorgeous guys all day?
“Come on, I’ll show you.” He extended a hand and hoisted her to her feet. “If you get your shoulder over the wall, it’s easy to pull the rest of your body up. Don’t try to pull yourself over with your hands. You’ll never do it that way.”
She wiped her mud-soaked hands on her shorts, which was futile. If anything, her shorts were dirtier than her hands. Alex turned his body sideways, boosted himself up a few inches, and hooked his underarm on the top edge of the wall. From there, a little scrambling with his legs put him over the top. A splash from the other side confirmed his landing.
“You make it look easy.”
“It is if you know how to do it.” He came back around the obstacle to guide her as she tried to align her shoulder with the wall the way he’d done. It took her a few tries, but eventually, she did it. Her heart pounded as her legs scraped against the wall, seeking purchase. Finally, she got some, and her body lifted up. Her arms burned and the hard edge of the wall dug into her armpit, but she smelled success, along with the stench of wet dirt and her sweat. The top of the wall scraped her bottom as she went over and she landed in the mud pit with a mighty splash, but dammit, she’d done it.
“Yes!” She high-fived Alex, who returned her happy grin with one of his own.
“You did it!” He pulled her close for a quick hug, not seeming to care she’d just transferred about a pound of mud to him in the process.
She’d done it. The finish line loomed steps away. She crossed it stride for stride with Alex, happy from the soles of her feet to the top of her mud-soaked hair. “God, where are the showers?”
“Over there.” Alex pointed to a set of makeshift showers twenty feet or so away, each with a line of muddy people in front of them. “Right next to my boss, who looks like he wants to kill me right now.”
She followed his gaze to what did indeed look like a very pissed-off Paul Dudley, who’d just exited the shower area. He’d slicked back his hair, all dark blond with water, and his soaked T-shirt and shorts clung to him. The yellow shirt had gone clingy and near-transparent, showing the curve of his pecs and the hard abs beneath. She swallowed the saliva that suddenly pooled in her mouth. Sexy as he was, there was no mistaking his fury. It made her shiver.
Obviously, her head ought to be examined very soon by a qualified professional. “What’s his problem?”
Alex shook his head. “If you don’t know that, you’re not as bright as I gave you credit for.”
When she looked at him in surprise, he grinned, his teeth pearl-white against his mud-spattered face.
“He envies me my easy way with the ladies. One lady in particular, unless I miss my guess.”
She shrugged. She had nothing going on with Alex, and she’d gotten crazy mixed signals from Paul anyway. She followed Alex to the showers, getting in line and chatting about the season so far.
The Thrashers had recovered from a disastrous 2–8 start and were now battling back to a .500 record. Respectable, at least. Today was their last day off before what would be a brutal road swing through the Midwest, taking on some of the toughest teams in Ohio and Michigan before finishing up with a 5-game home stand against Peoria.
“How are you feeling about the road trip?” If she was going to be stuck in line next to a cute guy with mud drying behind her ears, she might as well get some useful information out of him. “How do you think the Thrashers will do?”
“We’ll do fine. We’re on a roll.”
“The pingitos in the bullpen finally playing to your specifications?” She didn’t hide her grin.
His eyes narrowed. “You looked that up, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. I’m a damn good reporter.”
He shook his head. “Sometimes a little too good. When you reported what I called them, my bullpen players didn’t talk to me for a week. I had to take them all out for pizza and beer to clear the air. You know how much beer a bunch of pissed-off relief pitchers can drink?”
She laughed, and they shuffled forward a bit as the line moved up. She looked over to see Paul, alone, still a distance away, his face dark, his eyes never wavering from her. Her grin faded.
“I told you. Look at that. He wants to come over and kick my ass right now.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m sure you’re wrong. Well, actually, maybe he does want to
kick your ass, but it has nothing to do with me. You’ve done quite a few things to make him angry, I’m afraid.”
“Me?” He put one hand to his chest, eyes wide with innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, right. You’ve busted his chops plenty about the conditions of the turf and the stadium.”
“Well, I should. I’m a good manager. I stick up for my guys.”
She tipped her head, considering. She had the funniest inclination to stand up for Paul, but that wasn’t her place. She was a reporter who had to get down to the bottom of what was going on in the dysfunctional Thrashers organization, and possibly the dysfunctional Dudley family. She didn’t owe anything to anyone, except to her editor for giving her this invaluable second chance to rebuild her life and provide for her son. She couldn’t show loyalty to anyone else.
Not even the father of her child.
They moved up again, and finally she stepped up onto the shower platform. Calling these things “showers” was generous. A framework of tubes had been set up, suspending a series of garden hoses pouring water from about six feet off the ground. There was no privacy or barricade between each shower station, and the hoses were situated only two or three feet apart. She moved into the next available station and winced at the icy water. After a minute, the station next to her opened up and Alex took it.
Rubbing vigorously at her skin, she scrubbed away what mud she could. She pulled a ponytail holder out of her wet, tangled hair and stuck her whole head under the water, running her fingers through to let the water wash away the mud she was sure lingered there. She cupped the water and splashed it on her face again and again, and then rinsed her arms and legs with the hose.
“You’ve got some on your back.” Before she could answer, Alex turned the full brunt of his garden hose on her, holding his thumb partially over the end to turn it into a jet.
“Ahhh!” She squealed at the unexpected blast of cold water on her back and grabbed her hose to blast him right back. He burst into laughter until she aimed the spray right in his face.
