by Linda Morris
It was the same connection that had made her notice him in the Crimson Lounge all those months ago. He’d stood out, even then, among a hundred other guys all looking for a one-night stand. She wouldn’t have even considered going to bed with any of them, but something in him always reached out to some part of her.
If they went to bed together, it would be terrific. A part of her so desperately needed that—to forget the confusing emotional maelstrom she’d been living in for so long and simply accept the mindless release and pure pleasure of sex.
He’d lifted his eyes from the rumpled bed to her, and she’d seen the question. Would she let him in?
She’d crossed her arms. Her nightshirt stopped at the tops of her thighs and his gaze dropped there and lingered. The attention made her skin prickle. She had to get him out of here before she did something stupid. He wasn’t a one-night stand she could say good-bye to tomorrow. He was Jack’s father. If they slept together now, things would get even more complicated, if that was possible.
“Thanks. He’s sound asleep now.”
He’d nodded and left without a word, but not before she’d seen the disappointment in his eyes.
Since that night, she’d given Paul a wide berth, outside of those times when they cared for Jack together. She believed him when he said he hadn’t invited her to stay with him just to get in her pants. He’d been active and involved with Jack, changing diapers and giving him baths. She couldn’t fault him as a father, but that didn’t mean she was ready to make him anything more.
Now he wanted them to go on an outing, the three of them. She didn’t like the idea, but she liked the idea of being left at home by herself while they went without her even less. Her insecurity wouldn’t allow it.
“Okay, fine.”
His eyes flicked to her, mouth curving at her grudging response. “Don’t take it so hard. It’ll be fun. Every father should take his son fishing.” He clapped one arm around her shoulders.
“Did your dad take you?”
His smile dimmed. “No. He was too busy. My grandfather did.”
The pain in his voice was too stark to miss. She wanted to comfort him, reach out, but Paul wasn’t the kind of man who welcomed pity. Still, he was trying to do a better job of parenting than his own father had, and that was important.
On the blanket, Jack began to fuss, a telltale whine that indicated hunger.
She rose. “I’ll take him inside. He needs to eat.” At least for now, nursing was one thing that made her indispensable to her son. She held on to that thought like a talisman as Jack nuzzled her breast.
*
Willow closed her laptop and leaned back in her chair, stretching the shoulder muscles that had tightened during hours of work. The profile was nearly complete. She needed to let it sit for a bit, take a break from it so she’d be sharp for that final edit, but the majority of the work was done. Paul and Jack slept down the hall. She’d stayed up late to finish it. Her editor had been on her case, texting and emailing her every day to ask when it would be ready.
June was only days around the corner, and, in honor of her profile, the editors had decided to declare June “Minor Leagues Month” at Screwball. They’d be giving minor league ball extended coverage. Her profile would kick off the month and serve as the cornerstone of their coverage. “We’re counting on you to deliver something blockbuster. Something that will drive engagement and give us the clicks,” Nate’s last email had said. “Got anything?”
She didn’t want to let them down. She’d promised not to include Dudley family drama, such as the fighting over Sarah’s wedding, in the profile, but Paul’s outburst at the clubhouse was a different matter. It was a meltdown during work hours, at Dudley Field, that had been witnessed by the team’s manager and did damage to company property. After Alex had described Paul’s rampage, he’d escorted her down to the men’s room. The flooding had been cleared up, but the battered metal stall spoke for itself. She’d even snapped a couple of pictures.
A noise outside her bedroom caught her attention. Light flooded the hallway. Paul was stirring. She saved the file and sent a quick note to Nate that she’d have the piece finished soon and then got up investigate. She went down the stairs, following the sounds.
In the kitchen, in the dim light from the stairway, Paul leaned against a counter, drinking from a bottle.
“Everything okay?”
He jumped slightly and then smiled ruefully when a bit of beer splashed down his T-shirt. “Sure. Just wanted to grab a beer. Having a little trouble sleeping. Want one?”
She shook her head. “No thanks.” Why was he having trouble sleeping? A stupid question, maybe. They both had plenty to keep them awake nights lately.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t wake me. I was working on the profile.”
“Oh.” His shoulders stiffened. His lids half hooded his eyes. “How’s it going?”
“Okay, I guess.” She paused.
He looked suspicious, and what she had to ask him wouldn’t lower his guard any. Still, any good reporter had to ask. “I heard you had a bit of an episode in the clubhouse the other day.”
His brows rose. “Let me guess. Alex, my favorite disgruntled employee, told you all about it.”
She didn’t deny it. “It was a pretty big deal. It’s not every day the team president goes ballistic in the clubhouse.”
He didn’t answer right away, taking another drink. “It was a tough day.”
“The day you got the DNA results back?”
“That had nothing to do with it,” he said, and his vehemence made her draw back.
Funny, he didn’t deny the timing. That confirmed what she’d always thought. His meltdown was at least partially caused by discovering he was Jack’s father. “Oh, come on. Nothing? You find out you’re a father unexpectedly and, later that day, you have an out-of-the-blue, totally uncharacteristic fit of anger? You expect me to believe these things are unrelated?”
“I don’t care what you think. I’m telling you the truth.”
“Then what caused it? You can’t tell me you decided to take batting practice with a pipe wrench for no good reason.”
“I had a good reason. Well, as much of a good reason as a grown man can ever have for going nuts like that.” He rotated his shoulders, and she had the feeling he was trying to loosen a knot of tension. “It was a tough day. I had a lot of frustrations brewing, and then Alex called with his panties in a bunch because a pipe was leaking. He’s too much of a damned idiot to know how to turn the water off.” He shot her a look. “No offense. I know he’s your friend.”
“None taken.” She wouldn’t rise to the bait about her friendship with Alex. A little jealousy did Paul some good, in her opinion. “Knowing Alex, I guess he probably had a few choice words about the condition of the stadium when the leak happened, am I right?”
“That’s a fair guess.”
“Why don’t you renovate the stadium?”
His eyes closed briefly. “This again?”
“Yeah, this again. It’s a problem, and you know it. Why aren’t you addressing it?”
He finished his beer and tossed the bottle in the trash. “You know why.”
“Because of your father? Why does his opinion matter so much?” Why did she care so much? She hadn’t realized until that moment how much she cared. Paul needed to break free of his domineering father, and not just for the team’s sake.
“I could give fuck-all about his opinion! I need his name on the loan application.”
Willow blinked at the outburst. “Loan application?”
He shook his head, looking like he wished he hadn’t spoken. “Nothing.” He leaned against the sink and rubbed his forehead with the heels of his hands. A part of her wanted to reach out and console him, but the reporter in her still struggled to make sense of the facts.
“You have some sort of plan for repairs to the stadium, but you can’t get the money loaned to you
without your dad’s consent? Is that how it works?”
“I need to get some sleep, and so do you. I’ve got an early start. Good night.” With that, he left, not sparing her a backward glance.
She had what she needed, though. He hadn’t denied her supposition, which was as good as an admission in his case. She’d known he had little free rein when it came to running the team, but she hadn’t realized exactly how tightly his hands were tied. His dad controlled the money, and it left him with no means for righting a situation he surely knew could go very wrong.
She went back upstairs, still trying to sort through what she’d learned and her reactions to it. Sympathy warred with anger. Why hadn’t he told her? Confided in her? Why did he have to be such a closed book all the time, leaving her guessing about what he thought and felt? The situation with his father was only the tip of the iceberg. He didn’t share his feelings about anything with her. Could she even believe his assertions that Jack’s paternity had nothing to do with his outburst? True, the situation with his father had to be tremendously frustrating, but had he really taken the news about being a father himself in stride, as he’d claimed?
She doubted it. Not that it mattered. That was personal, and she’d vowed to leave the personal out of her story. The infighting between Paul and his father, though—that was fair game. As a reporter, she knew it was the kind of insight she’d been searching for her entire stay in Plainview. It had to go in her profile.
*
“Y’all have a great day for a fishing trip.” The chubby man in a Hawaiian print shirt behind the desk at the boat rental and fishing charter grinned at them. “Nice and sunny, but it’s not supposed to get too hot.” He nodded at Jack in the baby sling on her abdomen. “You’re getting this little boy started off right.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I haven’t done much fishing.” She put a hand under the baby sling and felt the curve of Jack’s soft, round bottom on her palm. On the other side of the ramshackle office, Paul was eyeing live bait through the acrylic lid of a display case. Last night—the first night of the Thrashers’ road trip and his unexpected vacation—he’d stopped at a Walmart and gotten each of them a cheap fishing rod, line, hooks and some other doodads that supposedly did something vitally important.
“Gotta get these in advance so we can get off to an early start tomorrow,” he’d told Willow. “The stripers like the cool weather in the early morning.”
“So, we should leave at about eight?”
He’d given her a look of utter disgust. “I’m setting the alarm for five.”
She’d gulped, nodded and made a mental note to bring an extra-large coffee. She knew nothing about fishing, but it was amusing to hear Paul weigh the different hooks and baits as if the fate of the world depended on these matters.
“Oh, you’re going to love it,” the clerk said. “It’s a great thing for a family to do together. Your husband have much fishing experience?”
“I guess so. I don’t really know.”
The man’s smile dimmed a little bit, as if she should know more about her husband, and she clamped down hard on the urge to inform him Paul wasn’t her husband.
“What are the stripers biting on these days?” Paul asked.
“Oh, same as ever. They like the night crawlers.”
Willow sent Paul a glance. “I’m not touching any worms. You’re on worm duty.”
He rolled his eyes and scoffed. “You’re such a girl.”
She didn’t argue. She could tolerate gender stereotyping, as long it meant she didn’t have to touch any worms.
Paul handed the clerk his credit card and signed some papers, and they were off. Outside, the Indiana summer humidity draped over them like a blanket. A pickup truck hauling their rental boat pulled up to the office. The teenage boy driving the truck rolled down the window and blushed when he saw her, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “I’ll back the boat down the landing ramp. It’s just down there.” He jerked his head. “You all can walk down to the landing if you want.” He didn’t quite meet her gaze, focused instead on the length of leg revealed by her walking shorts.
Willow’s chino shorts, leather sandals, and sleeveless button-up were probably overly fashionable for the day on the lake, but she hadn’t been able to face the prospect of spending a day with Paul in a ratty T-shirt and old running shorts. She shouldn’t be dressing up for Paul. She should be doing the equivalent of wearing a bag over her head, but she couldn’t help herself. Her years spent on TV had made her self-conscious about her appearance in public.
She thanked the boy, who reddened and nodded, finally daring to raise his eyes to hers for a split second.
“I know how he feels,” Paul murmured quietly in her ear.
She jumped, not aware he’d moved so close.
“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice coming out breathless, much to her disgust.
He looked particularly handsome this morning in an old Thrashers cap, an old T-shirt and a day’s worth of stubble. He’d probably skipped shaving because it was a waste of time before a day on the lake, but she loved the rugged scruffiness it lent his face.
“You can be too beautiful to look at sometimes.”
“Me?” Willow didn’t have much false modesty. She knew she was attractive enough—it had been a job requirement to work as a sideline reporter. Still, no man’s attention had ever made her heart flutter quite like his did.
His mouth quirked in a smile. “Fishing for compliments instead of stripers?”
“Of course,” she said, striving for a light tone, despite the breathlessness that seemed to overtake her when Paul looked at her like that. “You don’t need worms for compliment-fishing.”
He laughed, and the sound made an answering bubble of joy rise in her chest. The sun, still low in the sky, glimmered off the smooth water. The boats of only a few hardy fishermen dotted the lake, and early-morning quiet hung over the water, along with a few remaining wisps of dawn mist. A line of deep green woods surrounded the lake, broken only occasionally by a boat ramp or a summer home on stilts.
The southern Indiana landscape was so different from St. Pete, but beautiful in its way, with rolling hills and miles of forest. On the way here, they had passed farms dotted with rambling old wooden buildings Paul had explained were tobacco-curing barns. Its charm was indisputable. It wasn’t the ocean, of course, but this was nice. If that set an alarm bell ringing in her head, she ignored it.
In a few minutes, they’d gotten the boat in the water. She knew very little about boats, but it seemed like a nice one—new and sleek and big enough they wouldn’t get tossed around like a cork in a washing machine. The lovesick teen drove away with a last lingering glance in his rearview mirror, and Willow and Jack joined Paul on the boat, wading knee-deep into the water and accepting a hand to be pulled up onto the deck.
When he wasn’t looking, Willow let her eyes run down Paul’s body. He’d waded into chest-deep water getting the boat off of the trailer. Maybe he was uncomfortable, but it made for some pleasant viewing for her. His wet shorts and lower T-shirt clung to his powerful body, and droplets of moisture gleamed on the golden skin of his calves. She swallowed and made herself look away. She shouldn’t have even noticed.
After he futzed with it a bit, the motor roared to life, and they sped across the lake. After about ten minutes of full-throttle racing, he slowed and pulled into a small inlet where the close, towering trees shaded the water. He cut the motor, but the roar of it echoed in her ears for several seconds. “This was always a good spot when I was a kid.”
“You used to fish here growing up? Is that how you know so much about it?”
“Yeah. I haven’t had time to do a lot of it lately. The striper bass season conflicts with baseball season.”
“So that’s why your grandpa took you, instead of your dad.”
“Yeah. Sometimes Mom came with us. Until she died, anyway.” A fond smile warmed his eyes. “She didn’t share your fear of worms.”<
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“I don’t fear worms. I hate them. There’s a difference. They’re disgusting.”
“Whatever. She wasn’t like that. She could dive right in, be Dad and Mom, which was good, since Dad was always at work. She’s the one who taught me how to ride a bike and how to skin and gut a fish. Dad was always at work.”
“It must have been a terrible loss when she died.”
“It was.” He picked through the tackle box and pulled out a hook and some other gizmo and began to string them together with fishing line. He shook his head. “I’m out of practice.”
“You look good to me,” she said with a trace of wistfulness, straightening when he stopped and looked at her, brow lifted. “I mean, you look like you know what you’re doing.”
“Thanks. I’m a little rusty, though. I need to get out here more often.”
“How can you do that? It’s always going to conflict with baseball season, right?” She opened the sling and lifted Jack out and then placed him on the boat deck for a moment while she rummaged in her tote for a towel to spread. Jack couldn’t crawl much yet and the boat had steep sides. He’d be safe on the deck for a bit.
“The team isn’t going to fall apart without me, no matter what I used to think. I’m not indispensable.” He tied off a line by holding it between his teeth and pulling hard, and then snipped it with a small pair of wire cutters from the tackle box. He held it up for her inspection. “That’s your rig. Now I’ve gotta do Jack’s.”
“Excuse me? Isn’t he a little young to hold a fishing pole?”
“Rod, not pole. And that’s what the rod holders are for.” He nodded to a series of short tubes mounted on the rail of the boat. “I can set up a few rods all at once and monitor them. I’ll do the work if he gets a bite on his line.”
“You’re a good dad.”
He stopped his work on the next rig and looked at her, but only for a second. “Thanks. You’re a fine mom too, but you can’t be trusted with teaching the boy how to fish properly. That’s why I’ll have to make the time.”
