by Linda Morris
Tears prickled in her throat. “I would love to make an honest man of you, but I’m too late.”
His brows rose. “What do you mean?”
“You already are an honest man. I suppose I’ll have to settle for marrying you instead.”
He pulled her in for a long, hot kiss that had her heart racing and her body heating. He pulled back and feathered tiny kisses across her cheekbones. Would it be tacky to tell her mom they were going out for a drive? Get a motel somewhere? Yes, it would, but she was tempted to suggest it anyway.
“Let’s get married here, Willow. Here in Florida, where your family can attend. Jack can be a part of it. I don’t have anywhere particular to be. I can call Sarah and Tom and have them come down too. Your parents can watch Jack for a few days and we’ll have a honeymoon.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Her eyes drifted shut and she leaned in for another kiss. After a minute, though, reality reared its head.
“What about your dad? Will you invite him?”
“I don’t see the point. He wouldn’t come, and it would cast a cloud on our day. I don’t want anything to do that.” His eyes held sadness, but a certain acceptance.
“Can I assume this means you worked things out?” From the doorway, her mother smiled, Jack in her arms.
“You can.” Paul rose to take Jack from his grandmother. “You have a wedding to plan.” At the screech that erupted from Ellen’s mouth, he frowned. “A very small wedding,” he interjected. “We’re going to marry as soon as possible.”
Ellen flung herself into Willow’s arms, weeping and offering congratulations. Then she got the phone and called Willow’s dad at work and then apparently called a half dozen other relatives, relating details, and in between each call already yelling out ideas for planning the wedding.
Willow merely rolled her eyes. “That’s my mom,” she whispered. “She takes some getting used to.”
“I don’t mind,” Paul said. “At least she’s enthusiastic.”
Willow smiled. “Oh, yeah. She is that. We’d better get married soon. We’ll hear nothing else from my mother until we do.”
She didn’t care, though. She was together with the two loves of her life: Paul and Jack. They would finally be a family. It would take a lot more than her crazy mother’s drama to burst that bubble.
Chapter 14
“I have to admit, your mom did a great job.”
“She did, didn’t she?”
Paul swung Willow around in his arms on the dance floor, looking happy, and freer than she’d ever seen him. She thought she’d had something to do with putting that look on his face.
Nah, she knew she’d put that look on his face.
“You are a beautiful bride.”
“Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.” The wedding had come together in just a few days, but it still hadn’t been fast enough for Willow and Paul. If it hadn’t been for the three-day Florida minimum waiting period, they would have married immediately. Wearing a slender column dress, Willow had wed Paul, who looked exceptionally handsome in a white suit, in a small ceremony on the beach. Neither of them had worn shoes. It had been a silent nod to their first time together, barefoot on the beach, but that would be a secret for the two of them.
Afterward, Willow’s parents and a few close family friends, Kendra, Sarah and Tom Cord and of course baby Jack, adjourned to a nearby restaurant for a buffet, drinks and dancing as the setting sun set the ocean afire.
Without warning, Paul dipped Willow low as their families and friends looked on. “I never showed you all of my impressive moves that night, did I?”
“You had a lot of impressive moves, but none of them were on the dance floor.” She gave him a saucy smile, and his eyes darkened.
“Is it time for everyone to go home yet?” he said, his intention obvious. Her lips curved. She didn’t blame him. They’d had no privacy and not much time together in the last few days. She was dying to get him alone in a hotel room.
“Some of us just got here.”
They both turned to see Walter Dudley standing only steps away.
“Dad. What are you doing here?”
“It’s my son’s wedding. Why shouldn’t I come?”
“You weren’t invited.”
“I know.” His face held only sorrow, an expression so utterly out of place on a man who never doubted himself. “Can I speak to you for a minute, son? Privately?”
Willow started to edge away, but Paul caught her arm.
“Whatever you say to me, you can say in front of my wife.”
Wife. The word thrilled her.
His father nodded. “Very well. Is there somewhere all three of us can talk?”
Paul shrugged, not looking ready to forgive. “Sure.” He led them outside and down a segment of boardwalk to an unoccupied wooden deck that looked out over the beach. On the sand below, couples walked hand in hand, and children played hide-and-seek with the tide.
“You’ve got my attention. What do you want?”
His father took a deep breath. “I want you to come back and be president of the Thrashers again.”
“No.”
Willow glanced at Paul, her eyes wide. “Are you sure? Maybe you should hear him out?” This was his legacy. How could he dismiss it like that?
His father flinched, but didn’t look terribly surprised.
“I’ve had a lot of time to think after you forced me out of the organization,” Paul said. “I thought about what I want, and how I want my life to be.” He lifted his hand where it clasped Willow’s. “This is one of the results of that. I know the team isn’t doing well, Dad. I spoke to Tracy. I could have come back then, but I don’t want to. I’m going to build my life now, away from you and away from the Thrashers. It’s time for me to create my own legacy. I can’t work with you again.”
“Son, you don’t understand. I’m out. I’m being forced out.” He sighed heavily. “I got the call from the White Sox front office today.”
Paul frowned. “Forced out? How can they do that? You’re the owner.”
“Oh, they have their ways. They’ve threatened to levy a five-hundred-thousand-dollar ‘unsafe working conditions’ fine against the team. They’re willing to waive it if I step aside and divest myself of all involvement in the team. They want you to take over, Paul. As everything. Owner, president, everything. They want you to buy me out.”
Paul’s face gave away nothing. “How about cousin Noah? I thought you were giving him the team. Why don’t you sell to him? He probably has more money than me, anyway.”
The elder Dudley’s shoulders slumped. “I never wanted the team to go to Noah. Only to you. I only said that because I was furious. Believe it or not, the legacy of what happens to this team after I go matters. You love this team more than Noah does, and you know a lot more about it. You’re the one who should be running the Thrashers.”
“I thought I was too inexperienced.”
Wow, Paul really wasn’t backing down. She couldn’t believe he was giving his father such an argument when the man was offering him everything he’d wanted on a platter.
“Maybe the kind of experience I haven’t isn’t so valuable anymore. The White Sox certainly don’t seem to think so. They called me a ‘distraction.’ I think that’s one step above ‘embarrassment.’”
For the first time since his father appeared, a slight smile lit on Paul’s face. “You do have a history, Dad.”
“Yeah? Maybe it runs in the family. Perhaps it’s time for me to retire to Florida.” Walter Dudley smiled too, and Willow was struck for the first time by a family resemblance she’d never really noticed before. The elder Dudley looked at her, and she had the funniest feeling he was really seeing her for the first time. “You’re a beautiful bride, by the way. I couldn’t be prouder of my son’s family.”
“There’s another family member you haven’t met yet,” Willow said. She went inside to where her mother was watching Jack and picked him up, then re
turned to the deck, where Paul and his father waited silently. Jack was looking especially handsome today in a tiny white suit with a yellow striped necktie on an elastic cord.
Walter took his grandson into his arms and smiled. “Oh, he’s a right handsome one. Almost as good-looking as Paul when he was born.” He held his new grandson stiffly at first, no doubt out of practice, but soon adjusted him in his arms and settled into it. “Son, I wish your mother could have lived to meet her first grandson.”
Willow choked up at the look on Paul’s face.
“So do I, Dad,” he said softly.
Slowly, Walter lowered his head to place a soft kiss on Jack’s forehead. “What a fine boy.”
Remarkable. Just when she thought she’d known for sure that Walter Dudley was a dour, superior manipulator with no interest in his grandchild, he surprised her utterly. People were complicated, and sometimes in a very good way.
“Why don’t you get to know your grandson a bit, Dad? Willow and I have some talking to do.”
He pulled her away some distance down the boardwalk.
“Paul, congratulations.” She reached to hug him, but his lack of response stopped her.
“Hold on a minute. I want to know what you think. I said before I would always listen. Now I’m listening. Are you okay with this? If my father fully divests, it will mean me taking on loans to purchase the team. Not only that, but it will take years and millions of dollars to turn the team around. To do what I want.”
“You can do it, Paul. Your father is right about one thing. You’re the only man I can imagine doing the job.”
“I can only do it if you and Jack are beside me, happy to be there. Can you do that, Willow? Can you move to Plainview and raise Jack there? As part of the Thrashers legacy, and all that entails?”
“If your father is moving to Florida, I’m pretty sure I need to leave the state immediately. Plainview is as good a place to flee as any,” she said with a straight face, and then yelped when he smacked her rear.
“Smart-ass.”
“Okay, okay. Let’s be serious for a minute. Paul, you love the Thrashers. You love your family. You even love Plainview, even though it has, let’s face it, no decent Chinese takeout to speak of.”
“Oh, the horror,” he said, his eyes wide. “How could anyone live in such a hellhole?”
“I’ll manage. I happen to know someone who makes a very acceptable kung pao chicken that will tide me over.” Paul tipped his head in acknowledgment. “The only downside to your legacy was your father’s heavy-handed involvement. If he’s out of the picture, it’s ideal. You can make the team into what you’ve always wanted, and raise Jack to take it over someday.”
“If he wants to,” Paul said.
She smiled at him. “If he wants to.” Love surged through her, filling every cell in her body, nearly overwhelming her with joy. “God, I love you for adding that, Paul. Your father never would. That’s why you’re such a good man.”
He took her into his arms and pulled her close. “I don’t know if I’m a good man, but I feel like one when you and Jack are by my side. That’s why I want you around, every minute of every day, for the rest of our lives.”
“You don’t have to worry. We’re going to be here for a long, long time.”
In the distance, Jack laughed, and the circle of family was complete.
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Would he remember her?
Sarah Dudley shaded her eyes and looked over the green checkerboard lawn of Dudley Field. The Plainview Thrashers had a home game tonight. In the bullpen, the starting pitcher was throwing. A crowd had gathered around him. That could only mean one thing.
Tom Cord had arrived.
A nervous dance started up in her stomach. She’d known the big leaguer could show up on the Plainview Thrashers’ roster any day. He was recovering from his elbow surgery of a year and a half ago, and she’d been hearing for a while that he would soon be ready for a rehab assignment in the minors right here in Plainview, Indiana. Apparently he’d gotten the call.
Nah, he probably wouldn’t remember her.
Back then, he’d been a superstar prospect full of charm and good looks, looking ahead to a bright future, talking of nothing but the big leagues and the World Series ring he’d have someday.
As she watched from the stands, he gloved the ball and paused for a drink of water. A nineteen-year-old outfielder approached him and handed him a pen.
Goodness. Even his teammates wanted his autograph.
He nodded and signed the ball, giving it back to the kid and flashing the grin that had lit up the cover of Sports Illustrated two years ago.
She rolled her eyes. No wonder he thought he was hot stuff. Everyone he came into contact with drank the Tom Cord Kool-Aid.
Not her, though. She wasn’t a skinny tomboy anymore. She was VP of public relations for the Thrashers, and having a big-league star on their team for a few weeks was a big deal. She needed to greet him—get him lined up for some PR appearances during his brief stay here.
Ticket sales had been slumping for the last couple of years. Lord knows they could use the boost he would bring.
But no matter how famous he was, she’d treat him like every other athlete—no better, no worse. All business.
So why did her stomach flutter as she drew near the bullpen? She cast a quick glance down at herself and smoothed her sweaty palms down her hips.
Her crisp gray jacket and pants screamed “professional, practical.” Her flats made it easy to walk on the infield. It was the perfect uniform for a woman in a man’s world. So why did she wish she’d worn a skirt, maybe, or taken more than five minutes to swipe tinted sunblock on her face and put some lip gloss on?
Tom had dropped out of college when he was drafted by the Florida Marlins. Her brother Paul had been his college teammate and good friend. Paul had finished school, knowing he wasn’t good enough to make it to the big leagues, and the two men had mostly gone their separate ways.
Sarah’s contact with Tom Cord since then had been limited to watching him pitch on TV and lingering on his picture on some online Sexiest Male Athlete list. Like everyone else, she’d shaken her head every time he’d made the news for dating another reality star or celebrity baseball groupie.
Then there was that incident a couple of years ago when his girlfriend du jour had tweeted a dark, grainy photo of him swimming naked in the pool of his Florida mansion. The girl had deleted the picture eventually, but not before Sarah had gotten enough of an eyeful to make several of her teenage fantasies come roaring back with a rush.
She pushed that out of her mind. Acting like yet another celebrity-addled baseball groupie wouldn’t exactly leave a professional impression.
He looked different now than he had back when he was in college. His skin was darker, rougher, from years spent out in the sun. He’d gained a little weight since his skinny college-playing days: all muscle, as far as she could tell. He wore his dark brown hair in a shorter crop than he had then, when he used to let it grow until it stuck under the back of his collar.
Some things hadn’t changed, though. That rough-hewn all-American face. Those blue eyes, and the half-wise, half-amused expression he always wore, like he knew some joke you didn’t, and it was probably on you.
She stopped at the third-base wall, short of the bullpen. He’d resumed throwing, hard, to the Thrashers’ starting catcher. Below her, the pitching coach, Reedy Johnson, aimed a radar gun to check the speed of the pitches. Cord drew himself up and stared over his glove, his expression all business.
He wound up, his knee lifting high for a big leaguer, past his navel.
“Wow,” she murmured under her breath, moving to Reedy’s side. “Look at those mechanics.” She’d seen him pitch on TV, of course, but in person, his style looked even more unorthodox. He did nothing by the book: he torqued around too far away from home plate on hi
s windup, pulled his arm back to throw before he had his front foot down, and moved his elbow behind his body. He even tilted his head at a weird angle.
“Why don’t you go over there and set him straight?” Reedy said with a laugh. “He’s only won the Cy Young Award three times, and he’s been to a World Series. He’s probably been wondering what he’s doing wrong.”
Despite Tom’s odd form, when the ball landed in the catcher’s glove, it popped like a fast pitch. She checked the gun. One hundred miles per hour. Reedy whistled through his teeth. “The boy hasn’t thrown less than ninety-eight all morning.”
She shook her head. He’d spent a year and a half rehabbing from surgery. This was a practice session the day of his first rehab start in the minor leagues, for Pete’s sake—a pit stop on his way back to the majors.
“He shouldn’t be throwing hard in practice his first day back. He’s got to pitch tonight. What if he blows out that ligament again before he’s even thrown a pitch in a game?” She shaded her eyes with one hand and watched him wind up again. Same motion, almost the same result. A ninety-nine-mile-per-hour pitch.
“You know how he is. He’s not going to like being told to stop.”
“You’re the pitching coach, not me. It’ll sound better coming from you.”
Not to mention that her dad would be furious if he found out she’d said anything to a player about his game play. He’d made her VP of public relations for a reason. Walter Dudley didn’t think a real lady should interact with players and deal with baseball operations. It was crazy, but her dad was the boss.
“Fine.” Reedy shook his head slowly. “Remember, this was your idea.” He put the radar gun down and hollered at Tom, who came over, eyes on Reedy.
He stopped an arm’s length away, but she swore she could still feel the heat radiating from him. She wasn’t petite, but his height made her feel tiny. He’d gotten even taller since college. He must be six foot three at least.
“What’s up?” Cord braced his glove on his hip. The move pulled his jersey tight across his chest and Sarah chided herself for noticing it.
Don’t go mushy-headed over the players. Rule number one for a woman in baseball.
