Various States of Undress
Page 12
Brett knew that he was big league caliber, and Ship knew it too. The man was just trying to kick Brett’s ass into the zone. But right now was a hell of a time for Brett to try for perfection because his mind was more cluttered and confused than it had ever been.
His daddy was Buddy fucking Mambo. That alone was too much to think about. He was horrified that the truth might come out before he could tell his brother, which he knew he had to do. But Mom had been right. It wasn’t something to do over the phone.
He sighed. His mom. He’d treated her like shit and then driven away from her house, and when he’d tried to call her to apologize, she hadn’t picked up. Yeah, she’d thrown him for a massive loop, but there was never any excuse for running away like a wounded puppy. All she’d done was raise her boys the best she could. He knew her almost better than he knew himself, though—and he knew that if he went to her house, she wouldn’t answer the door. Brett shook his head and continued to pace. Step, step, toss—catch.
Then there was Georgia. The thought of her sent his emotions on overdrive. He was embarrassed that he’d admitted his crush, sorry that he’d used it to distract her from interviewing him, thrilled that she wanted him as bad as he wanted her, and—to top it all off—pretty much hopelessly obsessed with her.
He hadn’t gone into the luxury box with a plan in mind other than to apologize for skipping the interview. But when he’d seen the bare emotion on her face, the admiration in her pretty brown eyes, he’d opened his mouth and told her. But he still couldn’t bring himself to tell her about his past. Not that she had asked—but she was going to, eventually. She wanted his story. She wanted him. Which did she want more? He told her he hadn’t been playing her, but wasn’t that exactly what he’d been doing? Yet in his heart, he didn’t feel as if he were. Step, step, toss—catch.
“You’re not at baseball practice, you know.” Georgia’s voice rang loudly over the breeze whispering through the potted palms flanking the pool enclosure, and Brett lost his rhythm. His phone bounced off the edge of his thumb and sailed toward the pool. He caught a glimpse of her in a red bathing suit, her breasts molded by the shiny fabric, just as he realized he was about to lose his brand-new phone.
“Aw, shit!” Brett made a dive for it and, right before the device hit the water, palmed it and sent it flying toward a deck chair just as he fell backward into the pool. How could he have not realized she was there? He might have good instincts, but one thing was for sure—he’d make a terrible Secret Service agent.
He flipped over, swimming underwater until he reached the side of the pool nearest where she had been. When he came up, Georgia stood at the edge, smiling down at him. The midmorning light shone on her hair, turning the edges of the curls a soft gold. Her eyes twinkled, and her cheeks were almost as pink as her lips.
He took a gasping breath and shook water from his face as he continued to look at her. Her hands were clasped protectively around a folded towel, which blocked the view of her breasts but left the rest of her available for ogling. He stared at the delicious curve of her hips, accentuated by the tight suit, and then at her equally curvy thighs and down to her slim ankles. A little silver chain encircled one ankle, and the thought of leaning forward and tracing his tongue over it flashed through his mind. He passed a hand over his dripping hair and grinned.
“Hey, sugar.”
She shook her head, laughing. “No need to play it cool, Knox. I saw the whole thing.”
“I planned that.”
“You’re wearing a T-shirt and tennis shoes,” she pointed out.
Holding onto the edge of the pool, Brett reached down and yanked off a shoe. He threw it onto the concrete, where it landed with a plop. The other shoe followed. Then he hoisted himself to the edge of the pool and hopped out. Slowly, he reached for the hem of his sopping T-shirt and raised it up. He took his time, inch by inch, peeling it off. After he tossed it on top of the shoes, he settled his hands on his hips and looked at her.
Her mouth was half open as she stared at his bare chest. Her gaze traveled lower, over his belly, and then lower still. He watched in fascination as she took one quick breath before glancing back up. “Okay. You planned that for sure,” she said.
Brett laughed and, just like the water running in rivulets down his body, his tension began to seep away. “You look amazing.”
She started to shake her head but stopped, smiling again. “Thanks.”
“Firecracker red. I like it.”
“It suited my mood,” she said. “I’m . . . in a mood.”
“A good one?”
“Partly.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Just so you know, Stan’s on the other side of the fence, right by that palm tree in the blue pot. And Jim’s on the opposite side, over by the gate.”
Brett nodded. “I know. You want to sit down?” He gestured toward a pair of chaise lounges, where he’d set out a cooler with Cokes.
“In a bit, but I’d rather swim with you first. We’re freer to talk privately in the pool.” She didn’t wait for an answer but set down her towel, walked over to the diving board, stepped on, and turned her back to the pool. A moment later, she jumped and did a spectacular dive, her curvy body twisting in the air, her hands slicing through the water as she plunged into the pool.
When she emerged, she swam effortlessly to the edge and dipped her head backward, using the water to smooth her hair from her face. Brett sat down on the edge next to her, his legs dangling in the pool. “Impressive. Yesterday, you gave off the impression that swimming wasn’t your thing.”
She pushed away and treaded water. “I’m a lot more graceful in the water than I am on land. I swam varsity in high school.”
“But when I mentioned swimming, you looked . . . squeamish.”
“All women are squeamish about wearing a bathing suit.”
“They shouldn’t be.”
She laughed. “It doesn’t matter. We’re all paranoid about it—every last one of us, even supermodels.”
“So it won’t matter if I tell you that looking at your body in that suit makes it hard for me to breathe.” He slipped into the water next to her. “Or that my hands are having trouble staying away from you.”
“I like hearing that,” she said softly. “But there’s something . . . sensitive I need to talk to you about before we do anything fun.” She glanced away and swam to the shallow end, where she sat, half submerged on the wide concrete steps in the corner.
Buddy. She’d found out about Buddy.
Brett’s tension roared back. It stiffened his neck. It tightened his belly. It made his brain buzz, and he stayed put, mechanically keeping himself afloat. He knew he had to go talk to her, though, so he forced his arms to move. When he reached her, he sat on the other side of the silver railing bisecting the steps.
She splashed water over her arms. “After that live spot at the stadium yesterday, I was dreading going back to the station, but when I got there, Joan was practically dancing with glee. Apparently, WHAP’s Twitter account went crazy after my little segment at the ballpark. People loved it.”
He attempted a smile. “Told you so.”
“And a still from the segment—a photo of me asking you a question—was put on Facebook. It had four hundred fifty-three likes in less than twenty minutes, which is fun.” She looked at him, worry in her eyes. “But that attention has put my back against the wall.” She paused. “Joan is desperate for me to drag your life story out of you, Brett. She wants to start doing teasers for it tomorrow and then air it a little over a week from now. I know you don’t want me to focus on anything but your playing, but could you . . . help me out?”
Brett’s heart began to slow down—but only a little. He peered at her. “What do you have on me now?”
“The fact that you were born and raised in Memphis, like your brother. Your basic background via the tape from Joe’s interview. And whatever else you’ve told me.”
“Is that all?”
“Don’t soun
d so surprised,” she said wryly. “I’ve been kept so busy with other parts of my internship that I haven’t had a chance to go into spy mode on your ass, okay? Which is what I’m about to start doing if you don’t give a little.” She caught herself. “Sorry. But you’re kind of exasperating.”
He let out a soft chuckle. “I know. But it’s with good reason.”
“Yeah, that’s obvious. It’s why I haven’t pressed you.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, his mind working over what her reaction might be if he told her the truth. Told her everything. He didn’t know if he’d be able to stand seeing pity in her eyes. But he couldn’t leave her hanging either. He suspected that she knew how embarrassed he felt about his background, simply because he’d refused to talk about it. But if he made it clear why he felt so uncomfortable, maybe she wouldn’t include the information in the interview. His throat closed up.
“Could you go into journalist mode now? When I tell you what I’m going to say, I’m not doing it to get a reaction from you.”
“You have my word.” He watched as she clasped her hands on her knees, just above the water. He could feel her gaze on him, but he didn’t meet her eyes.
“So, yeah. I was born in Memphis, like my brother, Joe. Both of us were great at sports even as little kids, and our mom encouraged us. She was raising us on her own, but she pulled together every extra dime to make sure we could play soccer. Pee-wee football. And most of all, Little League. Baseball became the one thing that held our family together, held us above—safe from everything shitty about being poor.” He took a breath. Damn, this was hard. So much of him wanted to push off the steps and swim away, but he made himself stay.
“We grew up in a cluttered, dirty house because Mom was usually working two jobs. Or busy looking for jobs. When I was little, I looked every bit like I belonged where I was, but once I got older, I figured out how to hide the trash factor because I was sick of being treated like trash. I didn’t associate with other kids from my neighborhood, and I never invited anyone from school over. After I’d made friends with normal kids, it kind of felt like I didn’t even belong in my own home.”
Brett thought about what he’d just said and sighed. “I know that sounds like I despise poor people, but that’s not true. I just know—for so many of them—there’s too much wrong for hope to make much difference. I was lucky to be smart and determined, and so was my brother.”
He paused and stole a glance at Georgia. She was gripping the railing between them, and her other hand trailed through the water. “I’m still listening,” she said softly, but she didn’t look at him. Brett resisted the urge to put his head in his hands. He’d already told her the worst, and she hadn’t reacted—at all. Better to just finish up.
“Both of us played baseball in high school,” he said. “Both of us went to U of Memphis on full scholarships. We played in summer leagues, and then Joe got recruited by the Redbirds. So did I, four seasons later, and we were on the same team for half a season before he got called up. Now he’s on his way to becoming a legend, I’m where I am, and my mom is still where she is, and she won’t take any help. Joe and I got where we are today on our own merit, and I hate the fact that people assume it was any harder for us than it was for privileged kids. Everyone has challenges. I just don’t want to be thought of as special because I grew up poor. I want to be thought of as special because I’m a great player who works hard.”
He was silent for a moment, his heart beating fast. “That’s pretty much it.”
Georgia let go of the railing and clasped her hands on her knees. “Very interesting. Let me get the facts straight. You and your brother were born and raised in Memphis, excelled in sports from a young age, and leveraged your outstanding ability to make it all the way to pro ball. Does that about cover it?”
Brett turned and gazed at her. She didn’t betray a hint of emotion—until she winked at him.
He wanted to kiss her for understanding him so well and for not making a big deal out of his speech. She’d given him exactly what he craved—acceptance. “That covers it.”
“Great. Would you be willing to come by the studio tomorrow morning at eight and sit for an interview taping? We can talk about your memories of playing Little League in Memphis.”
“No. I have a double-header tomorrow. I’ve got to save my strength.” He grinned.
“Okay, how about right after you come back from Vegas?”
“Sure, that’ll be easy. I won’t have a problem talking about Little League since I was an MVP three years in a row. All Star too.”
She rolled her eyes. “And I’m assuming it wouldn’t be a problem to dig up impressive statistics from your days in college ball?”
“Of course not. There’s tons of stuff.” He chuckled.
“You’re so cocky.”
“You love it.” Brett ducked his head under the railing and reached for her waist, but she was quick in the water and swam away.
“I wish I didn’t love it.” She splashed at him. “And guess what?”
“What?” He followed her.
“Joan’s arranging for me to travel with the team to Vegas.”
Brett stopped swimming. That meant that Georgia would be watching as he attempted to slay his demons on the playing field. That meant that everyone would be watching her watching him, and vice versa. He couldn’t fuck anything up now. Ship was expecting it. The Cardinals were expecting it.
“Why does she want you to come with us to Vegas?” he asked. Georgia glanced at him and then swam back to the edge of the pool. He followed. When he ran his hand down her wet shoulder, she sighed.
“Okay. This is what she said—she wants me to be there to observe you playing at an away game. Also to get some location variety in the footage. But . . .” Georgia paused. “Um, I get this feeling that Joan wants us to be seen together because the kind of media attention you and I are getting is good for WHAP’s ratings. She’s staking a lot on my interview with you. So now she’s using both of us for who we are and also trying to suck off our personal lives like a vampire.”
Brett didn’t know Joan, but he was pretty sure the words “selfish bitch” would be an apt description. She was responsible for the strained, miserable look on Georgia’s sweet face, and it pissed him off. But Georgia was stubborn, and she didn’t want pity any more than he did, so he didn’t give it to her. “You’re under a lot of pressure then,” he said.
“Yeah.” She let out an abrupt laugh.
“So . . . if you’re not planning to include my whole life story in your interview, isn’t that going to make it even harder for you with Joan?”
“It could, but not if I play it smart.” Georgia narrowed her eyes. “Joan wants a tabloid story, but the hell if she’s going to get it from me. I’m going to do such an amazing job, she won’t even notice that what she thought she wanted isn’t there.”
Brett hoped, for Georgia’s sake, that she was right.
Georgia glanced at him. “So what do you think about my coming with you to Vegas?”
“I love the idea.” Part of him did because he got to be close to her, even if they were going to be watched.
“Good. I do, too, though my agents aren’t too keen on it.”
“But it’s Vegas, baby,” Brett said in a low, sexy tone, hoping to cheer her up.
Georgia burst out laughing.
“So, as long as your agents don’t slap cuffs on me when I touch you, it’s all good.” He reached for her, and she swam away.
“Brett, the Secret Service isn’t out to get you. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll let them know not to restrain you.” She winked. “We can’t have that.”
He looked at her sweet lips. “I know what’ll make me feel better.” He swam to her, and this time, she stayed put, treading water.
“Oh yeah?”
He planted his feet on the bottom of the pool and reached for her hands. “Be still.”
“I can’t touch here.”
“Sure,” she whispered. “But I refuse to participate in a cliché.”
“Sugar, you’re anything but a cliché. Weren’t you listening when I told you yesterday? You’re amazing.”
She gazed up at him. “I think you might be my hero, Brett Knox.”
At her words, elation filled his chest. He stroked her wet hair back from her face. And then he lowered his mouth and kissed her with everything he had.
BRIGHT AND EARLY on Sunday morning, Georgia smiled as she plunked down behind the anchor desk next to Dave. She was tired, but she was in a great mood.
He gave her a sidelong glance. “You’re awfully chipper.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to inform him that he’d used the word “awfully” in the wrong context. It actually meant horrific or dreadful, and she felt anything but. She shrugged. “Hi, Dave. How are you?”
“It’s six a.m. on a Sunday, and my feature story is the stray cat epidemic in Shelbyville. They’re terrorizing peoples’ garbage cans.” He trained his bleary eyes on her. “That about covers how I am. How are you?”
“Wonderful.” She smiled again, thinking about the naughty text message and voice mails she’d been exchanging with Brett. She’d never done anything like that before, and it was so fun. Thrilling. He’d even texted her an hour ago, letting her know in no uncertain terms that he would stop by the station this morning with the excuse that he was going to look over his baseball stats with her. They’d do that, but he’d made it clear that he was actually planning to make out with her in her cubicle. She let out a small laugh.