“It wasn’t a contest,” he started, but she cut him off.
“And I don’t want to be with a man who makes up a spreadsheet to help him find ways to not love me.” Her eyes flashed, but her bottom lip trembled, and Paul’s heart dropped to his feet.
“What?” Carla whispered.
“A spreadsheet?” Tony said.
“What is spreadsheet?” Mama demanded.
“Don’t you get it, Paul?” Stevie asked, keeping her voice at a pitch designed only for him. “All my life people have not loved me. And then, to see that you’d actually made a list of the reasons to join the crowd—” She shook her head. “No, Paul. I deserve better,” Stevie told him flatly. Then, without another word, she walked past him to her car, parked around front.
As his sister, brother, and mother applauded, Paul stood stock-still in the rising chill wind and watched his world walk away.
* * *
Stevie had driven straight home, packed a bag, and picked up Scruffy. She had one thought in mind. To get the hell outta Dodge.
Somehow or other, news of her and Paul’s relationship had taken off, and everywhere she went, people were staring. She heard the whispers about “naked driving” and “bathrobes on cars” and wondered how they’d gotten their information. But the bottom line was, she just couldn’t bring herself to care.
How could she care what gossips had to say when every cell in her body was weeping for the loss of Paul?
Funny, she thought, the obstacles she’d thought would be standing between them and happiness were gone. Mama, the family, heck, even Nick—all of them were okay with the idea of Paul and Stevie.
Apparently, only Paul had a problem with it. He was the one making up lists. Sure, he’d said he loved her, but how could she believe that he loved her when he’d gone to such painstaking efforts to convince himself not to love her? What if she believed him and then next week or month or year he found another reason to add to the list? What then? Which one was the breaking point? Which one would mean that he’d walk away, as her mother had? As Nick had? Just how many reasons had to be on that list for Paul to leave?
No. She couldn’t trust it. Couldn’t take the risk.
She’d lain awake in her motel room last night, listening to the wind roar and the rain pound against the shingled roof. Alone in her bed, she’d heard nature’s fury, but her mind had been lost in memories more devastating than a little squall. Over and over again, she’d read that list in memory. She’d seen the neat columns. She’d seen Paul’s face when she’d discovered it.
And her heart broke every damn time.
“But no more,” she vowed as she walked along the beach with Debbie. Her sister, wearing jeans and an oversize sweatshirt, ran along the water’s edge, Scruffy yapping at her heels, looking over her shoulder at the footprints she’d left in the wet sand. Her laughter and the little dog’s excited barks rang out over the wind and Stevie told herself to count her blessings. Debbie loved her. The girl didn’t need her; she just loved her big sister. Stevie had come to grips with the fact that Debbie would never live with her. The girl had a life of her own, and that was okay.
A big step for her, Stevie thought. Loving without trying to run everything. Debbie didn’t need saving; she just needed loving. And Stevie owed Paul for teaching her that much, anyway.
She’d be fine, she thought, stepping over the driftwood tossed ashore by raging waves the night before. She had her sister. She had her shop. Her home. Scruffy.
That could be enough.
It would have to be enough.
“Hi, Paul!” Debbie shouted, and waved enthusiastically as she and the dog raced back up the beach.
Stevie stopped dead and held her breath. Her gaze focused on her younger sister, she could almost feel Paul standing right behind her. She didn’t trust herself to look at him, so she simply asked, “How did you find me?”
“Wasn’t hard,” he said, his words snatched by the wind and whirled around her in a deep, rumbling sound of comfort that she longed to cling to. “Where else would you go but to Debbie?”
She sucked in air and held it tight within to keep her lungs from collapsing. “I guess Margie told you where we were.”
“Yep.”
Stevie nodded, as Debbie came closer, and slowly turned around to face him. Dressed in a black sweatshirt over worn jeans, he looked indescribably handsome, and Stevie’s blood thickened just looking at him. Sunlight glinted off his glasses and the wind ruffled his too-long hair. His left eye was swollen and a lovely shade of purple, and a grayish bruise splayed across his jaw. But his mouth was curved in a smile—despite the cut lip—that tugged at her heart.
Scruffy reached them first, plopped onto her butt in front of Stevie, and growled at Paul.
“Hi, Scruff,” he murmured warily.
Debbie ran up to join them and, breath puffing, asked, “Whatcha doing here, Paul? What happened to your face? Does it hurt? Did you come to see me?”
Paul smiled at her and only winced a bit when his split lip tugged painfully. “My face hurts a little, and this time I came to see your sister,” he said, his gaze locked with Stevie’s.
“How come?”
“Because I want to ask her to marry me.”
Stevie swayed as his words slammed home. She swallowed hard, and as if from a distance, she heard Debbie giggling.
“Are you gonna say yes?” Debbie asked, and without waiting for an answer, went right on talking. “’Cause if you do I could be in the wedding and everything ’cause Marybeth was in her cousin’s wedding and she had a really pretty dress and—”
Stevie only half-heard her sister as the girl kept talking, building an imaginary wedding, starring her as the beautiful bridesmaid. Stevie was too busy staring into Paul’s eyes to hear anything. Well, she stared into the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. And for the first time since she’d known him, he wasn’t trying to hide his emotions. Everything he felt was there for her to see, and it stole her breath away.
Debbie picked up Scruffy and nuzzled her. “I think you should marry him,” she said, and moved off, talking to the little dog and laughing at wet, sloppy doggy kisses.
“Smart girl,” Paul said, smiling, then winced and touched a finger to his lip. “Glad she took Scruffy, though. Don’t think the little thing was happy to see me.”
“Smart dog,” Stevie said, then added, “You look terrible.”
“You should see the other guy.”
“Paul—”
He stepped in close. Hell, he’d been practicing this speech since last night. It hadn’t taken long to convince himself that he couldn’t live without Stevie. About ten minutes in his silent house had done it for him. The thought of never being with her again was like staring into a black hole.
Nothingness.
“Stevie,” he said, his voice low, hurried, “I deserved everything you said to me yesterday, I know that, but that doesn’t change how I feel about you. How I will always feel about you.”
She reached out to gingerly touch the bruise on his jaw, then let her hand drop to her side. “You hurt me, Paul. That list—” She shook her head, remembering the one most damning thing on it. “How could you believe that I could still love Nick and be with you?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “Not really. It was just that damned logical side of me.” He choked out a laugh. “Okay, that didn’t come out right.”
“That damn spreadsheet, Paul.”
“Stupid, I know,” he said, and reached into his pocket. Pulling out a piece of folded paper, he handed it to her. “But I’m a spreadsheet kind of guy, Stevie. Helps me think when I write it all down. Helps me recognize what’s important.”
“I know that. I mean, I know you’re a list person. But what was on that list—God, it was just so cold. So damn logical. It made me doubt you. Doubt what I felt. What we had. Doubt us. And—” She looked at the paper in her hand, then shifted her gaze to his. “What’s this?”
“The ne
w version.”
Stevie sighed and shook her head. “Another one?”
“Just read it,” he said, his gaze moving over her features like a dying man staring at heaven’s gates and hoping for entry.
With shaking fingers, Stevie unfolded the paper and read the now-familiar header, “The Pros and Cons of Loving Stevie.” Then she read the list itself. It didn’t take long. There were only two entries:
Pro: Loving Stevie, have a life.
Con: Losing Stevie, have nothing.
Tears clogged her throat and threatened to choke her. Her fingers crumpled the edges of the list, but she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from those few simple words. Paul tipped her chin up with his fingertips until she was staring into his eyes—eye—instead.
“Remember when I said I didn’t need saving?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I was wrong.” His fingers caressed her jawline, then smoothed her hair back from her face. “Without you, I’m lost, Stevie. Rescue me.”
She smiled softly and shook her head. “A very wise man told me I should retire from the rescuing business.”
“Not so wise,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Not if he could risk losing you.”
“Paul—” Again her fingers traced the outline of the bruise decorating the side of his face.
“Stevie, I’ve loved you my whole life. I want to be the man you turn to in the night. I want to listen to your dreams and help you make them come true. I want to make babies with you. I want us to get old and cranky together. I want to be there for you, with you.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, and, briefly, her mouth. “I want to build a family—a future—with you.”
Her breath hitched in her chest as she listened to the man she loved offer her everything she’d ever wanted. Just yesterday, she’d thought everything was over. Today, there was a whole new world opening up in front of her.
“I need you, Stevie,” Paul said softly. “As a partner. A lover. A wife. A friend.”
She swallowed hard, inhaled deeply, and said the words she’d wanted to say for so long. “I love you, Paul. More than I ever thought I could love anyone.”
A brief smile flashed across his features, and relief shone in his one good eye. He caught her hand and turned his face to plant a kiss at the heart of her palm. “Marry me, Stevie. Put me out of my misery.”
“I want to,” she said softly, knowing there was one more thing she had to say. Another risk. But one she was willing to take, because Paul, she knew, was worth any risk. “But you have to know that Debbie will always be a part of my life. And I don’t know what that might mean in the future.”
“She’s family,” Paul said, summing it all up in two beautiful little words.
Family.
Her family. Paul. Debbie. The Candellanos.
“I really do love you,” Stevie said through her tears, and felt laughter bubbling up inside her. How could you be so happy and so teary at the same time?
“So does that mean yes?”
She gave him a wide smile, then looked around at her sister and asked, “What do you think, Debbie?”
The girl thought about it for a minute, whispered to Scruffy, then tilted her head to one side, grinned, and said, “I think you should kiss him.”
“I said it before,” Paul said, smiling, “and I’ll say it again. Smart girl.”
Stevie looked up into his warm brown eyes—eye—and knew that finally she’d found what she’d always longed for.
And it had been right there in front of her the whole time.
Throwing her arms around his neck, she grinned up at him and said, “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
“Thank God,” he said, holding her close enough that even if she’d tried to get away, she never would have managed it. Drawing his head back, he looked down at her and added, “The whole town’s buzzing about us, you know. Gotta keep those gossips quiet.”
She blinked and stared up at him. “But how did they find out? We were so careful.”
He kissed her, winced at the accompanying pain in his lip, and shrugged. “I told Virginia.”
“You did?”
“Hell, Stevie,” he promised, “give me a couple days and I’ll tell the world.”
Read on for an excerpt from another charming book by Maureen Child
LOVING YOU
Available from St. Martin’s Press
CHAPTER 1
For the first time in his life, the cameras weren’t focused on Nick Candellano.
He didn’t like it.
Nick had spent years in the limelight. As an NFL all-pro running back, he’d had more cameras flashed in his face than a member of the Kennedy family. Hell, he’d even been featured in one of People magazine’s Sexiest Bachelor articles. He’d done radio, TV, and print interviews and was glib enough to charm his way through any situation. Kids had been known to stand in line outside the stadium for hours just to get his autograph.
And now?
“You’re still in my shot,” Bill, the cameraman, muttered.
“Right.” Biting down hard on the quick flash of temper that jittered along his spine, Nick took a single long step to the right. Wouldn’t want to mess up the camera angle. No telling when they might get another chance to film an earthshaking athletic contest like this one.
Pushing one hand through his hair, he squinted into the afternoon sunlight and let his gaze slide across the playing field. The players were in position. The ball was in play. The crowd roared, half of them cheering, the other half heckling the officials.
It should have been familiar. Comforting, almost, to a man who’d spent most of his life suiting up for a game. The only problem here was, the players were high school girls and they were playing soccer, for God’s sake.
And it was Nick’s job to cover it for the local TV station.
The taste of bitterness filled his mouth, but he choked it back down. A new leaf, he reminded himself. That’s what he was doing here. Starting fresh. A new career. Something he could do even with a bum knee.
Christ though.
Girls’ soccer?
A man had to start somewhere, right? Nick shifted position, taking the weight off the bad right knee that had ended his career. While the pain shimmered along his nerve endings, he couldn’t help thinking, as he often did, about that one play that had sidelined his career. If not for that one stinkin’ tackle that had sent his body east and his knee west, he’d still be playing. Still be signing autographs. Still be doing what he loved doing.
Instead, he was standing on the sidelines, in a bonechilling early November wind, getting dust on his Gucci loafers, trying to look interested in a play-off game that meant nothing to anyone not attending either Santiago or St. Anne’s High.
Local TV my ass, he thought. He should be working at ESPN. Probably would have been except for the one guy who’d voted no to Nick’s application. Seems the man still held a grudge about some comments Nick had once made about their coverage of a game. So instead of the big time, here he was, working at a station that included farm reports in the local news. But he had plans. He’d work his way up. Be at ESPN where he belonged. Doing commentary for football games—interviewing players—something that would allow him to stay a part of the game he loved. But until then, he got the shit jobs.
And they didn’t come much shittier than this.
Out on the neatly trimmed grass, one of the girls from St. Anne’s kicked a well-aimed ball at the net, and when the goalie missed it, the game was suddenly over. Screaming teenage girls swarmed across the field, shrieking and laughing as they jumped at one another in celebration.
A momentary twinge jabbed at Nick’s heart and he almost felt a kinship with the high-schoolers. He’d done a lot of those victory dances himself. He’d been in the center of the locker-room festivities after a big win. He’d popped a few champagne corks and showered in the foamy stuff, blinking back tears as the alcohol nearly blinded him.
Damn, he missed it.
He missed everything about it.
“Okay, that’s it,” Bill announced as he straightened up from behind the camera. Glancing at Nick, he said, “You wanna get an interview with the coach first, or with the girls?”
It was like being asked if he’d rather be shot to death or stabbed.
But this was his life, now. And bitching about it wasn’t going to move him up the ladder or get him to ESPN. So he’d choose the lesser of two evils. He just didn’t think he was up to trying to interview some high school soccer player and listening to her “um” and “oh” and “uh” her way through a conversation.
“The coach,” Nick said, and scooped one hand through his hair again. He checked his tie, smoothed one hand down the front of his camel brown sport jacket, then fell into step behind Bill.
The stands emptied of people and they all seemed intent on getting in his way. Bill was a few yards ahead of him, and Nick was in no hurry to catch up.
“Hey, aren’t you Nick Candellano?”
Nick stopped, caught by the awed tone in the voice coming from right behind him. Turning, he looked down at a short balding man with a wide grin.
“You are,” the guy said, nearly breathless with excitement, “Nick Candellano.”
Fond memories reared up and Nick basked in the glow of them for a second or two.
The guy shook his head and blew out a breath. “Man. Imagine that. Seeing you here. I remember the time you took the ball and ran it back eighty-five yards for a TD.” He sighed. “Never saw a run like it—before or since. Man, you cut through those other guys like they weren’t even there.”
Nick remembered, too. “Yeah,” he said, enjoying this quick trip down memory lane. “That was the Atlanta game. Ninety-eight. Good game.”
“Great game,” the shorter man corrected. “You were awesome, man.”
Pride swelled along with the memories and puffed out Nick’s chest. Hell, maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad gig after all. He still had lots of fans out there. Running into one or two of them now and then would cheer him up and give the fans something to talk about when they went home to dinner.
Knowing You Page 27
