As she drew nearer to him, Sloan noticed that she was about his age—late thirties—with clear gray eyes, touches of silver and auburn in her hair, and a spray of freckles over her nose and cheekbones. Her mouth was good, full and smiling, and her smile was good, too, broad and uninhibited. She wore not a bit of makeup, but somehow, she didn’t really need it. She was wholesome and healthy-looking, and Sloan was surprised to discover that he found her attractive. Usually, he didn’t go for wholesome and healthy-looking. Usually, he went for flashy and luscious-looking.
“You must be Mr. Sullivan,” she said as she halted before him, extending her hand.
He nodded and accepted her hand automatically, and he noticed right away that it wasn’t like most women’s hands. No, this one was large and rawboned and callused, with fingernails clipped short, and completely devoid of jewelry.
“Yes, I’m here for the Lend a Hand thing,” he said as he let her hand drop. “I’m looking for Coach Carmichael. Do you know where he is?”
Her smile fell some, and she eyed him curiously for a moment. Then she fisted the hand that wasn’t holding the basketball on her—surprisingly curvy—hip and smiled again, her gaze never once veering from his. “I’m Naomi Carmichael,” she told him. “Coach Carmichael. And I can’t thank you enough for taking time out of your busy schedule to help us out this month.”
Sloan narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re Coach Carmichael?” he asked, confused. “Us?” he asked further, even more confused.
“Yeah, us,” she said. Then she gestured over one shoulder with her thumb, toward the group of girls who were eyeing him with open curiosity. “The Lady Razorbacks,” she said further. “Thanks for volunteering to be our assistant coach for the next month. We really do appreciate it.”
Chapter 2
“The Lady Razorbacks?” Sloan Sullivan cried as he gazed passed Naomi, over her shoulder, and out at the gym floor.
Naomi narrowed her eyes at him and wondered at his flabbergasted reaction. Surely he’d known he would be coaching girls, she thought. And even if he hadn’t, what was the big deal? Why would the gender of the team be significant? Their regular assistant coach was a man.
“Ye-es,” she replied slowly, “the Lady Razorbacks. Will that be a problem, Mr. Sullivan?”
He glanced back at Naomi’s face, then at the girls on the floor again, then back at Naomi once more. “But—but—but—I mean… It’s just… How could… This isn’t…”
Honestly, Naomi thought. For an educated man, he sure didn’t have much of a vocabulary. Then again, a man who looked like he did probably didn’t have to talk very much to get ahead, even if he was an attorney in his real life.
He was tall—several inches taller than Naomi, and that was saying something. At five-eleven, she didn’t have to look up to very many men, a fact of her physique that she enjoyed a lot. Still, Sloan Sullivan was easily five or six inches taller than she. And he probably outweighed her by a good sixty or seventy pounds, too—but not because he was overweight by any means. No, she could see, even through layers of clothing, that every ounce of this man was pure muscle. She’d been told by Phil Leatherman, Jackson High’s principal, that Mr. Sullivan had played basketball in high school and college. Obviously, the athlete in him was still alive and kicking. He may be a workaholic attorney these days—which she’d also learned from Phil—but he clearly took time out of his busy schedule to keep himself in shape.
She guessed his age to be close to her own thirty-eight, thanks to the faint lines fanning out from his eyes and bracketing his full lips, and the few threads of silver winding through his black hair. The razor-straight tresses were conservatively and expertly cut, and somehow Naomi knew—she just knew—he paid more for one haircut than she spent in a week feeding herself and her four kids. Of course, she did buy store brands and use coupons—lots and lots of coupons—but still. His hands were big and masculine, but she’d noticed when she shook with him that they weren’t callused or overworked. And his eyes were…oh… So blue. A dark, rich, velvety blue, like the morning glories that climbed up the back trellis in the summertime. Oh, yes. The epitome of tall, dark and handsome. Quite the dreamboat was Mr. Sloan Sullivan.
Now, now, Naomi, she cautioned herself. She knew better than to have thoughts like that. Just because it had been more than four years since she’d been intimate with any—
But she didn’t allow herself to think about things like that. It was tough enough getting through life as a single woman—a single woman who’d been dumped by her husband, no less—and raising four daughters on a teacher’s salary, and trying to keep them, and herself, out of trouble. Naomi didn’t need to go looking for more. And this Sloan Sullivan, with his hundred-and-fifty-dollar haircut and his Vandy sweats, was Trouble with a capital T. Because only a few minutes after meeting him, Naomi was already yearning for things she hadn’t had for a very long time, things she wasn’t likely to have again for even longer.
She hadn’t met too many men who were inclined to ask out a woman who had four kids. Especially not in a town like Wisteria, where the only single men were widowers in their eighties. And, judging by the looks of him, Sloan Sullivan was a man whose taste ran more toward young, petite, dainty little blondes in slinky dresses, and not towering, butch brunettes who didn’t know the meaning of the word foundation—either for face or body support.
Still, Wisteria was Naomi’s home, and had been for the bulk of her adult life. And Wisteria was, for the most part, a good place to raise kids. It was quiet, the pace was slow and crime was pretty much nonexistent, save the occasional adolescent prank. But, hey. Naomi had been an adolescent, too, once upon a time. Even if she couldn’t find a single thing about herself these days that reminded her of that carefree kid.
She pushed the thought away and focused her attention on Mr. Sloan Sullivan again, realizing he hadn’t yet answered her question.
“Will it be a problem, Mr. Sullivan?” she asked again. “Do you have some objection to coaching girls?” And if he did, Naomi thought further, would he mind if she smacked him around a bit, until she’d knocked a little sense into his thick head?
He returned his attention to her face, and she marveled again at how handsome he was. Damn. This was going to make the next month even more difficult to get through than it had already promised to be. It would be hard enough for the team to maintain their fevered momentum with a new—and temporary—coach whom none of them knew. But with their new—and temporary—coach looking like…like…like…that, the Lady Razorbacks were going to be totally distracted.
And worse, so would their coach.
“But…but…they’re girls,” Sloan Sullivan said, his voice tinted with petulance and something akin to distaste.
Naomi nodded and tried very hard—really, she did—not to be too sarcastic when she replied, “Whoa, good call, Mr. Sullivan. You’re absolutely right. They are, in fact, girls.”
“But girls can’t play basketball,” he said, still sounding like he’d ingested something that didn’t agree with them.
“Oh?” Naomi asked crisply. “Why not, pray tell?”
“Well, because they’re girls,” he said. “They don’t have the—”
“Your next word may be your last, Mr. Sullivan,” Naomi interjected as diplomatically as she could. “If I were you, I’d think good and hard before I chose it.”
Immediately, he snapped his mouth shut. But she could tell he wasn’t quite ready to concede the battle. Maybe what he needed was a little push in the right direction, she thought.
“Let me tell you something about girls who play sports, Mr. Sullivan,” she said coolly. “Statistically speaking, girls who are involved in sports during their school years grow up to be stronger, healthier women. They have a lower incidence of breast cancer and depression and heart disease, and they have higher self-esteem and self-confidence. They’re less likely to become pregnant before they’re ready, and they’re more likely to leave an abusive relationship.
Not to mention, they just have a helluva lot of fun.
“Now then,” she continued, her tone a tad less brittle than before, “you were saying, Mr. Sullivan? About girls playing basketball? They can’t because they don’t have the what?”
And with that, Sloan Sullivan finally did back down. Sort of. As much as a man of his accelerated height could back down, anyway, Naomi supposed.
“Well, they just play like girls, that’s all,” he finished a bit more tactfully.
Naomi smiled. “Damn straight they do,” she retorted. “Watch this.”
Without warning him any further, she spun around and hurled the basketball toward her center—her daughter Evelyn—who caught it effortlessly and began to dribble, rocketing down the length of the court with staggering velocity and equilibrium, weaving in and out of the girls who tried to interfere, until she vaulted toward the opposite hoop and, with a sweet-sounding swish, stuffed it for two points.
“In your face, Mom!” she shouted with a smile as she landed gracefully on the floor beneath the goal.
“Mom?” Sloan Sullivan echoed.
Naomi nodded and smiled. “That’s my girl!” she yelled. Though whether she was congratulating her daughter or overstating to her new assistant coach, volume-wise, her relationship to the team’s center, Naomi wasn’t entirely sure. “Katie’s mine, too,” she added indicating the shorter version of Evelyn, who was, at that moment, high-fiving her sister.
“You have two daughters on the team?” Sloan asked.
“Yep,” Naomi told him. “Evy’s my center, a junior, and Katie’s a guard, a freshman.”
“They resemble you,” he said, nodding. “And you teach English, as well, I understand?” he asked further, something he’d obviously gleaned from his own chat with the Jackson High principal.
“Yep,” she said again.
“You must be a busy woman, Mrs. Carmichael,” he observed as he watched the team reconvening at the center of the floor.
“Yeah, I am,” Naomi agreed with a smile. “Especially when you include the two other daughters I have at home.”
He said nothing in response to that, but turned briskly to look at her, his expression both startled and inquisitive. And there was something about the way he looked at her in that moment that made Naomi feel…funny. Not funny ha-ha, but funny strange, because what she felt seemed kind of familiar somehow, even if she hadn’t felt it for a very long time. He seemed to be appraising her, she realized. And she realized that, somewhere deep down inside herself, a little part of her wanted him to like what he saw. Unfortunately, another not-so-little part of her was worrying that she didn’t measure up.
But measure up to what? she wondered. She hadn’t cared what any man thought of her for a long time. She didn’t care now, she assured herself. She was a thirty-eight-year-old woman with four children, a woman whose husband had hit the road the minute he found out about the impending arrival of number four. She didn’t have time to worry about what other people—what men—thought of her. And she didn’t have the inclination, either.
But that didn’t stop her from caring just then what Sloan Sullivan thought of her. And Naomi didn’t like it that she cared as much as she did.
Somehow, she stopped herself from running a hand through her short, dark hair, to smooth out the unruly tresses that she hadn’t brushed since that morning. And somehow, she kept herself from biting her lips, hard, in an effort to put a little color in them. Instead, she spun around and shouted out a few instructions to her team, and then watched her girls go to work.
The moment she blew her whistle, they broke off into two camps and began to practice. Where normally, Naomi would have joined them, shouting out more instructions and pointers, this time, she didn’t say a word. But she did turn to gauge Sloan Sullivan’s reaction as he watched the Lady Razorbacks work out. At first, he had a little trouble keeping up with them, so swiftly and deftly did the girls move. Eventually, though, he got into the spirit of things. His gaze ricocheted from one player to another, darting up and down the length of the court as the girls did. And with every passing moment, Naomi could see the admiration in his eyes grow.
“Wow,” he finally said with much understatement. “They’re, uh… They’re pretty good.”
Naomi smiled proudly. “Yes, they are. They’re extremely good. They’re going to the state championship, Mr. Sullivan. And they’re going to win it. The question now is, are you going to help us get there? Or are you just going to be dead weight?”
He glanced at the rapidly moving girls again, then back at Naomi. “I’m in,” he said with a smile. “Let’s go all the way.”
Naomi reminded herself that he was talking about team sports, and not sexual escapades. Still, she couldn’t quite squelch the itinerant heat that wound through her at hearing his words. She would not be going all the way with Sloan Sullivan, she hastened to remind herself. She had just met the man, and she would only have contact with him two nights a week for one month.
She wouldn’t be going all the way with anyone, she told herself further, forcing herself to be brutally honest, because she figured she needed the reminder just then. Not until she’d finished raising four daughters and sent them all off to live their own lives, at any rate. Of course, seeing as how her youngest, Sophie, was only four, by the time all the girls were out of the house, Naomi would be so old and dried up, no man would want her. And even if, by some wild miracle, she found a man who did want her, by then, she would have forgotten what it was that a man and a woman were supposed to do together.
So, for now, she’d have to settle for “going all the way” with her team. And she told herself, as she always did, that that would be enough. Funny, though, where before, Naomi had always believed herself when she told herself that, suddenly, as she looked at Sloan Sullivan, she wasn’t so sure she did anymore.
“Practice ends at seven,” she told him, shoving her troubling thoughts away for now. “You busy afterward?”
He seemed surprised by the question, but slowly shook his head. “No, not really.”
“I don’t live far from here. Of course, nothing is far from anything in Wisteria,” she added with a halfhearted smile. “But if you want to follow me home after practice, I’ll fix us some supper. And then, after the girls clean up and head to their rooms, you and I can talk strategy for the team.”
When she’d first started voicing her offer, Naomi had noted that Sloan Sullivan suddenly began to look terrified. But by the time she finished talking, he seemed much relieved, as if, initially, he’d been afraid she had something else in mind. She smiled sadly at the realization. Poor guy. He’d been scared that she was making plans for just the two of them. Plans that didn’t revolve around basketball, even if they’d maybe focused on a little fun and games.
And as much fun as games might be with him, Naomi thought further, there would be little point. Men like him, although they were certainly good at games and running around, never stayed long enough for the main event. It was just as well he’d only be coaching the girls for a month, until Lou Melton, their usual assistant coach, would be back at work. Because by the time March Madness rolled around, Naomi would need a guy in her court who would be there for the girls and for her. And Sloan Sullivan simply was not that kind of man. He was far more suited to big business boardrooms and high-society cocktail parties, draped with ornamental women who wouldn’t know a rebound from a double dribble.
“Planning a strategy for the team sounds like a good idea,” he said. And then, for a second time, he assured her, “I’m in.”
Oh, that he was, Naomi thought. That he definitely was. Even after knowing him for a matter of moments, Sloan Sullivan was already, definitely, in. And all she could do now was hope it wouldn’t be hard to get him out again, once their month of working together was over.
Chapter 3
Surprisingly, Naomi and her daughters didn’t live on the same side of town where they worked and attended school, Sloan noted as he pulle
d his roadster to a stop in the Carmichael driveway behind the aged, tired-looking Carmichael minivan. In fact, Naomi’s was very much like one of the charming white frame houses he had passed on his way through Wisteria earlier that evening, situated only a couple of blocks from the town square. The yard was tidy, if small, a good bit of it arranged in such a way as to suggest that, in the greener months, it was a fairly extravagant garden. And although the place really didn’t seem large enough to accommodate a family of six—presuming there was a Mr. Carmichael to go with the rest of the Carmichaels, something Sloan found himself feeling apprehensive about for some reason—he supposed the homestead would qualify as “cozy.”
Not that coziness was anything he wanted to invite into his own life, mind you, but, looking at Naomi Carmichael’s house, he could certainly see why something like coziness might appeal to other people.
The inside was as charming as the outside, he noted further as he followed the three Carmichael women of his acquaintance inside. The furnishings were old but comfortable, not quite antiques, but sturdy and full of personality nonetheless—overstuffed chairs covered in chintz florals, curio cabinets filled with mementos, large, well-worn, wool-hooked rugs spanning most of the hardwood floors. The living room was painted a dark, rich green, which flowed surprisingly well into the terra-cotta-colored dining room beyond. Built-in shelves in both rooms were crammed full of books and family photographs and an assortment of mismatched knickknacks. More photographs and watercolor paintings of flowers and gardens filled the walls, and plants tumbled from every other available surface. All in all, the Carmichael home looked like a place where a lot of living—and a lot of color—went on.
Briefly, Sloan compared the house to his own downtown Atlanta condo, which was sparsely furnished in what he liked to think of as “clean contemporary.” White walls, minimalist white furnishings, white carpeting, and splashes of primary colors in abstract, geometric artwork and accent pieces. It was by no means child-friendly. And it was, to put it mildly, not much like the home into which he had just wandered.
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