by Cindi Madsen
Austin was five and did his best to behave, but clearly sitting still was akin to torture for him, while three-year-old Aaron needed constant appeasing. He kept demanding more drink or Goldfish crackers, standing on his chair to announce his wishes so the entire room could hear.
Taylor and her husband, Scott, would be in the middle of a sentence one minute, then shifting gears to mommy and daddy mode the next. Maribelle, Lance’s father, Chuck, and Mitch and Lance pitched in as if it were second nature, asking the boys a question that drew their attention and made them forget how restless they’d been moments ago.
Charlotte had always wondered what it’d be like to have a big family. The raised-by-nuns retort she’d made to Lance seemed a little too true at times.
Her mom passed away when Charlotte was ten, and Dad had pulled her from her familiar school and enrolled her in the Catholic school right next to the college campus where he coached football. Even though they weren’t exactly Catholic—apparently Grandma James was, and that counted. That and paying tuition and following the rules.
Dad was forever late to pick her up, so she’d end up sitting in the cathedral with one of the few nuns on the staff. Sister Margaret was super strict and put Charlotte to work, because “idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”
If she didn’t do a job 100 percent perfect, Sister Margaret would make her do it again. If she stepped out of line, the doled-out punishments were harsh. Charlotte quickly learned that the easiest way to avoid getting in trouble was to follow the rules to the letter.
It wasn’t all bad, though. She managed to make a handful of friends, and occasionally Sister Agnes would be at the cathedral instead. She mothered Charlotte, showed her the meaning of charity, and kept her hopeful by telling her that one day she’d look back and see how much she’d learned and how strong it’d made her.
That was what she clung to when Dad only paid attention to her as it suited his whims. When she could finally drive herself home and constantly arrived to find it empty.
Even when he came home, it still felt empty.
A strange sort of longing wound through her as she watched Lance’s family interact so easily. Every word, every gesture showed how much they cared about each other, no strings attached.
It’s okay. I have Shannon. Her roommate had become her support system these past six months, and she still had Dad, along with her hopes of repairing their strained relationship. Surely he’d be easier to get through to after he finished treatment for his gambling addiction, too.
“Charlotte, you look so familiar,” Maribelle said, pulling her out of her thoughts. Lance’s mother was seated opposite her, her husband on one side and Aaron’s booster seat on the other. “Were you at my father’s funeral?”
“Yes, I was. Mr. Price was a great boss, and I’m so sorry for your loss.” She should’ve said something sooner, but she’d been so caught up in the buzz and all the people.
“Thank you, dear.” Unshed tears glistened in her eyes, and her husband wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulders. She leaned into the support, but her gaze remained on Charlotte. “How long have you worked for the Mustangs?”
“Seven years.” She glanced at Lance, who’d gone quiet at her side. His attention was on his mom, concern creasing his features.
Maribelle’s smile turned watery. “I loved my father like crazy, but he gave his life to that team. He could get so cranky about football.”
“Can’t we all?” Charlotte automatically said, and she swore the room quieted. “Or…am I the only one?”
Snickers went around the table, and Lance said, “I think you’re in a safe place when it comes to losing your mind over football.”
“You should see how grouchy Mitch is when the team loses,” Stacy chimed in. “I can hardly stand him.” She quickly kissed her fiancé to soften her statement, and he lightly pinched her side, making her laugh.
Maribelle shook her head. “I tried to avoid it. Swore I wasn’t going to marry anyone who liked the sport. But then I met Charles…” Her gaze turned adoring as it drifted to him. “And somehow ended up married to a football player. My dad never let me hear the end of it, either. Now I’m surrounded by football fanatics.”
Guilty smiles bounced from one person’s face to the other, and then an object flew through the air. Lance whipped up his hand and caught the projectile sippy cup, flinching when some of the liquid dripped out and hit his face.
“Future baller right there,” Chuck said, laughing, while Taylor told him to stop encouraging him. She took the blue and yellow cup Lance extended her way and set it out of Aaron’s reach. She explained to him that he wasn’t getting it back until he stopped throwing it, but as soon as she turned to see what Austin needed, Chuck scooted it close enough that his grandson could pick it up.
When Taylor noticed, she asked who’d given him his cup, but the waiters came in with the food they’d ordered, saving anyone from having to rat out Chuck.
No wonder Lance wasn’t a rule follower, although it was sorta endearing from Chuck—probably because she didn’t have to cover him by law.
“You said you’ve been working for the Mustangs for seven years?” Chuck asked, and she nodded. “That’s about the time the Mustangs started losing more than winning.”
Charlotte sipped her water. “It almost sounds like you’re blaming me for their losing streak.”
His laugh held a whole heap of false innocence and mischief. “Of course not. Just making an observation and giving you a bad time.”
“I’m afraid Lance has you beat in that area.” She nudged him with her elbow. “He’s made my job a bit of a challenge as of late.”
Lance gave her a sidelong glance, as if to say careful, I’m watching you.
Undeterred and finding she enjoyed flipping the script and putting him in the hot seat, Charlotte leaned across the table, closer to his parents. “If you have any tips on how to best handle him and his moods, I’ll happily take them.”
“Oh, he’s always been rather stubborn.” Maribelle’s fork clattered against the plate as she set it down. “When he puts his mind to something, there’s not much changing it. Really he was a good kid for the most part. Naturally he got into trouble here and there…”
“Then I’d get grounded from football usually. Sorry, that won’t work in your case,” Lance said, draping his arm over the back of her chair. “I’ve already been grounded for three years.” He said it lightly, but there was an edge to the words.
Her eyes met his, and he faked a smile, one so at odds with the easier, natural smiles that’d spread across his face since they’d arrived at the restaurant.
A pang went through Charlotte’s chest on his behalf, and she opened her mouth, hoping the right words would come out.
“Hey, Mr. NFL’s-most-eligible-bachelor, stop hogging the salt and pass it over here.” His brother sighed, extra loud and dramatic. “I knew it’d go to his head, all the fame and fortune.”
Lance picked up the salt shaker and hurled it, hard and fast. While Charlotte automatically winced, sure it’d hit Mitch in the nose and he’d end up with a black eye for his wedding, he caught it with a laugh.
“Boys!” Maribelle’s voice echoed through the room. “What have I said about throwing stuff at the dinner table? And if you tell me that Aaron got to do it, I’ll show you what I can do.”
Both of her sons hung their heads as if ashamed, but then they started kicking each other under the table. The trash talking started, along with flung-out challenges that would evidently be settled at a football game on the beach tomorrow afternoon.
Charlotte had only seen hints of this more lighthearted version of Lance—really only the two or three minutes he spent on the phone with Foster and during their mini-water fight in the ocean. His family obviously brought it out more. It was probably something most families did, come to think of it.
“Is Charlotte going to play?” Mitch asked, and she nearly inhaled her bite of potatoes.
She coughed to dislodge the food and wheezed, “Oh, I don’t play football. I just watch it.”
“It’s just a fun family and friends game,” Stacy said. “No tackling—well, the guys sometimes get carried away. But we’ve got flags, and we always have a blast.”
Everyone looked so encouraging that Charlotte hated to say no, but she didn’t have a choice. “I was born without hand-eye coordination. Or any athletic ability at all.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Lance said.
“Oh, I assure you it is.”
He smiled down at her, a genuine smile at least, but this one sent a prickling across her skin.
“What?”
“You’re going to play football with us tomorrow. When it comes to my passes, you don’t even have to work to catch them. Just open up your arms and I’ll put it right inside.”
“Not if I duck and close my eyes as I throw my hands over my head.”
He laughed as if she’d been telling a great joke. “Well, don’t do that then.”
“It’s instinctual.” Her voice pitched higher as she tried to convey that she wasn’t kidding, and she definitely didn’t want everyone to witness how truthful she was being about her lack of athleticism.
Lance dropped his arm and squeezed her hand under the table. “We’ll work on it before the game. Trust me.”
Dangerous words.
“If you want to see something really impressive,” Lance said, raising his voice, “you should see what this girl can do when it comes to stats. Charlotte, tell my brother his football stats.”
The prickling from a few seconds ago spread, along with a flush of heat. “I’m sure he knows them.”
“Come on.” Lance squeezed her hand again, making her realize they were practically holding hands, and she told herself it was a friendship sort of hand-holding so it was fine, even if it made her voice come out wobbly.
She rattled off the facts and figures that summarized his career so far, and when Mitch asked for one of his teammate’s stats, she demonstrated her party trick again.
Lance twisted toward her and bent his head. “See. It’s impressive.”
Yeah, she’d impressed people with it before, and they’d used her for it. At least this time it was to advance her career and so that her football team could have a chance at improving, but still. “I feel like your dancing monkey.”
He didn’t move, his face so close to hers, and the apprehension her past had stirred up faded to the background. “You dance?” he asked.
“Nooo,” she said with a laugh.
“Might have to teach you that, too. For the wedding.”
She patted his shoulder. “Let’s take it one impossible task at a time, champ.”
His low laughter traveled across her skin and settled deep in her core. She had no idea how long she’d been grinning at Lance, her hand on his firm shoulder, when she realized his mother was watching them extra closely.
Maribelle was utterly beaming at them, and from that twinkle in her eye, Charlotte was pretty sure she had the completely wrong impression of their relationship.
Chapter Nine
Moonlight danced across Charlotte’s twisted-up hair as she bent to remove her heels. She hooked them in her fingers and straightened, several inches shorter than when they’d exited the restaurant. “There. Much better.”
He extended a hand. “Need me to carry your shoes?”
“I’ve got them,” she said cheerily, practically bouncing on her feet. She said she wanted to walk along the beach for the few blocks to the hotel, and he’d offered to go with her. A walk sounded nice, the temperature was perfect, and he found that without forms at her disposal, he liked spending time with Charlotte. Especially the beach version who dug her toes into the sand and spun in a circle for no apparent reason, like she’d done earlier today and was doing so now.
She’d completely charmed his entire family at dinner. Dad liked to tease people, who often didn’t get that he was joking, but Charlotte had given it right back. Add in the remarks about football and showing off her stats knowledge, and how easygoing she was about their big, boisterous group, and that couldn’t have gone any better.
As he’d hugged Mom goodbye, she’d commented on how smart, kind, and beautiful Charlotte was.
In other words, Mom had decided they should be more than work associates. Which was good. It’d keep her off his back for a while, and Charlotte knew the truth. All in all, this might turn out even better than he’d expected.
“I love the beach. If I was rich, I’d buy a big house right here.” She stopped mid-spin and faced him. “Why don’t you have a house on the beach? Or do you?” She brought a hand up over her mouth. “Never mind. That’s really none of my business.”
“Yeah, getting way too personal there,” he teased. “We lived inland growing up, and my parents still do, but we came to the beach fairly often. We visited my grandfather in Texas now and then, too, and he took us to the beaches down there if it was the off season.”
She cocked her head. “Why didn’t your mom and dad inherit the team?”
A more personal question than the beach house one. Not that he minded—she seemed a bit like a cat. Curious to a fault, although she tried to stifle it. “You heard my mom say she tried to stay away from the football world. She dealt with my dad doing all the required training and traveling for years, and when he retired, she talked nonstop about how done she was with it and how she was glad they could finally live their lives.
“When my grandfather drew up his will, he asked if she was sure she didn’t want it. She said no and made him promise he wouldn’t burden my dad with it, either.”
A crinkle creased Charlotte’s brow, assumedly because she was wondering the same thing he had when Mom let him know about the will and his role in it—how it’d be a burden. Yeah, he understood it involved a lot of big decisions and spending and taking in a lot of money. He didn’t fully understand until the weight of it had fallen on him.
“My dad had a minor heart attack a while back,” he explained. “It scared us all, and Mom doesn’t want him to have extra stress. My ticker’s in better condition.”
“Because it’s made of ice?” she asked, completing another spin.
“Yep, that’s me. Cold, calculating.”
She held out her arms as if she needed to recalibrate herself. Then she stepped up next to him. “So not true. I thought that at first when you were insulting everyone and firing them, but after seeing you with your family… I was just teasing, you know.”
“I know.”
“If anything, you’ve got a football where your heart should be.”
“Weird.”
She laughed, full out, the happy noise drifting across the breeze and smacking him square in the chest.
“How many drinks did you have at dinner?”
“None. I’m high on the beach. Plus, I get sorta punch drunk when I’m overly tired and hit my second wind. My body is like, okay, if you’re not going to give me sleep, you get three extra doses of adrenaline and energy, and now you’ll go super-speed until you crash.”
My God, the thought of her on super-speed—it was both terrifying and exhilarating, and for some reason he wanted to experience more of it. “And how long does this normally last?”
She shrugged. “It’s been a while since I’ve hit this point. An hour or so.” She shimmied her hips to music only she could hear. Then she drifted closer to the wet sand, leaving tiny footprints next to his large ones.
“How tall are you without your shoes, anyway? Five feet?”
Her mouth dropped as if he’d delivered a major insult. “Five-two!”
“Oh, so sorry.”
“Hey, those two inches are important.”
“And in the shoes?” he asked, jerking his chin toward them.
“They add about four inches.” She leaned closer. “I’m not sure we should talk about inches. It might lead to a place that’ll get us in trouble with HR.”
She giggled, and he peered down at her, his amusement growing.
There was a thread of desire as well, but he was doing his best to ignore that. Or there’d be more inches of something else showing, and he’d end up in that trouble she mentioned.
She drifted close enough that their arms brushed. “Hey. About what I said earlier during dinner. Or I guess it was more what you said earlier.” Her eyebrows lifted in the middle in that way they did when she was confused—he was also slightly confused, no clue what she was talking about. She had the most expressive eyebrows he’d ever seen, and suddenly he was thinking there was something sexy about them, and who knew eyebrows could be sexy? “What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry about your knee surgery and that it ended a really impressive career.”
He shrugged it off. “It’s in the past.”
“I know, but you said that thing about being grounded from it, and I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose something you love…”
“Yeah, what would you do if someone took away your handbook and forms?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Very funny. And you’re trying to brush it off and act like it’s nothing. I’ll let you this time, but I sincerely hope you find some of that love again as you’re rebuilding the Mustangs. Honestly, when I heard you were taking over, I thought you’d be a spoiled, entitled former player with a huge ego who didn’t have a clue about how to run an entire team.”
“Wow. Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”
“That’s why you kept me around, remember? I say it how it is. And I wasn’t done yet, so hush.”
Man, she was on one. He couldn’t remember the last time someone told him to hush—he wondered if he’d lost his mind because it only made him want to hear what she’d say next that much more. Enough that he slowed his pace so they wouldn’t reach the hotel before she could finish her possibly insulting thoughts.
