by Candis Terry
Another laugh leaped from her pale lips. “Does she ever. And believe me, the first time, she was not a happy camper.” She leaned forward. “How’s the shoulder?”
Dean leaned away. “It’s . . . fine?”
“Oh, we both know that’s a lie, don’t we? Why don’t you shift around in the seat there, so you don’t strain it?”
“I’m good,” he said. Albeit crazy as hell.
“Okay then. Let’s go with that.” She reached a ghostly hand up to push at the messy gray bun at the top of her head. “I’m so glad you came home. Your daddy has been feeling a little lonesome since your sister moved out.”
“I’m not here for long. Have to get back for physical therapy.”
“Can’t Mark Johnson over at the clinic help you with that?”
“I don’t know him, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know much about sports med. Mom?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“What the hell is going on?”
“You mean, why am I still hanging around?”
“Something like that.”
“Aren’t you glad to see me?”
Bulldozed might be a better word. “Of course I’m glad to see you. I’m just . . . not supposed to be seeing you.”
“Well, like I told Kate, you don’t just wake up one day and say, ‘Gee, I’m going to leave all this unfinished business behind.’ ”
Okay, so not only was he talking to his mother’s ghost, she wasn’t making any sense. “And that means?”
She held up one translucent finger. “Katherine.” Another finger went up. “You.” A third finger. “Kelly. All unfinished business. Well, I guess I can scratch Kate from the list. Boy, I had to work hard on that one. That girl is stubborn.”
He smiled. Like mother, like daughter. “So you’re taking credit for Kate staying in Deer Lick and getting married?”
“Credit?” She tapped a finger against her cheek. “No. But we did manage to patch up our relationship, and that opened up a whole lot of doors for her.”
“Well, I’m glad you made amends. It was a long time coming.”
“Yeah. One that almost didn’t happen.” She shook her head and her glow kind of jiggled. “But that’s what I’m talking about, Son. Unfinished business.”
“You didn’t need to come back for me, Mom. As happy as I am to see you, I’m okay.”
She reached out as if to touch his cheek then withdrew her hand. “Oh, my precious boy, you are so handsome. So strong. And so smart.”
The compliment warmed his heart. “Thanks, Mom.”
“And so clueless.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Did you ever think about giving up?”
The next afternoon, Dean sat with his new brother-in-law and Deputy James Harley at one of the bistro sets Kate had installed when she’d transported the Sugar Shack from the faded era of disco into the new millennium with shades of Neapolitan ice cream.
He took the last bite of his ham and Swiss on wheat and leaned back against the iron chair. For the first time since he entered high school he felt truly lazy. No place to go. Nothing to do. No skeptical doctors or pessimistic therapists messing with his chi. He was on his own. Enjoying some peace and quiet and a little hometown hospitality.
“Giving up?” Matt raised his dark brows. “You mean did I give up thinking your sister would ever come back home?”
“No. That she’d ever come back to you.”
Matt nodded. “About a month after her tennis shoes hit the highway.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Ten years and worth every second.”
They both glanced across the busy bakery to the redheaded subject of the conversation as she packed up a box full of red and green sprinkle-topped cupcakes.
“Ten years you could have been together,” James added.
A frown tugged at Dean’s brows. The last time he’d seen the man had been when he’d danced with his sister Kelly at Kate’s wedding. Kelly had been two sheets to the wind and full of giggles. Dean just hoped Harley hadn’t taken advantage of her. He’d hate to have to kill him.
“I don’t think of it that way.” Matt brushed the paper napkin across his mouth and wiped away the crumbs from his tuna sub. “If she’d stayed and we’d gotten married so young, it probably wouldn’t have lasted. Too much growing up to do.”
“Yeah, and you weren’t any angel all that time, either,” James said with a grin.
Matt frowned. “Could you not mention that in front of someone who could kick my ass sideways?”
“Busted wing.” Dean pointed to his shoulder. “You’re safe this time.”
“Yeah, like we don’t know all about your escapades, Silverthorne,” James added. “Doesn’t it piss you off when all those pictures of you and your supermodel of the week end up on the cover of People magazine or the National Enquirer?”
“Really, Harley?” Dean cocked his head. “You think I’m going to complain about being seen with a supermodel or two?”
The sandwich in James’s hand halted midair. “What the hell? I’m a jerk for even thinking that.”
“Might have to take your man card away.” Dean loved women. He loved the way they thought completely differently, and most of the time more rationally than he did. He loved the way they smelled, the way they felt against him, the way they laughed, the way they moaned his name when he was buried deep inside them. There wasn’t one detail he didn’t love about women. Well, most women. He didn’t love a woman who nailed him with a critical glare and then lumped him in with every other jack-off on the planet.
“All right, Mr. Perfect.”
Dean looked up as Kate walked toward him with a white pastry box perched on her palm.
“Schmoozing-with-the-locals time is over.” She set the box on the table in front of him. “I need you to make a delivery for me.” She leaned down and gave her new husband a kiss on the cheek.
“I don’t believe cupcake deliveries are in my contract, Commissioner,” Dean said. He’d known it wouldn’t take long before she’d wrangle him into her bakery deeds.
“Remember all those times I caught you sneaking through your bedroom window?”
“I’m too old for you to blackmail me now, baby sister.”
“Oh really?” She pulled her cell phone from her apron pocket. “Then how about I give Fawn Derick a call and let her know you’re back in town for an extended stay. I think her husband just left for a golf tourney in Hilton Head.”
Dean crumpled his sandwich wrapper into a ball and stood. No way in hell did he need a married woman with wandering hands to complicate his life. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said to his lunch partners, “It appears I have a delivery to make.”
Dean rolled his mother’s beast of a car into the Deer Lick Elementary parking lot. The designated parking-space lines were obscured by four inches of fresh snow, so he chose a spot near the playground to keep from bumping the Buick into the SUVs and minivans already parked.
The old brick building was exactly as he remembered it—only now it seemed much smaller. The steel letters on the front were topped by a skiff of white and the big glass doors looked smeared with kid prints and germs. He grabbed the pastry box and headed toward the doors, reminding himself to use his elbow to push his way through. He didn’t need a nasty cold or flu to add to his misery.
A sign posted said he needed a pass to enter, so he wiped his wet boots on the floor mat, then walked into the office.
“Oh my heavens, if it isn’t Dean Silverthorne. I haven’t seen you since you played for the Deer Lick Destroyers.” Mrs. Mayberry and her rhinestone glasses had worked behind that counter since he could remember. She was old as dirt but she’d always been one of the nicest people he’d ever known.
He clapped a hand to his heart. “And here I thought you’d watched all the touchdown passes I’d made since.”
“Well of course I have. My husband Ned never misses a game.” She came around the counter to give him a
hug. “I’m so sorry about your mama. Letty was such a wonderful woman. I could always count on her to bring in gobs of donations for the women’s auxiliary fundraiser.”
Dean smiled at the warmth the memory brought him. His mother had always considered herself an advocate for any charity that came across her plate. She’d probably raised hundreds of thousands of dollars to help others. He’d tried to follow in her footsteps. Maybe he hadn’t put in the actual sweat equity, but he’d delivered ample funds to his favorite organizations. Mostly those that involved children.
He loved the outright honesty of little kids. And when he did have the opportunity, he helped. He’d gotten to know a few of the little guys who often came to the Stallions games via the Houston charities. Even when the kids hadn’t been feeling a hundred percent, they still lit up at the opportunity to be able to go into the locker room and meet the players or walk through the stadium tunnel and out onto the field. In those times, Dean realized if the sick children could put themselves out there for him, he’d be selfish not to return the favor. All the children left with souvenirs, autographs, photos, whatever they wanted. Their charities went home with sizable donations. The only regret he’d ever had was that he hadn’t been able to wave a magic wand and heal them.
“So what brings you here today?” Mrs. Mayberry asked.
He lifted the pastry box. “Kate sent me here on a delivery. Guess the kindergarten class is having a holiday party.”
“Around here we still call them Christmas parties.” Mrs. Mayberry grinned. “Room eight. Down the hall, fourth door on the left.”
Dean left the office with a promise to send her husband an autographed ball cap. The soles of his boots echoed on the tile floor as he made his way past pint-sized lockers and posters that announced various school activities.
Quietly, so as not to disturb the class in progress, he opened the door to room eight and stepped inside. At least twenty-four little kids in bright sweatshirts and fresh-faced innocence looked up at his sudden appearance. All of them looked, with the exception of one little boy in the back who appeared intent on stacking colorful blocks on the top of a long table. Paper snowflakes and candy canes decorated the walls. The room smelled like dry erase marker, sweaty little boys, and bubble-gum Chapstick.
Dean glanced toward the front of the class and the teacher who stood with her back to him while she wrote on a large white board nailed to the wall. She wore sensible black pumps, a classic straight skirt, and a fitted white blouse. Not the most eye-catching ensemble, but the curves beneath those plain clothes were in all the right places.
Her hair had been pulled back into a sleek blond ponytail that gently swayed as she wrote the word umbrella with a blue marker on the board. When several of the children giggled, she never broke her concentration but said in a smooth, patient voice, “Okay, let’s calm down and focus.”
When the giggles continued, the teacher slowly turned her head in his direction.
Recognition dawned.
Her pillowy pink lips dropped open on a gasp and a slight hint of the tiny space between her front teeth emerged.
Dean’s instantaneous physical reaction forced him to lower the pastry box and hide what was most definitely not general audience rated.
No doubt about it, he would have to strangle his matchmaking sister.
Why was Dean Silverthorne standing in her classroom?
And why did he look like he was about to drop the white box clutched in his highly insured hands?
Emma slipped the cap back onto the marker and set it on the metal tray beneath the white board—a stalling tactic to give her heart time to settle back into a normal tempo. “Can I help you?”
He looked behind himself as though she were talking to someone else. Then those green eyes focused right in on her.
“Kate told me to deliver these cupcakes for a holiday party in room eight.”
“We don’t have a party scheduled. Are you sure she didn’t mean the middle school? Or the high school?”
“Pretty sure she said this one.” He smiled, knowing he’d been had by his own sister. “I’d hate to see these cupcakes go to waste.” He turned to address her class. “Any of you kids want me to take these cupcakes back to the Sugar Shack?”
“No!” The students shouted.
He turned back to Emma. “How about it, teacher? You up for a little impromptu celebration of the season?”
Like she was going to tell him no? And suffer a mutiny in the kindergarten classroom from pint-sized mischief makers? No thanks. “I’m always up for a party.” She walked toward him and the closer she came, the taller he got. The thickness of his parka only added size to the exquisitely cut muscles on his lean-hipped frame. The midnight blue sweater he wore would make a lesser man look pale, but Dean Silverthorne, of course, looked like a sun-kissed god.
She took a step closer. His aftershave drifted beneath her nose. She inhaled and fought the urge to close her eyes and let go a hum of appreciation. Why did this man always have to smell so darned good? With a forced calm she extended her hands to take the pastry box, while her crazy side wished she could curl them into the front of that blue sweater and drag him closer for another whiff.
Beneath the cardboard box their fingers touched and a sizzle of warmth tickled her spine. She looked up to find his eyes smiling.
“How about I stay and help?” he asked in a low, deep tone that made the warmth in her spine race around to her belly and head south.
“Well . . . I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“I could pass out the cupcakes while you finish your lesson.”
“I don’t have napkins,” she answered with what she thought was a logical response.
He shrugged his good shoulder. “Icing tastes better when it’s licked off anyway.”
Oh, dear. “I’m sure paper towels will do.” She took the box from his hands. “But I do thank you for the inventive offer.”
With a careful motion his coat slid down his arms and he tossed it on the table near the door. For a man with an injured shoulder his movements were smooth and almost elegant.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, in an attempt to keep their conversation private from curious little ears.
“Helping.”
“But I didn’t say you could stay.”
“You didn’t say I couldn’t. You just said you didn’t think it would be a good idea. I think it’s a great idea.” He took the box from her, flipped open the lid, and turned to the class. “Who wants a cupcake?”
Twenty-four hands shot into the air and the words me, me, me echoed until it sounded as though hungry seagulls circled overhead.
Taken aback, Emma stood by her desk as one of the world’s highest-paid athletes strolled desk to desk and placed a cupcake in each child’s hand. He chatted with them, laughed with them, and soon her class fell under his spell like he was one of their playground buddies. When he came to the table in back, Emma held her breath. Dean set the box on the table and hunkered beside Brenden Jones. While the rest of the class chattered like squirrels and licked at the icing on their cupcakes, Brenden had his head down, focused on the task of stacking blocks.
“That’s a pretty nice row of blocks you made there,” Dean said.
No response from Brenden. Not that Emma had expected one.
“What’s your name?” Dean asked.
Again. No response. Emma expected Dean to rise and walk away. Instead he lightly tapped the desk beneath Brenden’s gaze. The boy’s head came up but he did not make eye contact.
“What’s your name?” Dean asked again in that same, even tone he used the time before. Not an ounce of the typical frustration an adult usually displayed when being ignored by a child showed on his face or in his body language. Emma found herself oddly fascinated.
“Brenden.”
Dean smiled. “Do you like red cupcakes, Brenden?”
The boy’s gaze darted around the room. Once again he offered no response.
“How about green cupcakes? Do you like green cupcakes, Brenden?”
“Yes,” the child answered. “Green.”
“Great. Here you go. One green cupcake for my friend, Brenden.” Dean lifted a cupcake from the box and set it in front of the boy. Then he slowly stood and walked toward the front of the class.
“You should have asked him to say thank you,” Emma said. “He—”
“Has autism,” Dean said, setting the near-empty pastry box on her desk.
Surprise tilted her heart a little. “How did you know?”
“I do a lot with children’s charities. Bo Miller, the Stallions’ defensive tackle, has a son with autism.” He leaned his super-fine butt against her desk and crossed one worn cowboy boot over the other. He snagged the second to the last cupcake from the box, peeled back the paper, and took a bite. “Kids are all different. You just have to find a way to communicate with them.”
Emma couldn’t stop staring at the fascinating way his mouth moved as he spoke, while white icing and red sprinkles clung to his beautifully curved top lip.
“It’s like plays called in the huddle,” he said. “Most people who watch the game have no idea what all those numbers and grunts mean.” He leaned a little closer. “But the running back? Now he might have heard his number called out in the mix. Kids like Brenden benefit from straightforward questions and responses.”
“That’s a very astute realization,” she commented, completely shocked that a man with his over-the-top lifestyle would have that level of insight on children with autism.
He glanced across the classroom. “I imagine kids like him are a challenge for you.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “In a good way.” She watched Brenden meticulously pick the sprinkles off his cupcake and eat them one at a time. “I like to think of kids like Brenden as gifts. I think they teach me far more about myself than I can ever teach them.”
“Then that should tell you one thing,” Dean said.
“What’s that?”
“That you’re in the right place doing the right thing at the right time.”
