by Candis Terry
The two of them scooped and chatted about everything from the spaghetti dinner Matt had cooked for Kate last night to how their father fared without their mother to what Hollywood celebs wore Spanx. Emma was shocked to learn that even a few high-powered male movie stars refused to leave the mansion without them.
Time flew and Emma felt like she’d been let into a very exclusive club. Like she belonged. It was nice, but it also served to remind her how badly she wanted her own family. Her own someone-to-love.
Minutes later, Kate dragged her behind the counter, slipped an apron over her head, and tied it in the back. Then Kate went to the cooler and brought out a large, dirty-iced sheet cake, and spun Emma toward the counter. “You, my intelligent friend, are going to find your creative side.”
“I don’t think I’ll be much help,” Emma said. “I can barely show the kids how to finger paint.”
“Hey, if Maggie can do it, so can you.”
Kate opened the lid of a plastic bucket and withdrew a big glob of hot pink goo, which she then set at the top of a stainless machine and punched a button. The glob on top disappeared and perfect sheets of fondant rolled out the bottom.
“Besides.” Kate lifted the fondant away from the machine. “I sense you need to release a little stress.”
“Stress? Me?” Emma laughed. “A classroom of five-year-olds has a way of doing that, I suppose.”
“And working toward your master’s.”
“Yeah. That too.” Emma watched as Kate carefully laid the big sheet of fondant over the top of the iced cake, then showed Emma how to smooth it with her hands. Next a glob of black fondant ran through the machine while Kate grabbed a round piece of wood off the counter.
“It’s easy to complain, but I honestly love every minute of teaching,” Emma said. “You know that old quote that kids say the darndest things? This morning Billy Ware asked me if I knew a good place to buy a new a top hat because his was broken. Apparently the one he’d put on his snowman didn’t make it magically come alive.”
“I can’t wait to have a baby,” Kate said.
“What?” Emma’s hands still on the layer of fondant. “You just got married.”
“I didn’t say I planned to have one any time soon. We have to get Matt elected sheriff first.” Kate grinned. “Plus, I’m having way too much fun practicing right now. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you want children?”
An empty pang rippled through Emma’s stomach. “Of course. But I really can’t even think about that now. Too much to do.”
“And . . .” Kate rolled the black fondant over the circle of wood. “There’s the little issue of having a daddy to go along with that picture?”
“Yeah. Kind of hard to conceive alone.” She really did need to consider a dating service. There must be a man out there who’d be interested in a kindergarten teacher with no history of arrests, violence, or vices.
“Hmmm.” Kate handed Emma the smoothing trowel. “So how was your New Year’s?”
“Nothing special.” Emma leaned down with the pretense of making sure the fondant was centered properly. “I took down my Christmas decorations, reorganized my cupboards, watched a movie.” Had amazing sex with your brother. “The usual.”
“I thought you had a date with Jesse.”
“He canceled at the last minute. His uncle in Missoula had a heart attack.”
“That’s too bad,” Kate said.
“He called today to say his uncle would be fine and he wanted to reschedule our date.”
“He is a very nice-looking man.” Kate clapped the flour from her hands.
“I suppose.”
“So are you going out with him?”
“I told him I would.”
“If you ask me, I don’t think Jesse Hamilton flips your switch.” Kate gave Emma a pair of latex gloves to put on. Then she slapped down another glob of white fondant, and with a toothpick added in a pinch of turquoise coloring. She handed the ball to Emma to knead. “Now, my brother—”
Is a spoiled superstar. “Your brother?” Emma squeezed the ball of fondant with all her might. “What about him?”
Kate shrugged. “I saw the way he looked at you Christmas night at our house.”
“He didn’t look at me in any way. He merely walked into a conversation Jesse and I were having about . . . cat food.”
“Hard to imagine Dean being interested in anything that doesn’t have to do with good hands and fast passes.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay then,” Kate said. “Let me rephrase that remark. I saw the way you were looking at him and I think there might be something there.”
“Oh, no.” Emma shook her head and smushed the ball of fondant down on the counter. “I guess you missed those frown lines between my eyes. No offense—your brother might be handsome but he can irritate me faster than anyone I’ve ever known.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought about Matt too.” Kate sighed. “When I first came back, I had no interest in even talking to that man, let alone falling in love with him. But I fell hard. Like I’d jumped out of a perfectly good airplane without a parachute.”
“Well, whether your brother interests me or not—and I lean heavily on the not,” Emma said, intent on putting a lock on the subject. “He went home to Houston.”
“Aha!” Kate pointed her finger. “I knew there was something going on.”
“There’s nothing going on, Kate.”
“Then how did you know he went back to Houston?”
Oops. “Kate. Population: six thousand. Everybody knows he went back to Houston. Martha Cooke knows he took one overloaded duffel bag for which he will most likely have to pay the airline an extra fee. Jack Stanton knows he wore his cowboy boots and slipped as he got into your daddy’s truck at the G & G. And Mrs. Mayberry, the office lady at the elementary, thinks he walks on water because he stopped by the school on his way out of town to bring her husband Ned the autographed ball cap he promised.”
“Oh.” Kate’s know-it-all grin fell like a bad soufflé. “Well, my brother might be a lot of things, but when he says he’s going to do something he generally means it.”
Not. Emma could tell Kate her brother was a huge BSer and didn’t have the guts of a squirrel, let alone a man who would step outside his comfort zone. Or that Emma doubted he meant anything he said.
Then again, her disappointment in him really was all her own fault. She’d known who he was and for some reason she’d put expectations on him. That wasn’t his fault. Somewhere down the road she’d be able to look back on the twenty-four-ish or so hours they’d spent together with fondness. Somewhere way down the road.
He’d gone home to Houston, where he belonged. With his team, his fans, and his supermodels.
She belonged in Deer Lick.
A thousand miles and a world of differences separated what they wanted. And though she’d never be able to forget the hours she’d spent in his arms, Emma knew she’d go on with her life. She would get her degree and move toward helping special kids with needs. She would find a man to love, a man who would love her, and marry her, and give her a family to love.
That man would never be Dean Silverthorne.
Not even if she wanted it with all her heart.
Dean stripped off his shirt and lay back while warm fingers stroked his skin.
“I’m not getting a response here.” The feminine voice was low and calm.
“Sorry, Dr. Henderson.”
“I’m not a doctor, Mr. Silverthorne.” Her fingers slid over the first of three fresh scars on his shoulder. “I’m a PA.” She moved his arm slowly in various directions and said, “I think I’ll call the doctor in here to check this.”
“I promise I’ll be good.”
She laughed. “Oh, I doubt that.” She left the exam room and moments later, Dr. Kip Powell walked in with his usual stern demeanor.
“How’s the shoulder?” The doctor glared at the sm
all computer he held in his hands.
“Stiff.”
“Will be for awhile. You haven’t been overdoing it, have you?”
Other than lifting Emma up onto the kitchen counter so they could make love? “No.”
“Because I know guys like you want to push it to the max, thinking, no pain, no gain. But that won’t work with this tear, Dean. You’ve got to give it time.”
“I’m doing what you told me to do. Which is basically diddly-squat.”
The doctor set the computer on the counter, then tested Dean’s range of motion and his grip. Finally the doctor eased his arm back to his side. “You’re right. It is a little stiff.” He grabbed the computer again and began to chart notes on Dean’s file. When he was done with that, he pulled some papers from a drawer and handed them to Dean. “Here are some ROM exercises. Some scapular squeezes. You can go ahead and start walking, but no treadmill, no running, and no swimming. I’ll have the PA go over those exercises with you.”
“How about a hot tub?”
“Fine. As long as you don’t overdo.”
Hmmm. Was having mind-numbing sex with a soft, hot blonde in his own personal hot springs considered overexertion? Nah.
“No raising your arms over your head. At all. Got that?”
“Got it.” Dean looked down at the exercise instructions in his hands. “So that’s it? No doom and gloom?”
The doctor stopped on his way out the door. “Don’t get me wrong, Dean. I’m not being a naysayer. I’m not Dr. Death. What I am is a realist. You had a very severe labral tear over the top of two previous tears. You were working with a weak spot to begin with. I won’t stand here and fill you full of promises. I will tell you that I believe in optimism. But I will also tell you that if I were you, I’d start thinking about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Beyond football. Because the chances of that shoulder coming back to 100 percent . . . well, they aren’t high.”
“But there’s a chance.”
“A slim one. And,” the doctor continued, “as fine a quarterback as you are, I cannot and will not lie to your coach. The Stallions main office is very aware of your condition. And the prognosis.”
With those words, Dean heard the hiss of air leaking from his balloon of happiness.
While freezing rain pounded the roof of his Houston high-rise, Dean shoved his key into the lock of his front door and gave it a hard twist. The door down the hall opened and Dean’s head came up as Misty Peterson slinked toward him in black leggings and knee-high dominatrix boots.
“I didn’t know you were back,” she purred through perfectly applied lipstick.
Dean pushed past the funk he’d been in since he’d left the doctor’s office and smiled at his neighbor, who also happened to be the knockout blonde host for Houston Live. In the past year he’d had the pleasure of viewing her once or twice in a very personal format.
“Got back yesterday.”
She slung her leather tote over her arm and smiled up at him. “How’s the shoulder?”
Again with the depersonalization of his well-being. “Getting better every day.”
“Oh, I’m glad to hear that.”
One minor detail that bugged him about women like Misty—women who spent most of their time on camera? Their smiles. They never allowed the gesture to fill their entire face. Instead, for fear of creating wrinkles, they kept the action toward the lower part of their face. If they showed more teeth it would be more convincing, right? Funny how a little factor like that had never bothered him before he’d gone back home and found himself face-to-face with a blonde who smiled with everything she had.
Misty glanced at her watch. “I’ve got an interview right now, but maybe we could get together later?” Her fingers danced up the front of his coat. “Have a bite to eat and . . . catch up?”
Decoded, a bite to eat meant the olive in her martini and catch up meant she hadn’t had the big O in awhile and knew he could deliver the goods. In the past, the underlying promise of a good time with a beautiful woman between some very expensive sheets would grab his attention between his legs. None of that tingly action happened to be going on right now. All he could think was how wrong it felt to have her hand roam his body.
“That would be great,” he lied. “But I’ve already agreed to meet up with the boys tonight before they head out to the playoffs day after tomorrow.”
Her manicured hand skated past his open coat and down the front of his polo. “I’m free tomorrow night too.”
“Having dinner with Bo Miller and his family.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”
She gave him an exaggerated pout. “No worries. I’m sure we can fit in a nooner or something. I don’t need all of you for very long.” Her hand slid from his chest down to the zipper on his khakis. “Just this for long enough.” She gave him a little pat, then turned on her high heels and strutted down the carpeted hall toward the elevator.
Meaningless sex. A one-nighter, nooner, or whatever time of day you manage to find a willing body.
Emma’s words roared back.
His neighbor may not be brainless, but sex with her would definitely be meaningless.
Sex with Emma? Definitely not meaningless.
Unfortunately Emma appeared to be done with him.
Have a nice trip. All good things must come to an end, she’d said.
What if he didn’t want them to end?
And why did they have to?
Damn.
He knew she was attracted to him. So why would she push him away when all he’d done was say he planned to hire someone to get the charity going?
Dean exhaled hard, opened his door, and stepped inside his professionally decorated condo. The room had been assembled in magazine-quality perfection. From the expensive art, the leather sofas and chairs, the seventy-three-inch HDTV, and even the rugs which had been recently vacuumed by a maid service that came in once a week. All had been put there by someone who didn’t know him and was taken care of by someone he’d never met.
He tossed his keys on the table beside the door and strolled into the party room, where in the center of the pool table the balls were racked and ready for a game. He glanced up at the built-in bookcase, crowded with photos of him in various stages of his career. Photos of him with celebrities and legendary NFL stars. Plaques and trophies and autographed balls were squeezed in the spaces between his number-eleven jersey and a field towel autographed by his football hero, the great Ken Stabler. A legend whose “Holy Roller” play against San Diego in 1978 led to a game-winning touchdown, not to mention a modification to the NFL rulebook.
But where were the family photos?
Dean turned, leaned his butt against the pool table, and glanced across the room. Everything in the condo was pristine and impersonal, yet no amount of temperature manipulation would help stave off the detached formality. He thought of his friend Bo Miller’s house and the number of plastic trucks and building blocks you had to kick out of the way just to make a path to the sofa.
Where were the toys?
Where was the sweet chaos of laughter and voices all talking over one another?
In silence he walked to the wall of windows and looked down at the cars far below, to the elegant pool currently closed for the night, and up to the city lights blurred by the freezing rain. He’d paid plenty for those great views. It seemed odd that now he’d traded the meaning of great views for ancient pines, craggy mountaintops, and a schoolteacher’s killer smile.
He walked into his exercise room and glanced at the recently unused weights and equipment that stood like solid steel reminders of his injury. Then he moved into the bedroom, shrugged off his coat, and tossed it on the navy blue comforter of his California king-sized bed.
Before he moved into the lodge house, he’d been dying to get out of the twin-sized disaster he’d slept in at his parents’ house and back home to Houston. But now the bed in front of him looked big and empty and Houston no longer felt like home.
&
nbsp; He pulled off the rest of his clothes and went in to shower before he met up with some of the guys at Johnny Ray’s for wings, beer, and gridiron gossip. Adjusting the spray on the hydrotherapy nozzle, he stepped inside and let the hot water pulsate over his head and shoulders. As his body warmed, his heartbeat slowed, and an ache twisted in the center of his chest.
Emma.
He missed her.
She’d made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with him.
The challenge now would be to learn to live without her.
Or could he?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Naughty Irish was wall-to-wall with Stallions fans and even the occasional Packers fan like Emma, waiting for kickoff on the Wild Card Playoffs game. The Stallions’ blue and red team colors had become the overall decoration theme. The noise level had risen above thunderous, and anticipation rippled through the crowd.
Though the game would be played on Lambeau Field in snowy Green Bay, Emma had no doubt Dean would have traveled with his team. He’d have wanted to help in any way he could to get them to the championship game. For her own selfish reasons she hoped they wouldn’t put his face on camera, but of course they would.
He was the team.
So with a sip of her diet soda—it was a school night, after all—Emma resigned herself to be distracted across the room when he appeared.
Padded chairs were scattered around the large round table where she sat next to her date, Jesse, amid Dean’s friends and family. As special guests, they’d been given the best seats in the house in front of the Irish’s newly purchased large screen HDTV. While their friend Ollie pulled beers on tap and Maggie scooted between tables to deliver their group a tray loaded with Moose Drool, Fat Tire Ale, and other assorted brews, Emma settled in for the celebration.
Double celebration, if the Stallions won.
The ballots had been counted and tonight the town could revel in the landslide election for their new sheriff.
“No umbrella drinks today, kids.” Maggie grinned as she leaned over the balding head of Robert Silverthorne to set his Guinness on the table. “But the nacho bar is free. And if you tip your waitress she’ll be happy to bring you some of those really yummy mini-tacos she has hidden in the kitchen.”
