Caught by You (7 page)

“You got yourself a new one. Congratulations.”

“On another topic, where's the best Laundromat in town? It's the craziest thing, but it's hell doing laundry with one kidney.”

“You are so full of it.”

And yet, before she knew it, she'd agreed to help him do his laundry the next day. After all, how much trouble could you get into doing laundry with a man, no matter how sexy?

“Really? I totally pegged you as a boxers kind of guy.” Donna surveyed the pile of laundry Mike had just dumped onto the table at the Suds-­o-­Rama Laundromat.

“Boxer briefs all the way, babe. We can't all wear red thongs.” He winked, an electrifying green flash. “By the way, why do we always end up talking about underwear?”

“Let's change it up and talk about your socks. How many do you have?”

“Well, here's the thing. I don't like doing laundry, and my signing bonus gave me plenty of money to play with. So if I run out of socks, I buy more. They do tend to build up, it's true.” His forehead crinkled as he picked up an armful of dirty laundry and dumped it in the washing machine. “Admit it. You're blown away by the glamorous life of the minor league baseball player.”

“Absolutely. I'm considering live-­tweeting this, by the way.”

“I'd be worried, except I know you don't want anyone to know we're hanging out. What made you change your mind about that?” He opened the box of detergent he'd purchased from the vending machine and dumped it in the washing machine.

“I haven't changed my mind. I just don't think anyone's going to see us here. Anyone who cares, that is.” The Suds-­o-­Rama was on the opposite side of town and besides, no one in the Wade family would go near a Laundromat.

“Good. Then you can hang out with me.”

“Not for long. I have errands to run.”

“Through the wash cycle?”

“Spin, max.”

“Fine. That gives us enough time for this.” He whipped out an insulated flat container from the very bottom of his duffel bag. As he unzipped it, the most amazing scent rose to her nostrils and mingled with the soapy smell of laundry.

“You brought pizza?”

“Not just any pizza. Tombstone, the best frozen pizza on the planet. I have a supply shipped to me at the start of each season, then I dole it out like candy at special occasions. Chicago guys and their pizza, you know. I nuked it right before I left the apartment.”

She leaned over it, breathing in the tomatoey, savory, mouthwatering scent. “So this is a special occasion? Laundry?”

“Laundry
with you
.” He gave her that special smile, the one that tugged a devastating groove into his cheek and made the palms of her hands tingle. “That's special occasion enough for me.” He raised his voice so the other patrons could hear. “Anyone here a fan of the Kilby Catfish?”

“Sure, man . . .” “Yep, gonna be a great season
 
. . .” “Nah, football fan here . . .” came a scattering of answers.

“Well, close enough. Pizza's on me, folks. Help yourself to a slice, and think kindly of the Catfish.”

He pulled out a package of paper plates, kept a few slices aside for him and Donna, and served out the rest.

“Heard Crush Taylor's looking to sell the team,” said a tough old guy in a cowboy hat. “Wants a million dollars.”

“Wouldn't be the Catfish without Crush,” said a black woman dressed in head-­to-­toe hot pink. “Kinda got used to all their crazy ways. How many teams bring pizza to the ordinary folks trying to get their washing done? I don't see no New York Yankees here, do you?”

“If I did, we'd have an old-­fashioned brawl on our hands,” said the first man. Donna and Mike exchanged glances.

“Actually, we're trying to change our reputation. No more partying, no more Roadhouse fights. We're just going to play ball this year, hopefully take it all the way to the championship.” When the customers didn't seem impressed, his smile dropped. “What's the matter? You don't want a championship?”

“Like I said,” explained the black woman, “we like our Catfish the way they are. It's like your favorite soap opera, except it's all men and they're a treat for the eyes. You too,” she added generously. “You ain't bad, but Dwight Conner's my man.”

“Good choice,” Mike agreed. “Want his number?”

Donna laughed, while Mike and the woman exchanged a fist bump. A warm feeling spread through her as she watched Mike transform a dreary Laundromat in a lousy neighborhood into the only place you wanted to be on a Saturday morning. The only place she wanted to be, anyway. She could spend the rest of the day here, laughing at his quick comebacks and soaking in his wicked smile.

When he slung his arm over her shoulder and pulled her close to his side, it felt so natural and inevitable. Like coming home after a rough winter. It had been so long since she'd simply enjoyed herself in a man's presence. And this wasn't just any man. This was the man whose green eyes and ripped physique had been haunting her thoughts since last September. Now he was here, and he seemed to like her, even though there was no chance of sex.

A helpless smile spread across her face and she allowed herself to relax against him. His body felt so strong and solid. There was no harm in enjoying herself for a tiny moment, right? She and Mike weren't doing anything other than laundry, with a little sexual undercurrent on the side. Throw in some pizza and community outreach, and Crush Taylor would be proud. What harm could there possibly be in this scenario?

 

Chapter 7

T
HE LAUNDRY
IDEA
had been genius. It was such a normal, everyday activity. Well, not for Mike, since he avoided laundry like the plague. He used to tell his sisters laundry made his balls shrink, at which point they'd shriek and tell him how gross he was and somehow end up doing the laundry. During the season, he dumped his laundry at the cleaner's or at the clubhouse. He never did it himself. But it was worth going to a Laundromat to get Donna to finally stop looking at him with that stay-­three-­feet-­away-­and-­you-­won't-­get-­hurt expression.

Why he was going to all this trouble, he couldn't really say. Except that time passed so quickly with her, as if they were gliding down a sparkling river in a rowboat built for two. And she distracted him. She distracted him from the worry over Joey.

The latest news from Jean-­Luc was that Joey had checked into the ER with a 103-­degree fever and that he'd lost another three pounds.

“Hey Solo!” Donna snapped her fingers to catch his attention. “Are you reminiscing about your lost kidney?”

“Cute. Very cute.” That was another thing. What had possessed him to tell Donna MacIntyre about the surgery? Trying to win pity points? Trying to prove he was more than “Hottie McCatcher”? He hadn't thought about it, he'd just wanted her to know. “Maybe I'm trying to figure out how to get you to stay until it's time for the dryer.”

“You sweet talker. How does any woman resist you?” She sparkled at him, those changeable eyes a smoky gray at the moment. Today, thank the sweet Lord, she'd left the panty hose and insurance saleswoman uniform at home, and instead wore cute little madras-­print low-­riders, Skechers, and a form-­fitting sleeveless top that left her freckled shoulders bare. Her body had deep curves to it, the kind a man could lose his mind over, but she didn't dress to emphasize them.

Well, except the first time he'd seen her, at the Roadhouse. And the time he'd taken her and Sadie to Crush's legendary All-­Star party. No doubt, Donna could rock a sexy outfit when she wanted to.

“I honestly have no idea. I suppose you'll have to give everyone else pointers.”

“Me? I'm such a sucker that you got me to do your laundry when there isn't even the tiniest chance of sex.” She shook her hair over her shoulder, tossing him a teasing look. The look of someone who knew she could tease him and not worry about the consequences.

He wrapped one of her curls around his index finger and tugged slightly. “Believe me, if we had sex you wouldn't use the word ‘tiny.' ” Her eyelids fluttered; a nerve by her mouth jumped. Oh damn. He'd forgotten how quickly they'd both caught fire back at the Kilby Community Library.

“Stop that,” she said weakly, casting a glance around the Suds-­o-­Rama, where everyone else had long since gone back to their towel folding and phone checking.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, pulling his hand away so it just happened to skim across the back of her neck. The fine hairs rose up and a shiver traveled across her skin. For the first time, he didn't mind the absence of her long mane of hair.

“What are you up to, Devil?”

“New nickname, huh?” He whispered in her ear, brushing his lips against the complicated whorls. “Better than Priest, that's for sure.”

“Oh, you have no chance at Priest anymore.” She took a determined step away from him, putting a laundry cart between them. “Not since the library closet.”

As if she'd lit a torch to a pile of kindling, he felt heat surge inside him. “You had to mention the closet. You just had to.”

“Oh, is that topic off-­limits? My bad.” She pulled an exaggerated face of apology.

“Do me a favor and let's not talk about it. I'm a visual guy, and that shirt you're wearing really hugs your body, and let's not even talk about that little strip of skin above your shorts.”

A glow came into her eyes, a sort of a mischievous, playful light, the kind of expression he remembered from before. She leaned against a washer, a seductive smile playing across her lips. “What's the problem, Solo? It should be perfectly safe to
talk
. The Vow of Celibacy doesn't cover talking, does it?”

“No, but talking leads to—­” He shut his mouth with a snap. Right now, talking was leading to hardening. Last thing he needed. Better not to talk.

“What does the vow cover, by the way? Is it just the whole enchilada, so to speak?” She flicked a glance down his body. “What about the à la carte menu?”

He shifted his stance to accommodate his growing erection.
Down, boy. Down
. “We don't really get into details when I take the vow.”

“So, for instance, what we did in the closet . . .”

“Not allowed.”

“Really?” She purred, trailing a hand across her stomach. Helplessly, he followed it. “Why is that?”

“Because it's a slippery slope.”

Her eyes lit in amusement. “Oh, I bet it's very slippery. Wet and slippery and . . .”

That was it. He had to shut her up, now. He pushed the laundry cart aside, and hauled her up against him. “You're trying to kill me, aren't you,” he growled into her ear.

“Just trying to get the lay of the land.” She batted her eyelashes at him, but they couldn't hide the way her pupils were dilating. The speed with which they got turned on by each other made his head spin.

“Would you stop saying sex words?”

For a moment she seemed to liquefy against him. His blood sang in his veins. The mounds of her breasts pressed against him, the nipples hardening. Oh sweet Lord, what he wouldn't give to push up her little top and fill his hands with her. The memory of how her skin felt rushed through him like a drug. Soft, so soft and silky, as if she spent all day bathing in cream.

“Donna,” he breathed. “You're driving me nuts.”

“You started it. You whispered in my ear. That's an erogenous zone for me.” Her whisper had a husky edge that gave his cock another jolt. With one hand, he maneuvered a cart piled with laundry so it blocked them from view—­at least from the waist down. She worked her hands under his T-­shirt and ran them up his back.
Oh God in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .
In his mind, he repeated the words of his vow, but they seemed so far away, almost meaningless, as she nestled her hips against his groin. His erection had grown to mountainous size, which seemed to mesmerize her. She kept moving her hips against him, little undulations that nearly brought tears to his eyes.

He clamped his hands onto her ass, loving the way her curves overflowed his grip, the way they enticed him to misbehave, to crush her against him, spread her out against a washing machine, expose each part of her delicious little body.

Whose stupid idea was the vow, anyway? Would anyone really care if he broke it? Would God smite his baseball career if he strayed? Did he care?

He'd just about decided he didn't when Donna let out a long sigh, and with a last sweet drag of her hands down his back, withdrew them from under his shirt. She even tucked the tail of his shirt into the back of his jeans, as if to block off access to his body.

“You shouldn't be allowed near any woman with ovaries,” she said, her face flushed, her eyes filled with desire. “It's just not fair.”

“You're not the only one in pain. I'll raise you a pair of blue balls and a hard, throbbing—­”

She put a hand on his mouth to shut him up. He took the fleshy heel of her palm between his teeth and nibbled on it. Her eyes hazed over. “If you say one more word I might come right here in the Suds-­o-­Rama,” she hissed.

“No one can see.” He wasn't completely sure of that, because he couldn't tear his eyes away from her pink face and moist lips. God, he wanted to kiss her. He could kiss her, right? The vow didn't mention anything about kissing. Maybe he could just lick her bottom lip; yes, that wouldn't do any harm. He slid his tongue across that pillow of flesh, and it was like taking the first lick of an ice cream cone. The flavor of sweetness and wild promise flooded his senses. He parted her lips with his and delicately touched his tongue to the flesh just above the inside of her teeth.

She shivered and let her head tilt farther back. He loved kissing, always had, because he'd been raised a Catholic boy and for many years kissing was the only thing the girls would allow. Now all those hours spent exploring the magic of canoodling coalesced into a timeless golden bubble. This girl. This moment. This eager, warm cave opening for his pleasure. This sweet body rippling with tremors. This slow surrender, both of them falling deeper and deeper into the world they were creating together, a world spun of sensation and trust and desire.

“Mike . . .” she whispered against his lips. “We need to stop.”

He felt her mouth moving against his, heard the words, but it took time for them to make their way to his brain. He drew in a deep breath, gathering willpower from the depths of his being, and shifted the kiss from passionate to tender, a slight clinging of her lips to his. “I know,” he breathed. “Stopping now. In a second. Okay, now.”

They drew apart. Their connection was so strong that breaking it caused a flash, like an electrical short.

No, that wasn't some kind of cosmic short.

It was a camera flash.

He spun around, blocking Donna from view. A tall, striking girl with long black hair waved from behind an expensive digital camera. “Hi there. Don't mind me. You two are awfully photogenic together. Front page material.”

Donna jumped back about three feet and hit the laundry cart. Flailing, she wound up on her ass inside the cart, which then rolled against a row of dryers with a thump. She scrambled out. “
Shit.
”

“Hmm, swearing as well as making out in a Laundromat? Judge Quinn will be interested to hear about this.”

“This is low even for you.”

“I warned you.” She put the lens cap back on her camera, pulled it off her neck, and stashed it in a zebra-­striped cowhide tote bag.

Mike stepped forward. He didn't know who the woman was or what she was up to, but Donna was upset and that's all he needed to know. “Look, miss, that was a private moment you had no business photographing. If you delete that photo right now, we won't have a problem.”

“I'm not deleting a thing. I knew she'd slip. A leopard never changes his spots, and Donna MacIntyre is and will always be exactly who she is. Irresponsible and reckless.”

Donna turned nearly as red as her hair. “That's not true.” Not much of a comeback; she must be really rattled.

“I only know what I see. You're Mike Solo, aren't you? The Catfish player?”

There didn't seem to be any harm in admitting that, so Mike nodded. “If you're thinking of sending this to the press, there's no point. I'm no Trevor Stark. No one cares what I do off the baseball diamond.”

“You're right, no one cares what you do. You'll be gone from Kilby before I even bother to learn your middle name. But some ­people care what
Donna
does, and some of those ­people are members of the court system.” She shouldered her bag, smoothed her hair in a self-­satisfied way that grated on Mike's nerves, and glided out of the Suds-­o-­Rama. The
court system
? For fuck's sake, they hadn't done anything criminal.

“Xavier, my middle name is Xavier,” he called after her, because, damn it, sometimes a guy had to get the last word.

Donna, looking stricken, stared after the woman with the camera.

“Who is that?”

“Her name's Bonita. She's my ex's fiancée.” He took a step toward her, wanting to offer comfort, but she backed away. “This is bad. Really, really bad. What photos do you think she got? I had my eyes closed, I didn't notice her until we stopped kissing.”

“Same here. That's probably all she got, if that's what you're worried about.” He still didn't understand. Why wasn't Donna allowed to kiss someone?

“No. She looked too pleased with herself. She must have gotten more. Your hands on my butt, for instance.”

The black woman in pink called from across the Laundromat, “She was clicking away for a good long while, there. Surprised y'all didn't notice. Want me to go after her and rip that camera out of her prissy little hands?”

“That's all right,” Mike said, when Donna didn't seem capable of responding. “It was just a kiss, and I don't know what all the fuss is about. You all are witnesses we didn't do anything besides kiss.”

“Some kiss, though,” the woman said, almost wistful. “Made me want to go home and throw my honey right down on the kitchen table.”

Donna still hadn't cracked a smile. She looked so lost and scared, which was not usual for her. Fearless Donna with the mane of wild red hair had been replaced with a worried girl with wide eyes and a hunted expression.

He drew her aside, close to the dryer where no one could hear. “We're two consenting adults. And fully clothed. We weren't doing any harm.”

To his shock, she burst into tears. “You don't understand. I've ru-­ruined everything.” She jerked away from him and, quick as a Caleb Hart fastball, bolted out of the Laundromat.

For a frozen moment, he stared after her. What the hell was going on? Did she want to be alone? Was she safe, running while so upset? Should he go after her, whether she wanted him to or not?

“I got your laundry, baby,” called the woman in pink. As if he cared about his laundry. There were plenty of other socks in the world. “You go after her. Try another one of those kisses on her. If it don't work, you come try it on me.”

Without a second thought, Mike abandoned his laundry. On his way out the door, he veered in the woman's direction and planted a big kiss on her cheek.

“That's a start, baby,” she called after him as he burst out the door into the blazing Texas heat.