Love of the Game (14 page)

“Isn't that up to Axel?”

“Yes, but without me on his side, he's more likely to give in to pressure from the general manager and have the surgery.”

“So you're going to base what's right for your life on Axel's career?” Mom asked.

Kasha entwined her fingers in her lap. “I hadn't thought about it like that.”

“It's not as if you're in Jodi's and Breeanne's situation. Their husbands' lives do affect their own. But you're single. Why are you choosing his needs over your own? Has Axel given you any indication that he feels the same way about you?”

“He's made it clear he's attracted to me, but he knows a relationship is impossible as long as I'm his therapist.”

“Is this attraction more than just physical?”

For me it is.
“I don't know.”

“That's something for you to get very clear about before you act on anything.”

“I know.” Kasha hitched in a deep breath. “Okay, say I did leave the Gunslingers. How do I afford to go for custody of Emma?”

“How does anyone afford children? How did your father and I keep expanding our family when there were times we could barely keep our heads above water? We found a way. Every single time we were up against it and didn't know what we were going to do, somehow we found a way.”

“Love will find a way, huh?”

“Not to sound like too much of a cliché, but yes. Love will always find a way. Your father and I, your sisters, our friends, the community. We'll all rally
around you. Don't let finances make the decision for you. Listen to what's in your heart.” Her mother patted her own heart. “Your heart always knows the right answer.”

“Thank you.” Salty emotions gathered at the back of her throat. “Truly. I can't tell you how grateful I am that you chose to be my mother.”

“Honey, don't you get it? Emma is just one more person to love. Of course we'll help you with her. Forever always.” Mom leaned over to hug her tight. “Now, do you want to tell your father and your sisters the news, or should I?”

K
asha spent the night at her parents' house. They had a long discussion about her past and Emma, and they reassured her that they would help any way they could as she assumed custody of her sister.

By the time she arrived at the ranch on Saturday morning for Axel's therapy session, she felt both relieved and recommitted to keeping a tight leash on her emotions. She could resist her attraction to Axel. She would.

When there wasn't an answer, she remembered that the Creedys were out of town for the weekend. But where was Axel?

Concerned that he might have slipped back into old habits and was pushing himself too hard again, she slipped around the back of the house, went through the gate, and walked past the pool. Her gaze penetrated the glass building, searching the workout machinery for Axel's ripped, bare-chested body.

It took her a minute to find him because he was not on a machine. Nor was he, as she feared, outside throwing balls into the rebounder without her supervision.

Finally, she spied him. He was sitting in one corner of the gym, an art easel in front of him with his fully clothed back to her. He was intent in his work as sunlight flooded the canvas.

Painting.

He was painting. He'd taken her at her word, and gotten involved in a hobby. Would you look at that? Progress.

Kasha stepped closer, watching him paint. He was in the beginning of a project, the subject as yet to be revealed. Strong, controlled movements, the paintbrush an extension of him, languid strokes; his whole body fully engaged. He was painting in oil, gliding the hessian surface with a broad flat brush, weaving a banner of soft yellow over the existing dark merlot, the tip dancing, conducting an engaging interplay of light and dark.

Awestruck, Kasha stepped closer to the glass wall.

Clearly, this was not a new skill. He'd been painting for a while, and he did it the same way he pitched, with everything he had in him—passionately, wholeheartedly. Standing outside the building, watching him work, encapsulated, engulfed, Kasha felt strangely isolated, and nostalgic for something she'd never had.

He was in a world of his own. Intense. Focused. Persistent. Impassioned. Even through the distance of the glass, she could feel his energy, and his joy. He pulsed with it.

And Kasha was jealous. She wanted what he had, even as she feared it with every fiber of her being.

“Should I bring you a bib?”

Kasha jumped, spun around, saw Breeanne standing behind her, grinning. Sheepishly, she straightened, and tried to come up with a reason she was spying on Axel.

“I've never seen you drool over a guy,” Breeanne mused.

“I wasn't . . . I'm not . . . it's not . . .”

“Or stammer for that matter.” Breeanne looked like she'd found a secret door leading to a cave filled with pirate treasure. “It's cute.”

“Good grief, Bree, he's my patient!”

“Which is what makes your fan-girl crush so absolutely adorable.” Breeanne clapped her hands together in delight.

“I do not have a crush on Axel Richmond.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are you doing here?” Kasha asked, shifting the subject, spinning things back under her control.

“Um . . . let's see. This is my house too since I married Rowdy.”

“Why aren't you in Dallas with your husband?”

“I've never missed one of Mom and Dad's Memorial Day parties. Plus they were going to help me start the adoption process.”

Oh yeah, that. Kasha felt a twinge of guilt for being so wrapped up in her own problems she'd forgotten about Breeanne's fertility issues.

The sound of their conversation must have seeped into the gym, because Axel turned from the easel, his eyes still glassy from the dreamy zone of artistic creation. But as soon as her gaze met his, Axel's pupils widened, and a slow, easy grin—like the sun coming out after a long round of thunderstorms—broke across his face.

Kasha's insides turned to jelly, all sweet and melty, and she thought,
Oh hellz to the no
. But she was already a goner and she knew. Had known it for days now.

It's okay. Just because you feel it doesn't mean you have to act on it.

“Ooh,” Breeanne said. “He's looking at you the
same way you're looking at him.” And then she started humming “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”

“Stop it,” Kasha mumbled from the side of her mouth as Axel got up from the easel and waved to them.

Breeanne launched into the lyrics, altering them to suit the situation. “Kasha just can't handle it.”

“Sister, I love you to the full extent of your life, but I swear if you don't knock it off . . .” Kasha knotted her fists teasingly.

“I'll leave you to him.” Breeanne snickered and made a beeline for the house.

“Don't you dare run out on me! Get back here. Don't leave me alone with him.”

“Call me and tell me all about it later,” Breeanne called over her shoulder and disappeared inside.

Her heart jackhammered. She wanted to tell him to stop being so charming, but that would call attention to the fact he'd beguiled her. She was beguiled. Dammit.

A smiling Axel opened the door. His body strong and hard. His brown eyes lively under thick black lashes. Every cell in her body vibrated and hummed.

“Hey, you,” he said.

“Um . . . hey.”

“Where did Breeanne go?”

“She had . . .” Kasha flapped a hand over her shoulder. “. . . a thing.”

Axel's eyes grazed her body from the top of her head to the feet shod in sensible work flats, but he was looking at her as if she were dressed like a calendar pinup girl. “How long have you been standing here?”

“Uh . . . just walked up.”

He shook his head. He wore a pair of old gray cotton gym shorts and a plain white T-shirt dotted with flecks of paint. For the first time since she met him, he looked utterly and completely relaxed. It was a delicious look for him. “Fibber.”

“It's the truth,” she said stubbornly.”

“I could see your reflection in the chrome of the exercise equipment,” he said. “You've been here for several minutes.”

“If you knew I'd been standing out here for a while, then why did you ask?”

“I wanted to see if you'd tell me that you were spying on me.” His tone teased.

“I wasn't spying. How I could I be spying? You were in a glass room. Anyone walking by could see you.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself.” He was smirking now.

“You don't have to be so smug about it.”

“You enjoy watching,” he accused.

She smiled.

“Voyeur.”

“You've been holding out on me. You said you weren't passionate about anything but baseball.”

“Baseball is my love.” His smile softened. “Painting is my therapy.”

“How long have you been painting?” she asked, struggling to keep from ogling him.

“Since I was five years old. My mother is an artist, and she gave me an art set for my birthday, and from the moment I picked up the brush, it felt natural.”

“You have so much talent,” she marveled. “Why did you choose baseball as a career over art?”

“Baseball was something my dad and I did together,” he said, his tone full of nostalgia, “and then
later with my friends, and Little League. Art is solitary. I guess I'm just an extrovert at heart.”

“It was the sense of community that won you over?”

“That and I really love baseball.”

When he grinned, she could see him as a gap-toothed seven-year-old with a recalcitrant cowlick, and her heart gave a crazy little skip that terrified her. “And you don't love painting?”

“I do, but I knew I would never be as good at art as I am at baseball.”

“Why didn't you tell me about your painting before?”

He gave a boyish shrug as if to say,
Sharing ruins it.
“I do it just for me.”

“It's private.”

“Yeah.”

“I get that.”

“Do you?” He stepped closer, his gaze hooked on her lips.

Her pulse quickened, and her breath shortened. Purposefully, she lengthened her exhales, getting back on keel, asserting control. “Privacy keeps it sacred.”

“What about you?” he murmured.

“What about me?”

“What sacred things don't you share?”

“If I shared them, they would no longer be sacred.”

“Think of it as a bonding exercise,” he said. “I know you're a physical therapist, and you love yoga, and that you have an illegitimate half sister who lives in a group home, and you haven't told your family about her yet . . .”

“Actually, I told my parents about Emma last night.” She tried to keep her voice level, which was
hard to do when unexpressed emotions torqued her chest up tight.

“How did it go?”

She met his eyes. “Better than I expected. Stirred up some tough memories, but we worked through it.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

She toyed with the end of her braid. “No.”

“Okay.” He took measure of her. “Got anything else you want to share? Those tough memories?”

“Not really.”

“It's not fair. You know my secret, and I know nothing about yours. We've got an imbalance of power.”

“We already had an imbalance of power.” She folded her arms, cupped opposite elbows with her palms. “I'm in charge of your healing.”

“So.” He lowered his voice, leaned in. “Let's level the playing field.”

“You feeling vulnerable with all your secrets exposed?”

“Exactly.” His eyes twinkled.

She shook her head, but she couldn't ignore him. The man was so alive, so compelling, so freaking hot.

“Come on,” he cajoled, tapping his ear with an index finger. “Whisper to me. Your secrets are safe. I won't tell another soul.”

His grin was so beguiling that she was coaxed to tell him something small and inconsequential. Kasha lowered her voice, her eyelashes, and her reserve.

“Tell me.”

“Promise not to laugh.”

“I promise.”

“Shh.” Her laugh came out huskier than she intended, and she couldn't quite tear her gaze from his, ensnared in a sweet spell she had no business being
caught in. “When I was thirteen, I had a major crush on Nick Carter.”

“From the Backstreet Boys?”

“That'd be the one,” she admitted.

“Ain't no shame in crushin' on the boyz,” Axel joked. “Number one boy band ever.”

“How would you know the first thing about boy bands?”

“Because teenage girls compare teenage boys to the musicians in their favorite bands.”

“Ahh. Makes sense.”

They looked at each other and grinned, intrigued by the new secrets they'd found out. Her heart, so long held caged, safe from romantic emotions, filled with the most delirious kind of hope.

“Whenever you smile, Sphinx, it makes me feel as if heaven opened up and rained down gold.”

“Ouch,” she said, delighted and slightly embarrassed by the adoring expression on his face. “That sounds painful.”

“Not at all.” He leaned in, all muscles and male. “It hurts so good.”

What did he mean? What was he suggesting?

“Axel,” she whispered.

“Kasha,” he whispered back, his face on fire with light and energy.

She smelled sunshine and oil paint and Axel. She wanted to feel the scrape of his sexy beard stubble against her cheek, to taste his heated lips. As she stared into his beautiful dark eyes, almost the color of her own, she could have sworn she heard harps playing and angels singing. And felt the warm, strong grip of his imaginary embrace.

Too much.

It was all too much. Here she was again, taking a magic carpet ride to fantasyland.

She stepped back to clear her head, clear the air of the seductive sexual current sweeping them both along.

“Well,” she said, shaking herself out. “Put away the paints and canvas. It's time to get down to work.”

T
hey worked outside in the shade that morning, playing underhanded catch, doing exercises designed to specifically target his type of shoulder injury, practicing beginning yoga poses, following it up with Kasha guiding him through a meditation while he lay in a hammock underneath the trees.

Axel tried his best to shut down his sexual feelings for Kasha, but he was a lost cause. He wanted the woman. Fiercely.

Breeanne came out with a picnic lunch and blanket, but didn't stay to eat with them. “I'm headed over to Mom and Dad's,” she explained.

Axel spread out the blanket near the flower garden, sat down, and started laying out the food—pasta salad, raw veggies and dip, fresh fruit—light, healthy fare.

“Nice of her to make us lunch,” he said.

“That's Breeanne,” Kasha said, hues of admiration, respect and love for her sister in her eyes. “She always puts the needs of others first, even as a kid when she went through heart surgery after heart surgery.”

“You're lucky to have her.”

“I know,” Kasha said, her voice growing huskier, softer. “Things could have gone so differently for me if I hadn't—”

She broke off, and busied herself with peeling a banana, and Axel couldn't help wondering if she'd been on the verge of telling him about how she'd come to live with the Carlyles. The urge to protect her fisted around his spine, hard and insistent. He hadn't felt protective like this about anyone since . . .

Well, since Dylan.

That drew him up short. What did his feeling mean?

Axel studied her.

She was watching butterflies flit among the blooms, her face soft and peaceful, fully absorbed by the beautiful float and grace of the insects. How did she achieve it, this sublime mindfulness?

The breeze ruffled her hair that had fallen loose from her braid, and rippled the material of her white silk blouse. The scent of her shampoo—floral and sweet—drifted over to him, and he admired the way the sun threw dappled lighting through the tree leaves to pepper her caramel skin with a creamy glow.