No Breaking My Heart (4 page)

The puck rose to thirty points. Wimp. Still, she was ten points ahead of Mary. She prayed Harold would do well.

Alex took the hammer from Alyn and handed it to King Kong. “Manly pride is on the line. Ring that bell!”

Kong put his back into it. He growled, grunted, and slammed the mallet down. He earned ninety points. Powerhouse.

Expectancy surged when Harold took his turn. He side-mouthed Alyn, saying, “Kicking King Kong ass.”

Taking his position, he crowed with barnyard fierceness. The audience crowed back. He stretched his arms over his head, and the seams along his shoulders split, baring thick muscles across his upper back. The smash of the mallet took down his zipper. All the way to his butt crack.

Instead of kicking ape ass, Harold showed his own. On camera. To the viewing audience and all America. It was an image Alyn would never forget. Neither would the crowd. They went crazy. Oohing and awing. Whistling, cheering, and falling off their chairs, laughing.

Embarrassed for her partner, Alyn hustled to stand behind him. She tore off her mitts and tried to zip his costume. The teeth were off track. So she clutched the sides together, covering as much of him as was possible. Still, there were gaps. Wide gaps.

Harold twisted, looking over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Keeping you modest.”

He snorted. “I lost my modesty when I was six, and swam naked in the neighborhood kiddie pool.”

“This is national television.”

He shifted. “You're scratching my ass.”

As she tightened her hold on him, her fingernails left red marks.

He pinned his gaze on The Strength-O-Meter. “The bell?”

It had not rung. Alex Xander announced their defeat. “Seventy points, rooster. Muscle Bound, but not enough to win.”

Harold stilled. His jaw dropped. “We lost?”

“Carl and Mary beat you by ten points.”

Harold swore beneath his breath. Berating himself.

Alyn couldn't find words to express her disappointment. She had wanted this win as much as she'd wanted anything in her life. Her stomach sank, and her dreams paled. Her future plans were once again put on hold.

She'd hoped to use the prize money to establish The Shy Lily. A boutique with antique and vintage heirlooms. She had scrimped, saved, and collected items over the years, attending public auctions, estate sales, bidding on storage units. The majority of the treasures was packed in a rental facility for safekeeping. The overflow landed at her mother's cottage, where space was minimal.

She'd waited patiently to lease a store in the historic district. Prime real estate. Space on the second floor of a large brick building had recently become available. It was within the same block as J acy's Java. Lots of traffic and customers. Newfound success.

Sadly, a trusted friend had turned on her. Alyn's potential business partner had bailed a month earlier, cleaning out their joint bank account. She had seventy-two dollars and sixty-five cents to her name. With no immediate income in sight.

Her shop wasn't meant to be. Her heart hurt.

She wasn't the only one disillusioned by the outcome. A stunned silence hung over the studio audience. The applause sign flashed over the stage, but few people clapped. Harold was a charmer. A grandstander. The spectators took Alyn and his loss as their own.

The host motioned to Natalie to escort them offstage. The model curved her arm through the rooster's wing, pouted her condolences. Alyn clutched the back of Harold's costume as she shuffled behind them. The flex and ripple of his muscles tickled her fingertips. His skin was hot.

“You can go back to your seats or exit,” Natalie told them at the stairs. She patted Harold's shoulder. “Sorry, big guy.”

“I'm done here,” Harold said when the model left.

Alyn agreed. “Me, too.” They took the steps. Defeat walked them up the side aisle.

Alex kept the show rolling. “Who's next?” he called to the audience. The contestants got back into the spirit of the show. They bounced and cheered to get his attention. “Fifth row, Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head, go big or go home!”

The Potato Heads rushed passed Alyn and Harold to get to the stage. Mr. Potato Head lost an ear in his excitement. Alyn left a trail of feathers. She sneezed her way to the exit door.

“You can free my ass anytime,” Harold said once they reached the hallway. She let go of his costume, and he turned to face her. He yanked off his rounded hand mitts, balled his fists. Scowled darkly. “We fuckin' lost. I let you down.”

Alyn frowned. The man took their loss personally, even though they'd been a team. She'd picked him off the street. Chosen him for his size with no idea as to his abilities. She was disheartened, but not ashamed of their performance. They'd done their best. She couldn't ask for anything more.

Another time, another place, she'd turn her luck around.

“It was a game show.” She spoke softly. “There were no guarantees.”

He tugged off his rooster hood. His dark hair was mussed, spiked on one side, and he had a red mark over his nose were the beak had rubbed. His gaze was sharp. Hard. Intense. Ticked. “I came up short on Strongman. We should've won.”

But they had not. She released him from all blame. “Your costume was tight and hindered your movements. We would've won had you been dressed as Tarzan or Adam.”

“The Garden of Eden?” Had him thinking. “A leaf at the groin would've given me more freedom.”

A very large leaf, she thought. The size of an elephant ear.

He rolled his shoulders, and his voice was tight in his throat when he said, “I'm not used to losing.”

She wasn't used to winning.

He turned then, and pushed through the locker room door. “Give me five. I'll drive you back to your car,” he tossed over his shoulder.

Halo Todd crossed to his locker, slammed the flat of his hand against the metal grate. Felt the sting from his wrist to his shoulder. He was not a good loser. He'd been crazy to participate in the first place. Yet there was something about Alyn that got to him. She'd appeared so forlorn on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop. A woman defeated before she'd even gotten to compete.

He rubbed the back of his neck, and rewound their time onstage. The chicken had done her part. She'd worked her way through the maze like a pro. He'd been proud of her. So pleased, in fact, that when goaded by the crowd, he'd kissed her. Her mouth was soft. Her taste, sweet innocence. Surprise had parted her lips, and his tongue had glanced off hers. He would've deepened the kiss had Alex Xander not broken them apart.

That single kiss had distracted him during Balloon Darts. The warmth of her mouth lingered. He'd missed easy shots. He'd hoped to redeem himself with the Strength-O-Meter. He worked out. Twice a day. He was he-man strong.

His costume was as snug as a second skin, but that hadn't hampered him. The seams gave way when he'd raised the mallet. He'd flashed his ass with the downward motion. He knew a second too late that his swing was off center. There'd been no time to make a correction. No do-over. He felt bad for Alyn. She'd had faith in him, and he'd failed her.

There was something about her light green eyes, optimistic attitude, and trail of feathers that got to him. He didn't like being gotten. It left him on edge.

The woman had guts, he had to admit. Approaching a stranger on the sidewalk to find a game-show partner. He wondered what she wanted out of life. What she would have done with the grand prizes, had they won. He might never know.

He took the small key from his side pocket, opened the locker. Then shook out his shirt and jeans. The rooster costume had seen better days. A shrug of his shoulders, and it fell off him. He kicked the costume aside.

He got dressed. Finger-combed his hair. He was as good as he was going to get. Scooping up the torn costume, he headed for the door. He would pay Alyn the rental and replacement cost. He was bigger than most roosters. He wouldn't stick her with the bill.

He found her in the hallway, leaning against the wall. Her chin dipped, and her shoulders slumped. She had yet to remove her costume, so he had no idea what she looked like.

Anonymity was sexy, he found.

She glanced up, and gave him a small smile. “You look more yourself now.”

“I wasn't cut out to be a rooster.”

Aachoo
. She wasn't cut out to be a chicken.

They left the building. Her rounded body bumped him again and again as they walked toward his Hummer. A brush to his thigh, his side, his arm. Feathers fluttered to the ground. Awareness of the woman crept beneath his skin. He'd never been attracted to a chicken before, that was for sure.

He opened the passenger door and gave her a boost onto the seat. He pushed too hard. His hand on her bottom slipped between her thighs, and his fingers touched her inappropriately. She squirmed, thrust out a foot, and her spiky chicken toes kicked him in the balls.

Damn. He jerked back, adjusted himself, while she righted herself, and then sat all stiff and facing forward. He closed her door, rounded the wide hood, and climbed in beside her. He pulled his seat belt across his chest and buckled up. He keyed the engine, shifted into reverse. They rode the short distance in silence.

He circled the block, looking for a parking place. One opened behind her Dodge Dart. He pulled in, and she hopped out, without his assistance. She left a seatful of feathers. He passed her the torn rooster costume, then rolled his hip and removed his leather wallet from his back pocket. Sixty dollars should cover the replacement cost. “I want to pay—”

She never let him finish. Shutting the door, she waved him off. “I got it covered. You went above and beyond. Nice cock-a-doodle-do.”

His mind went to the
cock
side of doodle-do.

He had a lot of crow left in him.

He glanced at his Oakley 12 Gauge Chronograph. The watch had been a gift to himself when he'd signed with the Rogues. Inspired by the gauges in the cockpit of a fighter jet, it had more functions than he'd ever use. Or had ever figured out how to use, even with the instructional booklet.

He worked his jaw. Time had gotten away from him. He'd lost ninety minutes of his day. His sex date with the pilot would be delayed. All because of a game show.

He collected Alyn's feathers from the floor and seat and tossed all but one in the glove compartment. The single feather went into his wallet. A reminder to avoid game shows. He'd have the vehicle washed and vacuumed when he reached Florida.

He let his Hummer idle until Alyn safely reached her car. Traffic had picked up. A line stretched out the door of Jacy's Java. Customers looking for their morning caffeine fix. People stared at her. A few pointed. One elderly man shook his head.

She tucked herself into her car. Which was no easy feat. He waited for her to remove her chicken hood. She did not. He hoped she wouldn't get a ticket for impaired vision.

Smoke shot from her car muffler as she pulled from the curb. Then headed west. The Dart chugged like a tugboat. He noticed the bumper was rusted, a back taillight busted, and that the rear tires were bald. The vehicle had seen better days.

Halo rapped his knuckles on the steering wheel. Feeling restless and unsettled. As if a part of his life had slipped away from him. Unfinished.

Alyn had needed a boyfriend for an hour. He'd made her his fiancée. Their loss ended their relationship. Relationship? His wild side laughed at him. Called him crazy. Foolish. Sensitivity squeezed passed his laughter, nudging him to follow her. To be kind.

Why should he go after her? He ran one hand down his face. Sorted out his thoughts. That's when he realized he wanted to do something nice for her. He could turn their loss into a win with little effort. He could be a good guy when he tried. It would ease his conscience.

There was something else, too, that drove him to shift gears and ease into traffic. To follow the lingering gray smoke of her car muffler. His male curiosity had yet to be satisfied.

He hadn't seen her without her chicken costume.

She had seen him naked.

Three

H
alo followed Alyn for thirty minutes. He kept a discreet distance between the vehicles. He thought he'd lost her at an intersection on the outskirts of town when he was forced to stop for a red light and she scooted through on yellow. He took two wrong turns as he entered an older neighborhood, but eventually caught sight of her Dodge Dart parked at the curb before a single-level cottage. The corner yard was fenced. There was a small outbuilding, yet no garage. No sign of the chicken, either. She must have gone inside.

He came to a stop, exited the Hummer, and locked it. He walked past the Dart, glancing inside. The baby carrier attached to the backseat gave him pause. As did the box of Pampers.

Once on the sidewalk, he looked around. The houses along the boulevard were all boxy, painted white with short porches. Mature bare-limbed trees stood out against an overcast sky. Snow was forecast. He was tired of winter.

He unlatched the gate, pushed through. It creaked as it closed behind him. A cement walkway led him to the porch. Blades of brown grass pushed between the cracks. Three wooden steps landed him at a door painted deep blue, the same hue as the wooden shutters on either side of the front windows. One narrow window was raised, drawing fresh air into the cottage.

He pushed the doorbell with his thumb and, seconds later, saw an eye through the peephole. He heard the slide of a dead bolt. A middle-aged woman peeked out. An inside safety chain crossed her nose as she peered up at him.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

He shoved his hands in his jean pockets and gave her his most charming smile. “I'm looking for—”

“Me!” A skinny young boy with shaggy brown hair came running. “It's Halo Todd. He picked my letter. I won. He's here for me.”

Here for the boy? Halo blinked, taken aback. He caught a glimpse of a navy T-shirt ripped at the collar, sweat pants, and a short plaster arm cast, reaching from the kid's knuckles to just below his elbow.

Bouncing on his bare toes, the boy unhooked the chain. The door swung wide, and the kid charged Halo, giving him an enthusiastic hug. Then looking up, he grinned, revealing a missing front tooth, before turning to the woman behind him. “The contest. I'm going to spring training!”

Halo stiffened. Letter, spring training? What the hell?

The woman smiled at Halo, a warm, grateful smile. “I'm Martha Jayne, Danny's mother,” she said. “Danny loves baseball. He gets on the computer every day after school and checks the Rogues' website. That's where he learned about the contest.”

Halo's jaw worked. Realization slapped him upside the head, unsettling him. He was aware of the event, but had ignored it. Community liaison Jillian Mac-Cates had spoken to the players at the final team meeting of the previous season. She'd set up a contest where fans could write to their favorite players. Then, on a designated date, the starting lineup would stop by James River Stadium, scan the letters, and each select a winner. They would personally notify and congratulate the winners.

Those who won would be flown to Barefoot William for preseason. Ten days of ballgames, beach, and boardwalk. The players had benefitted from the positive press coverage and photo ops. Everyone but Halo. Months had passed. Time had gotten away from him. As it so often did.

Jill's most recent text was a stern reminder to get his butt in gear. He was the last player to pick a winner. He could almost hear Jillian drumming her fingers. Tapping her foot. He could picture her scowl. She was growing impatient. Plane tickets needed to be booked and accommodations reserved for the winners. Anyone under eighteen would travel with a chaperone.

Last minute, and groaning inwardly, Halo had driven to the complex. Better late than never. He figured the letters could be read in under an hour. Maybe two at most. He had been wrong.

The media room was stacked with huge boxes and bulging mailbags. Garbage receptacles overflowed with opened and tossed letters. He'd barely been able to squeeze in. Walking anywhere but the perimeter had been impossible. The starting lineup had received a ton of mail. He saw his name posted on the back wall. He found his entries piled in a corner, reaching all the way to the ceiling, and spilling outside the emergency exit.

He'd sucked in air. Felt as overwhelmed as Santa Claus at Christmas. Hemmed in, and claustrophobic, he'd dropped onto a metal folding chair. Untying a mailbag, he'd withdrawn a handful of letters. Opening each one, he'd skimmed the contents. Men and women, boys and girls of all ages had their hearts set on attending preseason. Each entry was well-written, the words hopeful, but none hit him on a gut level. He had no idea what he was looking for from his fans, but he wanted something beyond praise of his career and the mention of how cool he was.

Three hours passed, and his eyes had crossed. He'd had enough. No winner. Straightening, he'd stretched, then left the room with every intention of returning the next day. Needless to say, his well-intentioned plans never materialized. He got distracted easily.

A guys' night out with five of his teammates landed him and his buddies at an after-hours men's club. On the darker side of midnight, Halo had hooked up with one of the hostesses. The sex had been wild. Had lasted three days. She'd drained him.

Shame on him, but he'd never gotten back to the mailroom. Despite that fact, a boy stood before him now, all wide-eyed with hero worship, believing that he'd won. In a roundabout way, Danny had saved his ass. The spring training event was the last thing on his mind when he'd arrived at the cottage. Yet he'd found his winner. The boy would get Jillian off his back. He went with it. A meant to be, if he believed in destiny.

He figured the chicken was somewhere in the house. The boy would get Halo's foot in the door. He extended his hand. “Congratulations, Danny.”

The boy grasped Halo's hand with both his own. His cast rubbed roughly against Halo's wrist. “Thanks for picking me.”

“Thanks for writing a great letter.”

Danny puffed out his chest. “What part did you like best?”

“Uh—” Pause. “It was all good.” That should satisfy the boy. He eyed the kid's cast and changed the subject. “How'd you break your arm?”

Danny's smile slipped. His shoulders slumped. He sighed heavily. “I tried to save Quigley from getting hit by a car,” he said. “It was all my fault. I left the side gate open. Quigs escaped.”

“Quigley?” Halo asked.

“My daughter's dog,” Martha explained. “Danny was pet sitting. The pug ran into the street. Into traffic. Danny took off after him. A car rounded the corner before he could reach Quiggie.”

“I wasn't fast enough,” the boy confessed.

Martha pressed a comforting hand to Danny's shoulder. “The driver slammed on the brakes. Too late. There were injuries. Fortunately, Danny and Quigley are both recovering.”

The boy and his mother looked expectantly at Halo, waiting for him to say something. Anything. “It took courage to chase after the dog,” he managed.

“You'd have done the same,” Danny said. “I know you would have.”

How could the kid know that? Halo wondered.

“My son admires you,” Martha told him. “You're his role model.”

Role model
. Halo didn't stand well on a pedestal. He was far from perfect. But people saw what they would. He'd gotten by on his good looks and athletic ability for much of his life. He had flaws just like the next guy. And a few deep scars. He did have something in common with the kid, which he shared. “I broke my wrist and two fingers when I was your age. Monkey bars were not my friend.”

“I'm eight.” Danny then held up his cast. “Seg-seg—”

“Segmental fracture,” came from his mother.

“Broken wrist and forearm. My cast comes off in five weeks. I'm healing a lot faster than Quigs.” His voice broke. “He may never be the same.”

Never be the same didn't sound good. Halo was about to question Danny further when a commotion in the living room drew his attention. He raised an eyebrow as a black pug in a rear support dog wheelchair made his way around the corner of the couch. He carried a spiky-toed foot in his mouth. A foot stolen from the chicken costume. He struggled slightly around the end of a coffee table, moving as fast as his front legs would carry him. He wore a diaper. His back legs were supported in stirrups.

Feminine laughter flowed with the words, “I'm going to get you, little sneak.” The pug was being chased by a woman on all fours. Long brown hair hid her face. Her shoulders scrunched beneath a white T-shirt. Her jeans were white seamed and ladder-ripped on one thigh. Her feet bare.

She crawled slowly, yet steadily, calling to the dog. Careening in his escape, the pug bumped into the base of a grandfather clock and tipped himself over. The chicken foot went flying. He lay on his side, panting, his front legs pawing the air.

Halo had a soft spot for animals. He wasn't certain what to do. His initial reaction was to go to the dog. To see if he was hurt. Instead, he took his cue from Danny and his mother. They stood still. Didn't interfere. They let the woman handle the situation.

Halo watched as she approached the pug. Reaching him, she shifted position, leaning back on her heels. “Thought you could outrun me, did you, Quigs?” she teased him. She next patted her thighs, directing him, “Up, Quigley. Rock the cart.”

The dog's ears flickered. He did as she asked. He awkwardly rolled his shoulders, gathering momentum. His first two attempts failed. He barked, sounding annoyed. Then whined, pitifully.

The brunette bent forward, flattening her palms on the hardwood floor near his head. “You can do this, Quiggie,” she assured him. “You did it for your therapist yesterday, you can do it for me today. Up, boy.”

Tough love? Halo's chest tightened. This was a scene he would never forget. The pug calmed, nuzzled her palm. “I'm here with you. Always,” she encouraged.

Giving a deep, determined growl, Quigley threw his body into rising. He struggled, fought and, by determination alone, somehow managed to get his front paws under him, to roll and push up. To turn one short tire just enough that the wheelchair wobbled, yet righted itself. He was on solid ground once again.

The woman pulled the dog close; tucked him against her side. “You are brave and amazing,” she praised, her voice watery. “So strong. I believe in you.” The pug licked her face.

In the silence that followed, Halo heard Danny swallow hard, along with Martha's sniff as she wiped away a tear. He released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He wasn't an overly sensitive guy, yet the moment got to him. He'd never been around a disabled dog. The woman was patient, kind, and gave Quigley the encouragement to stand on his own. Definitely a survivor skill.

The brunette brushed back her hair and turned toward the door. That's when she realized she wasn't alone. Her gaze glanced off her brother and mother, and met Halo's own. She stared, and he stared back, recognizing her light green eyes.

She was his chicken.

In that moment, she knew that he knew who she was. She appeared confused, and not the least bit glad to see him. He was the last person she'd expected to darken her doorway.

She gave Quigley a final pat, and slowly rose. Halo took her in, and liked what he saw. Fresh-faced, delicate features, small-boned, almost fragile. A scripted
Hug a Pug
T-shirt was tucked into her jeans.

Damn, she was pretty. Far prettier than he had imagined.

His male animal instinctively evaluated every woman he met as a potential sexual partner. It was part of his DNA. He was a breathing boner. In his mind, a lady's smile flashed her availability and willingness. Her readiness for sex.

Alyn wasn't smiling. A vulnerability surrounded her. She didn't look all that trusting. Flight flickered in her eyes.

His heart slowed, and all sexual thoughts left him. He was here to make amends, not to make her anxious. What to say? What to do? He'd pretended his purpose at the cottage was to inform Danny he'd won the contest. No one knew he'd actually come looking for her.

“Harold?” she questioned.

Danny shook his head, corrected her. “Not Harold, but Halo. Halo Todd. Richmond Rogues' right fielder. Alyn's my sister. She's not into baseball.”

Brother and sister? There was a significant age gap between the two, Halo noted. He guessed Alyn was close to his age, and Danny was eight. The boy had come along late in Martha's life. Perhaps a second-honeymoon baby. “Alyn.” He gave a short nod, as if meeting her for the first time.

“Halo,” she contemplated. “My mistake. I took you for someone else. You must have a twin.”

“Everyone's said to have one.”

“Yours is identical,” she said pointedly. “Why are you here?”

Danny jumped in then, pumping his arm. “Because I won the spring training contest. Halo picked my letter. He notified me in person. I'm going to Barefoot William!”

“Lucky you,” she congratulated her brother before giving Halo the eye, looking suspicious. “What were the odds? One in a thousand?”

“One in ten thousand,” Halo said. The pile of mail had been daunting.

“Alyn checked my spelling and gave me a stamp,” Danny said. “She dropped off the letter at the post office so we didn't have to wait for the mail carrier. She's the best.”

“Definitely the best,” Halo agreed.

Martha touched Halo's arm, and offered, “Can you stay awhile? I have a fresh pot of coffee and a cinnamon coffee cake right out of the oven, cooling on the kitchen table. We could discuss the details of Danny's trip.”