Playing for Keeps (Texas Scoundrels) (5 page)

And that was just fine with him.

*

Jed rolled over with a groan and turned off the ringer on his cell phone. No way was he taking that call. Dr. Robick’s secretary had a high-pitched, nasally tone that grated on the nerves, especially when combined with the continual hangover he’d been waking up with since the weekend. He didn’t need a wake-up call. He knew he’d missed another appointment.
 

Did they think he was stupid?
 

He squinted at the screen on his phone. Wednesday? What the hell happened to Monday and Tuesday?

He ignored the icon indicating he had more than a dozen voice mails waiting to be retrieved. No doubt more calls from his agent and the head coach. Calls he had no intention of returning. He scrolled through the missed call log. Even his publicist had picked up the torch to hassle him.
 

He was sick and tired of being badgered by the people who’d gotten rich off his name. Now that there was a chance he’d no longer have what it took to increase their wealth, the vultures wouldn’t leave him alone. He’d expected the opposite, but as his agent had pointed out, they were only protecting their investment.
 

“Meal ticket is more like it,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the king-sized bed.
 

He stretched his arms over his head, but his shoulder caught, sending sharp pain shooting down his arm into the numb fingers of his right hand. Ignoring the painkillers and the half empty bottle of scotch on the nightstand, he headed for the shower and hopefully salvation from the pounding in his head.

He stripped and stepped beneath the jets, letting the steaming water pound against him, wondering what to do next. Maybe he should find a new orthopedist and get a second opinion.

A second opinion? Or someone to tell you your career isn’t over?

He grimaced at the thought of his career being at an end. He was only thirty-five years old, far from over the hill. Or was he? Linc Monroe, his best friend and one of the greatest wide receivers to ever grace the field, had warned him long ago the game would suck him dry, use and abuse him until there was nothing left to give. And Linc had known, because he’d been there once himself until...

With a vile curse, Jed dipped his head beneath the spray. No. He wouldn’t go there. Besides, over the hill wasn’t for Maitland the Maniac. He had his entire life in front of him.
Has-been
wasn’t in his vocabulary. And he was not about to crawl off somewhere to lick his wounds and cry about a lousy injury that could keep him off the field. He’d never whined like a spoiled brat and he wasn’t about to start now. So what if they said the surgery hadn’t had the results they’d been hoping for? Who were they to tell him his career was over? No one was going to tell him what he could or couldn’t do with his life.
 

God, he was tired of everyone wanting a piece of him.

Visions of a long legged, auburn-haired beauty with fire in her eyes traipsed through his mind. He might have had the hangover from hell when Dani's sister had arrived on his doorstep, but that hadn’t meant he couldn’t appreciate her sweet ass or the subtle lilac scent that had remained in his house long after she’d gone. Even she’d wanted a piece of him, he decided, cultivating his foul and rebellious mood. Not for herself, but for her kid.
 

His kid.
 

His
and
Dani’s kid.
 

He cast that thought aside and reached for the shampoo.

Minutes later and feeling somewhat more human, he stepped from the shower. The pounding headache hadn’t eased up enough, so he opened the medicine chest for the bottle of plain, old-fashioned aspirin. With a flick of his thumb, he snapped open the cap, shook two into his mouth and swallowed.

With a towel draped his waist, he strode back into the bedroom just as his cell phone started vibrating across the nightstand. He had to get out of there. Find a place where no one knew him, where no one expected anything of him or from him. A place where his agent, lawyer or publicist couldn’t badger him into something he wanted no part of—retirement from the only thing he knew.

Retire?

Him?
 

Now that was the laugh of the season. He wasn’t about to become a locker room joke. He’d worked too fucking hard for that to happen.

He dressed quickly in jeans, a black t-shirt and a pair of scuffed boots, then dragged a comb through his hair. “Over the hill, my ass,” he said to his reflection.

He tossed the comb onto the dresser, then grabbed a duffle bag from the walk-in closet and threw in a few essentials. A pair of aviator sunglasses rested on top of the dresser, and he slipped them on, purposely ignoring the Wranglers ball cap resting nearby. Instead, he grabbed the black and gold Pittsburgh one and shoved it on his head. Jed Maitland was getting the hell out of Dodge for a while.

Where he was going, he couldn’t say, and he really didn’t give a rat’s ass.

Four

ONCE UPON A time, Griffen and her sisters, Dani and Mattie, had found an old lantern in their Grandpa Caulfield’s barn. They’d been young and silly and had pretended it was a magic lamp, making wishes that had never come true. She carefully set the old lantern on the counter, moving it away from the collectibles she’d pulled from the top display shelves for the going out of business sale scheduled for the following day. The lantern held no monetary value, but no way was she parting with it.

She climbed back up the ladder and started hauling down the antique china tea sets. They were elegant and delicate, but slow movers, so she marked them down to half price, even if it would cut into her profit margin.
 

“What profit margin?” she muttered, reaching for a red-patterned Homer Laughlin cup and saucer set with a pretty pink rose in the center. By the time she was finished, she’d be lucky to clear enough to pay off even one of the past due business loans.

As she swiped two month’s worth of dust from the china, she cursed Ross for putting her in such a precarious financial position. She never should’ve listened to him, but followed her instincts instead and kept the business solely in her name. Allowing him to cloud her judgment, listening to his lies about their partnership being one of love and business, had been more than stupid, it was proving fatal.

Things would return to normal soon. She had to believe that, despite evidence to the contrary. When she’d placed a call to the mayor’s wife to discuss the Louis XIV table last week, Mrs. Carter had finally agreed to buy. Although she was clearing only a fraction of what she’d originally paid for the antique, she was glad to be rid of the pricey item.

The bell over the door jangled and she looked up, smiling when her sister, Mattie, walked through the door. “You’re just in time,” Griffen said as she climbed down the ladder balancing a teal, rose-patterned teapot. “I’m marking these down and I know you’ve been wanting this Royal Albert tea service.”

Mattie returned the grin as she kicked off her heels and wiggled her toes into the thick carpet in front of the counter. “How much?” she asked. “You know I’m too cheap to pay full price.”

Griffen dusted her hands on her jeans. “Fifty percent off,” she said, delighted when her sister’s eyes sparkled greedily. “But for you, seventy-five.”

“Sold.” Mattie picked up a delicate china cup and admired it, gently tracing her finger over the scalloped edge. “Set it aside for me. I didn’t bring my checkbook.”

Griffen pulled several sheets of tissue from beneath the counter and started wrapping the set. “What are you still doing in town?” Other than attending classes every day at Hart High School where Mattie taught Home Economics, she rarely ventured far from home. Mattie was a creature of habit, or rather, had become one since her late husband, Ford Grayson’s death five years ago.

Mattie rubbed her flat tummy that Griffen knew held not even a single stretch mark from the birth of her daughter five years before. “It’s Thursday. That means Goldie’s fried chicken special.” An anticipated gleam entered her sister’s eyes. “And the hot fudge sundaes for desert are on me.”

Griffen's stomach growled. Lunch had consisted of a cup of instant noodle soup, half a container of yogurt and iced tea, no sugar. “Can’t. I’ve got a ton to do before for the sale tomorrow.”

Mattie sighed and flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder before leaning on the glass case. “You’re no fun. How can I convince you to let go for once and gorge yourself on Goldie’s homemade hot fudge?”

Griffen smiled at her younger sister. “One bite is a lifetime on my ass.” She picked up the soft cloth she’d been using and wiped down a pink china cup. “Forget it. I’m not like you. I have to watch what I eat.”

Mattie straightened. “I watch what I eat.”

Mattie could eat a Big Mac and fries for breakfast, lunch and dinner and never gain an ounce. Life just wasn’t fair. “Sure you do,” Griffen teased. “You watch it disappear from your plate.”

“Is it my fault I was born with a great metabolism?” Mattie pushed away from the counter and strolled around the store. “So you’re really selling out, huh?”

Griffen dropped the cleaning rag on the counter. “I have to, Matt.” As much as she didn’t want to lose her business, the books, and the bank, were both telling her otherwise. Since she’d made the decision, she hadn’t looked back. No regrets, she’d decided. Step into the future and embrace it with both hands. At least that’s what she kept telling herself whenever her confidence started to slip.

Mattie traced her hand along the back of a one-hundred-year-old tapestry sofa. “Dad told me you’ve got an interview with your old firm in Dallas next week.”

“Not exactly an interview,” Griffen said. “I made an appointment to meet with Greg Coulter. Hopefully he’ll have a job for me.”

“No luck with the banks in town, huh?”

“None.” Keith Shelton had been kind and understanding, but empty-handed. Joe Gibson, the realtor, had already shown her home to a couple from Dallas looking to relocate to a smaller town to raise their children, but so far, they hadn’t made an offer. The real estate market hadn’t quite recovered, but with the auction coming up, she could afford to be patient, for at least a little while longer.
 

Mattie sat on the sofa, her bright green eyes filled with compassion. “I’m really sorry, Griff.”

Griffen shrugged. “I’m not looking forward to that drive every day, but I need to make a decent living. Want some iced tea?”

Mattie shook her head and wrinkled her nose in response. Her sister was a diehard Coke drinker. “I wish I could help.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Just promise you’ll come to the auction with me.”

“You shouldn’t go. Let the auctioneer handle it and deliver the proceeds to you when it’s over.”

“You’re probably right,” she said, but knew she’d attend anyway. She couldn’t help herself. Obviously, she was a glutton for punishment.

She hefted a milk crate filled with 78s and carried it to the sofa. She needed to catalogue and separate the old records for the auctioneer, so she might as well stop putting it off. There wasn’t much of a demand for old records, but she was spending the money to advertize in newspapers from the surrounding communities in hopes there might be a collector or two looking for Eddie Arnold, Rosemary Clooney or Dean Martin.

She set an empty box next to Mattie, then pulled a stack from the box and handed them to her sister. “Help me sort.” She hauled over another crate. Hoping to steer the conversation toward a more pleasant topic, she asked, “So where’s my niece?”
 

“The she-devil Phoebzilla?” Mattie asked with a grin that made Griffen laugh. Phoebe was no she-devil, she was just her mother’s daughter.
 

Mattie started sorting the old records. “She wanted to stay with Dad and Austin. They were watching an old movie when I left. I’m betting by the time I pick her up, she’ll have connived them into the three hundred and forty-third showing of
Beauty and the Beast
or
Mulan
.”
 

Griffen and her sister worked companionably for the next thirty minutes. As they separated the records by artist, Mattie shared more tales of Phoebe’s exploits.
 

“She’s such a little monster.” Mattie laughed as she wiped dust from her hands. “If she’s this much of a handful at five, what’s she going to be like at fifteen? Hannah Richards, the elementary school principal, pulled me from my class the other day because Phoebe wouldn’t let Lewis Nettles out of the cloakroom until he apologized for pulling Denise Fitch’s braids.”

Griffen stifled a grin. “Who does that sound like?”

“Ford.”

“No, you.”

Mattie gave her a narrow-eyed glare. “I was nothing like Phoebe.”

Griffen laughed. “Remember what you did to Jason McDougall in the fourth grade?”

“That was the fourth grade, not kindergarten,” Mattie said. “Besides, Jason deserved having his face painted green. He put a spider in my desk.”

Griffen moved the empty crate to the floor and stood. “A plastic spider,” she reminded her sister before she went to the office for her iPad.

“He still scared me,” Mattie called after her.