Stopping Short: A Hot Baseball Romance (15 page)
Read Stopping Short: A Hot Baseball Romance Online
Authors: Mindy Klasky
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Fiction, #Sports, #spicy romance, #sports romance, #hot romance, #baseball, #sexy romance, #Contemporary Romance
“Don’t do it,” Chip said, and she collapsed back to the conference room. She had to turn around then, had to face the shocked eyes of everyone who sat at the polished table.
They had no idea what to make of her. Some of them pitied her; she’d learned to read that emotion in the months following Kevin’s death. They thought she was injured, sick, damaged. Some of them were eager for her to go, eager to step up to the whiteboard themselves, to draw the lines connecting the dots of Donald Bender’s campaign, of a dozen other projects she’d claimed as hers in the past month. One or two were yearning—they wanted to escape as well, to their own dreams, to their own lives outside the Image Masters conference room.
But Chip was the one who mattered. Chip was the one who had recognized her ability from the start, who had nurtured her, challenged her, who had rebuilt her backbone after Kevin’s death tore it away.
“Don’t go, Jessica,” Chip said. “If you follow him to Florida, you won’t come back to New York again. You’re good at this, the best I’ve ever seen. Image Masters needs you.
I
need you.”
Those were the words of recognition she’d craved. That was the acceptance she’d longed for. But now that she had it, she realized just how little it truly mattered. She shook her head and said, “But I need something more. I need to take this chance.”
“Didn’t you learn anything from Kevin?” Chip stood as he thundered the question. “There are consequences for crazy actions! If you throw yourself off a cliff, there’s no way you can survive!”
From the gasps around the table, she knew she should be reeling. She should be lost in the past, in mourning. Chip had pushed with all he had to give, with the mastery of years of manipulation.
But he had used the wrong lever. He didn’t understand the truth. “The most important thing I’ve ever learned is there are consequences for everything I choose. Every single action yields a result. But I’m not throwing myself off a cliff, Chip. I’m walking down a path, with someone by my side. Someone I trust. Someone I love.”
As soon as she said the words, she knew they were right. They were
true
in a way that all the calculations and analyses and manipulations of Image Masters could never be true. As if to agree with her, she felt Drew shift, coming to stand behind her in silent support. She reached down and twined her fingers with his, never doubting that his hand would be there, that he would be ready for what she needed most.
Chip shook his head. “What are you going to do when you get tired of walking on the beach? What will you do when you’re bored?”
She realized she’d learned the answer all those weeks before, in Florida. “I won’t
be
bored. I can set up my own business, doing marketing and promotion for people I
want
to work for. People who are doing great things, real things, like helping veterans, and starting restaurants, and building a photography business. People like the women I met in the stands, the players’ fiancées, who are working hard in Raleigh.”
“Raleigh!” From Chip’s snorted disbelief, she might have been talking about Mars. “First it’s Florida, now it’s North Carolina. What are you going to do? Follow the team on the road, rescuing people in every baseball stadium in North America?”
“I will, if Drew will have me.” She’d walk out of Image Masters then and there. She’d leave behind the conference room, with its million-dollar views. She’d never look back at Caden and Marnie and Rebecca. At Chip.
If Drew would have her
.
“No,” Drew said. Her heart seized as she turned around to face him. “That’s not the question. That’s never been the question. You should ask if
you’ll
have
me
, knowing everything you know, having seen everything you’ve seen.”
He wasn’t talking about graphs and charts. He wasn’t talking about metrics. He was talking about scars on a well-muscled back. He was talking about dirty truths laid out in dozens of column inches. He was talking about past mistakes and desperate blunders and hard-won lessons learned.
He tightened his grip on her hand and said, “Jessica Barnes, I have no right to ask it, but will you marry me?”
They’d met each other in the middle of a media storm. They’d tumbled into a lie because of a friend’s poor judgment. They’d hurt each other. They’d saved each other.
They loved each other.
“Yes,” Jessica said. “I’ll marry you, Drew Marshall.”
The words were right, the instant she said them out loud. They’d been waiting to be shared, waiting to be shouted to the world. For the first time in weeks, she believed there could be a happy ending—Drew would do his rehab, he’d continue to rebuild his reputation because he hadn’t done anything wrong. The union would press for his making the team.
In ways she’d never planned, using strategies Image Masters had never considered, Drew would play shortstop for the Rockets. And she’d be there in the stands when he played his first game of the season—when he hit his first home run, when he turned his first double play. She’d be ready for the Backwards Run, if that’s what it took for them to be together, forever.
When he kissed her, she didn’t even consider counting the seconds. They didn’t matter any more. Not when she and Drew were going to spend the rest of their lives together.
Read on, for a sneak peek at the next Diamond Brides romance,
From Left Field
!
~~~
At least the dogs didn’t eat all of the barbecue.
Haley could have sworn she’d only turned her back for a second —she
knew
better than to leave a perfectly smoked pork shoulder sitting on the edge of the counter. All she’d done was reach for the vinegar-based sauce, just one stretch toward the stovetop, but the dogs had teamed up on her.
Killer, the toy-size mop of a mutt, had woven between her ankles, pressing against Haley’s shins to express her undying canine love. Heathcliff, the three-legged beagle, began baying like his heart was about to break. And Darcy, the brains of the operation, used his height to snag the meat from the counter.
The next thing Haley knew, the jet-black shepherd-lab mix was high-tailing it through the doggie door, dragging the haunch of pig down the porch steps and toward the back corner of the yard. Haley hollered for the dog to stop—a fat lot of good
that
did—and then she enlisted the aid of her guests.
Darcy was thrilled by the game, of course. Keep away, from an entire crowd. A couple of the guys got smart, circling around by the fence to the old Reeves farm, keeping Darcy from galloping farther afield. That left an opportunity for Haley to dive in and rescue the meat.
Not that it could be chopped into barbecue for humans at that point. Haley was really just protecting her hardwood floors. And the braided rugs that had been in the family farmhouse for at least three generations. And her bedspread, which would have received the worst of Darcy’s middle-of-the-night attentions if the miserable mutt hadn’t been deprived of his meal.
Haley marched the pork back to the trashcan, her back stiff with wounded pride. At least she had the second shoulder left to serve; it was still safe inside the smoker. And just that morning, she’d stocked up on links of fresh sage sausage, already serving their time on the massive grill. They sizzled on the far rack, close enough to the heat to keep warm, next to the chicken quarters that had marinated overnight and plumped up on the grill.
No, no one was going hungry. In a household that included three dogs, a grumpy cat, and a tank full of fish, disasters were the usual order of the day.
As usual for the traditional Opening Day Barbecue, Haley had cooked for an army. She could never guess how many people would show up for the Thurman tradition. Baseball was religion for her family—it was sacrilege to miss the Raleigh Rockets’ first game after the long drought of winter.
In an effort to avoid further culinary assaults, Haley sentenced all three dogs to detention in the laundry room. She sweetened their banishment with treats—peanut-butter-stuffed rubber toys that would keep them occupied for at least twenty-seven seconds.
“Need some help?” asked Michael, poking his head into the kitchen as Haley hefted her largest chef’s knife. Her brother was well-accustomed to the last-minute ballet of these Opening Day feasts.
“Thanks,” Haley said, quickly charging him with carrying out huge platters of food—coleslaw and fruit salad and thick pillowy buns for the barbecue. The macaroni and cheese was ready to come out of the oven, and the Brunswick stew was through simmering on the stovetop, so Michael drafted the third Thurman siblings, Billy. That left Haley’s sisters-in-law to keep an eye on the kids. The nieces and nephews were a handful—six girls and three boys, all between two months and twelve years.
Haley finished chopping the dog-safe pork, mixing it with the spicy barbecue sauce that made her sinuses smart. She tasted one of the crunchy bits and shook her head before adding another generous splash of sauce. Only after another another three tastes was she satisfied the dish was ready. She scooped the steaming meat into her largest serving bowl and handed it off to the waiting Billy.
As the excitement in the backyard reached fever pitch, Haley salvaged a beer from the fridge. She opened the back door and surveyed her domain, making sure she hadn’t forgotten any necessity for the feast.
She shouldn’t have. After thirty-two years of Opening Day Barbecues she should be an expert. In fact, her earliest memory of her family’s two-story colonial house was reaching up to the backyard picnic table to snatch a carrot stick from a vegetable platter and bringing down a rain of olives on her head.
That’s why she’d abandoned vegetables as soon as she’d taken over the party planning, ten years ago. They were too healthy. And they could ruin a cookout for a little kid.
She was satisfied to watch the hordes descending on the picnic table. Michael was already halfway through preparing a plate for the twins, and Billy was corralling the girls. Along with family, a couple of dozen friends swarmed the table—neighbors and other tag-alongs who’d always been part of the Thurman family tradition.
Content, Haley drank deeply from her beer.
“Careful, now. Toss ’em back like that on an empty stomach, and you’ll be staggering by sunset.”
Of course, she recognized the voice before she turned around. Thirty-two years of being next-door neighbors did that to a person. “The man of the hour,” she said, grinning as Adam Sartain folded her into a bear-hug.
“Sorry I’m late,” the Rockets’ left-fielder said, brushing a kiss against her cheek. “The post-game press conference went on longer than I thought it would.”
She laughed as he let her go, and she turned toward the fridge. “You say that every year,” she said, automatically reaching toward the back of the shelf to grab his preferred Guinness.
“Every year, I think I can slip out early.”
“Sure, the team would be fine with that. The face of the franchise, ducking out of a little Q and A because he’s got barbecue waiting across town.”
“A man should have priorities,” Adam said, grinning easily. He accepted the beer and handed over a white pasteboard box in exchange.
“For me?” Haley asked, pretending surprise.
Adam chuckled. “Like I could forget. Happy spring training.”
She eyed the salt water taffy longingly. “I should eat dinner first.”
“I won’t tell on you,” Adam said.
And just like that, she slipped out a piece of cinnamon candy. With expert fingers, she tore off the waxed paper and slipped the pink stuff into her mouth, sucking hard on the spicy sweetness. The taffy was fresh—so soft that she moaned a little in pleasure.
Adam shook his head. “And here, I thought you invited me every year because you like my winning personality.”
“I invite you every year because my brothers would kill me if I didn’t. Besides, I want to be neighborly. Go on—get out there. They’re dying to talk about that suicide squeeze in the ninth.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
She eyed the white box of candy. But she’d been right the first time. She
should
eat dinner before she indulged. She turned to the cabinets on top of the refrigerator and stretched on her tiptoes to hide the box from prying eyes.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Adam said as she closed the door on her stash.
“If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”
“What if they just happen to discover it on their own?”
“Hasn’t happened for the ten years you’ve been coming back from spring training. Isn’t going to happen now.” She picked up her beer and nodded toward the back door. “Let’s go. They might have left us a bite or two.”
Adam led the way. He knew the screen door as well as she did; he remembered that he had to lift on the handle just a little as he pushed it open. He
should
remember—he’d been running in and out of this kitchen since he was a skinny blond boy with summer shorts, a bare chest, and scabbed knees.
The hair had darkened over the years—it was chestnut brown now, with a hint of silver coming in at his temples. And he wore an anonymous navy polo shirt to cover his chest. She had no idea about the state of his knees, especially after that hard slide he’d taken into second, in the bottom of the fifth.
Adam Sartain might be the most popular player on the Raleigh Rockets, the steady left fielder who’d showed up day in, day out for nearly a decade of play. But first and foremost, he’d always be Haley’s next door neighbor, the casual guy who had literally dropped by for a cup of sugar for his mother, the kid who’d regularly waited for Haley to sneak out of the house when they were ten years old, when the pond at the Reeves farm held perfect summer allure for a couple of kids who couldn’t get enough of peepers and fireflies.
Looking one more time at her hiding place for the taffy, she ignored the dogs’ howling for release as she went out to join the party in the back yard.
~~~
Adam straightened from placing the serving platter on its shelf in the breakfront just as Haley let loose with a string of profanity that would have fit better in the locker room than her comfortable colonial home. He sauntered back into the kitchen as she wound down with, “I’m going to kill Billy!”
“He cleaned out the beer?”
“I should have known better than to let him put up the leftover food.” She slammed the refrigerator door. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d kicked it for good measure.
He shrugged and did his best to distract her from thoughts of bloody revenge. “Is there any pudding left?”
“Aren’t you in training?”
“Sure,” he said easily. “I’ll have a bowl now and run a few windsprints tomorrow.”
“A few hundred, maybe.” But she took two bowls out of the cupboard and served them both generous portions of the banana pudding she’d made that morning, using her mother’s treasured recipe. After shoving spoons through the meringue, she led the way into the family room. She collapsed in a corner of the couch and handed him his bowl as he sat at the opposite end.
He took his time, putting together a perfect scoop that captured pudding, ripe fruit, vanilla wafers, and meringue. As the sweetness made his teeth ache, he leaned his head against the back of the couch, “God, it’s good to be home.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, kicking him with a bare foot. “You love Florida.”
He forgot about finding the perfect balance for dessert and settled on inhaling the rest of the bowl. Between bites, he said, “It’s got its charms. It’s always good to see the guys again. And the weather is a hell of a lot better than up here. But the older I get, the more I hate being on the road, and spending two months away…”
“Yeah,” she said, nudging him again. “You’re so
old
.” She drew out the last word, adding a twang that made her sound more like one of her tween nieces than a full-grown woman. “Come on, Sartain. You’re holding out on me. You know the rules.”
“Rules?” he asked, scooping up the last bite of pudding. As he swallowed, he realized his mistake. He’d just lost his major excuse to duck out of this ridiculous game.
“I went first last year.”
She had, hadn’t she? But he still took his time leaning forward, putting his bowl on the coffee table. When he settled back on the couch, he had a sudden inspiration, and he scooted closer to her, putting her feet on his lap. His fingers automatically started to work the arch of her right foot, finding the pressure points and releasing her tension.
“Mmm,” she sighed, and he wasn’t sure if that was a comment about his hands or the massive bite of banana pudding she’d just shoved into her mouth. Even though it had to be one or the other, it sounded a hell of a lot like something else. He shifted his attention to her toes, amused by the rapturous tone in her voice when she said, “God, that feels amazing.”
“Sounds like someone hasn’t been getting any,” he teased.
“I went first last year,” she repeated. But she sank lower on the couch, resting her head against the arm after edging her empty bowl onto the table.
He worked up from her toes to her calf, amused by the tiny puppy sounds she made. He could keep this up all night, though, and she wouldn’t forget their long-standing arrangement. Who had started it anyway?
That’s right.
He’d
started it. Ten years ago. The first time he’d come back from spring training and pumped her for information about Sara Thatcher, about whether the hottest girl from their high school class was dating anyone locally. Haley had promised to tell him the truth about her then-best friend, but only after he confessed to what he’d gotten up to down in Florida. As a way of putting off the inevitable, he’d pressed her for her own spring exploits, but in the end he’d told the truth about the women who hung out in the Coral Crest bars, the women who were all too eager to screw a different ballplayer every night of the season.
Sara Thatcher was ancient history. But the Spring Swap continued to be an Opening Day tradition.
“Come on, Sartain,” Haley said, not fooled at all when he switched his attention to her left foot. “I fed you. And I bought you Guinness. We all celebrated your win. So fair’s fair. Spring Swap.”
So much for the good will gained from a box of salt water taffy. He swallowed hard and met her eyes. “Let’s just say it was a dry season.”
Haley raised her eyebrows with skepticism. “No one? Not all spring long?”
He shrugged. “I hooked up with one girl the first week, but she was out of there by the middle of February.”
“By Valentines Day,” Haley teased.
“Yeah.”
“And? After that?”
He rolled his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you ask too many questions?”
“Yeah, you do. Every year. Don’t tell me you’re losing the old Sartain charm.”
“I’m an old man down there.” He kept his voice light, but he saw her measure the truth behind his words.
“You’re thirty-two, Sartain. I don’t think we need to drag out the wheelchair yet.”
He shrugged. “Half the guys are right out of college. Baseball is a young man’s game.”
And that was the thing about Haley. She didn’t try to tell him he was an idiot. She didn’t tell him age was just a number, or he still had some good years in him, or he was only old if he let himself think he was old. She didn’t even treat him like a guy, tell him to get out there and find a girl for the night, worry about building something real later, a lot later.
