Strike Zone (11 page)

Taylor had once known him inside out and buck naked—a man of strength and pride, who was engagingly open to love.

That man was long gone. His cool detachment told her she was a dead memory.

“I’m Taylor Hannah, Addie’s granddaughter.” She fought to keep her voice steady, did her best to be cordial.

“Sloan McCaffrey, party crasher,” Sloan introduced himself.

Hilary recognized him. “You climb onto that little hill and throw pitches after Brek.” It was obvious she didn’t know a lot about baseball.

“I’m the reliever,” Sloan explained. “I take over where Brek leaves off.”
Both on and off the field.

The words unsaid were heard the loudest—a most daring comment on Sloan’s part. Taylor noticed the hard set of Brek’s jaw. Only Hilary looked blank and out of the loop.

“What can I get for you?” Taylor wanted to mix their drinks and move them on. She’d never wanted to meet Hilary. Never wanted to know whom Brek had chosen after her. The pain of seeing the two of them together was physically debilitating. She could barely breathe. Every muscle in her body ached from holding herself so stiffly.

“Scotch for Daddy and Stuart,” Hilary requested with a sweet smile. “I’ll have a vodka gimlet, and Brek will have . . .” Her expression went blank.

Taylor waited for the woman to say, “Club soda with citrus.” Hilary never did. Her puckered brow indicated that she couldn’t remember what her fiancé drank. Stryke looked concerned as well.

During Brek’s time with her, Taylor knew he hadn’t indulged during baseball season. He’d kept his body at a high-performance level. She wondered whether he drank now or still abstained. She stood quietly, awaiting his order.

“Club soda and citrus,” he finally said.

Taylor exhaled her relief over his choice. She was glad some things hadn’t changed.

Across the bar, Hilary hooked her arm through Brek’s. She looked up at him with her big brown eyes. “Did we decide on a restaurant for dinner? Daddy thought the Prime Club might be nice, but Stuart and I prefer Chesapeake Landing. I’m in the mood for seafood. How about you?”

Stryke shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s an early night.”

Taylor caught Hilary’s pout. “I respect your curfew; I just wish you could stay up past eleven on occasion.”

“Maybe I could,” he agreed, “in the right circumstances.”

Memories hit Taylor hard. She’d always looked forward to his curfew. She and Stryke would strip and race for bed. Neither had slept until the early morning hours, yet he’d still gotten up with the alarm.

Closing her mind to what once had been and would never be again, Taylor set the three alchoholic drinks on the bar, then poured club soda for Brek. She squeezed fresh lemon and lime wedges into the soda, then floated several orange slices on top.

“Another Bud, sweetheart.” Sloan held up his beer glass as Hilary and Stryke picked up their drinks.

Her fingertips damp, Taylor lost her grip on the glass Sloan passed to her. It slipped through her hand. At any other time, she could have caught the glass before it hit the floor; her reflexes were that sharp. Not today, however. Her muscles froze, and she watched as the glass hit the slate tile near her right foot and shattered loudly.

“She’s barefoot,” she heard Sloan say.

She damn sure was. Flecks of blood now patterned her toes. She stepped back, only to feel splinters of glass bite into the ball of her foot.

Angry with herself for being so clumsy, she searched behind the bar for a broom and dustpan. Locating them on a bottom shelf beneath a lemonade pitcher, she quickly bent to clean up the mess.

Pairs of low biker boots, gray suede pumps, and leather loafers rounded the end of the bar as she worked.

“You’re bleeding; I’ll finish up.” Sloan hunkered down beside her and took the broom and dustpan right out of her hands.

“It’s nothing.” She tried to wave Sloan off.

“Glass in your foot is something. You don’t need an infection.” The statement came from Brek, without any inflection of concern.

Emotionally drained, Taylor straightened. “I’m fine. Just fine.” Her knee, swollen and sore, suddenly popped. Her leg buckled and she pitched forward.

It was Stryke who reached for her.

Stryke who caught her.

Stryke whose hands curved about her hips and kept her upright.

Stryke who lifted and swung her over the remaining shards of glass before she could cut herself further.

Stryke who then stepped back and let her limp toward the powder room. Alone.

Taylor set her shoulders and straightened her spine, a physical warning to those gathered not to follow her.

“Should I help her?”

Hilary’s question had Taylor limping a little faster. No matter her good intentions, the very last thing Taylor needed was Brek’s fiancée playing nurse.

She made it to the powder room below the staircase and closed the door. The scents of lemon potpourri and lavender bath soaps soothed her, fragrances that would always remind Taylor of Addie.

Suddenly tired, she leaned against the jamb and closed her eyes. Brek’s arrival at Addie’s party with Hilary was a real killer. Did he hate her so much he wanted to publicly humiliate her, as she’d once humiliated him on their wedding day?

Placing her hand over her heart, Taylor wished she could push back the pain. She’d never have believed her chest could hurt so much. She felt vulnerable. Totally lost. Completely crushed.

And very much alone.

A knock on the door brought her heart to her throat. “Taylor, it’s Hilary Talbott. I’m coming in.”

A push on the door nudged Taylor forward. Hilary peered in. “Let’s clean your foot.”

Don’t
be nice to me.
Taylor opened her eyes, her gaze unfocused. “I can manage on my own.” Her voice sounded out-of-body.

Hilary glanced down at Taylor’s toes. “There’s a lot of blood.”

“Superficial cuts,” Taylor assured her. “They look worse than they are.”

“Let me be the judge.” Hilary stepped fully into the powder room and motioned toward a stool covered in yellow satin. “Sit down, please.”

Hilary had come to care for Taylor. Only outright rudeness would send her away.

Taylor sank down on the stool.

Hilary then proceeded to study the contents of the medicine cabinet. She set out a bottle of peroxide, a magnifying glass, a pair of tweezers, several cotton balls, and a tube of Neosporin, along with three large Band-Aids.

“What can I hand you first?” Hilary asked.

Taylor slowly slid off her toe rings, crossed her right foot over her left knee, and examined the cuts. They were worse than she’d originally thought. Deeply embedded glass poked from the ball of her foot. Fine splinters stabbed her toes. It would take some time to doctor her foot. toes. It would take some time to doctor “Tweezers,” she finally managed.

Hilary quietly handed them to her.

The silence held as Hilary watched Taylor work on her foot. Every time Taylor blew out a breath and looked up, she met Hilary’s stare.

A rather intense stare, for a woman known to be shy. Taylor sensed that Hilary was sizing her up.

The tick of the powder room clock registered less than a minute before the brunette bit down her bottom lip and said, “I like Brek a lot. He’s a good man.”

Like him?
Hilary’s choice of words surprised Taylor.
Like
was appropriate for friends, dogs, flavors of ice cream, and a good book. Not for the man Hilary was about to marry.

Taylor had no desire to discuss Brek.

Hilary, on the other hand, did. “I, um, know this is awkward, but I need your advice,” she softly continued. “Even though Brek never talks about you, I know you were once engaged. Tell me how to make him happy. I don’t want to make the mistakes you did.”

Taylor’s mistakes.
Don’t
leave him at the altar and
you’ll
be fine.
That didn’t sound quite right. But it was all Taylor had to offer.

Her time with Brek had been sacred. She’d screwed up royally. Admitting this to Hilary would open wounds and leave more scars.

“Peroxide, please,” was all she could manage.

Hilary was slow to hand her the disinfectant, so Taylor reached for the bottle herself. Forgoing cotton balls, she poured the peroxide straight onto her foot. The disinfectant bubbled, turned white, and her toes started bleeding again. She grabbed a hand towel and blotted her foot.

There was a shuffle of feet, and Sloan McCaffrey appeared in the doorway. “Glass is all cleaned up,” he told Taylor.

“We came to check on you,” Eve put in, as both she and Addie peered around Sloan.

Taylor welcomed their arrival. “My foot is fine,” she assured her grandmother. “Go back to your guests.”

Addie nodded. “I’ll be close by.”

Eve, however, stayed.

Sloan crossed to Taylor, hunkering down beside the stool. He ran one finger over the ball of her foot, then across her toes.

“I’m still feeling glass,” Taylor told him.

“Let’s take a closer look. Magnifying glass,” Sloan requested.

Hilary dropped it on his palm.

Sloan made three attempts at removing the glass before Taylor stopped him. “You’re pushing the glass in, not picking it out.” She took back the tweezers.

Sloan apologized. “I never meant to hurt you, sweetheart.”

Hilary was watching them closely. “You two a couple?”

Sloan looked from Taylor to Eve. His grin curved slowly. “Eve’s the only sister who’s seen my tattoo.”

Hilary looked confused. “I thought you were with Taylor.”

“Enough of me for both of them,” answered Sloan.

Taylor rolled her eyes, and Eve pulled a face.

Hilary, on the other hand, contemplated his remark. “I’d heard the players brand themselves.”

“Adds to our mystique,” Sloan explained. “I have the number three; Brek has ‘Strike Zone.’ ”

Hilary fingered a brass button on her red blazer. “So I’ve heard.”

Heard, not seen?
Taylor went still—so still she wondered if her heart had stopped beating. Was it possible Hilary and Brek had yet to sleep together?

Hilary and Brek had Hilary a virgin?

Brek celibate?

Hard to comprehend. Brek was a physical man. He’d wanted Taylor as often and as badly as she’d wanted him. They’d been as active in sex as in sports. Dusk to dawn, they’d welcomed the sun with a smile on their faces.

“Ah, there you are, Hilary.” Stuart Tate had located the mayor’s daughter. “Your father requests your presence. He’d like you to meet his senior constituents.”

“Excuse me,” Hilary said as she stepped around Sloan.

Tate eased back to let her pass as well. He then pressed his palm to her lower back and followed her out.

Sloan nodded toward the door once Hilary and Stuart had moved beyond earshot. “They’re pretty chummy.”

“They’re working together on the campaign,” Taylor suggested.

“Goes beyond work.” Sloan stood up. He hitched his hip on the powder room vanity and crossed his arms over his chest. “Try sexual familiarity.”

Startled, Taylor lost her grip and she tweezed her little toe, slicing skin. She winced. “Jacy speaks highly of Hilary. The woman’s sweet and reliable and dedicated to Brek.”

“No dedication there.”

Taylor’s chest compressed and her breath locked in her throat. “You’re wrong, Sloan.”

“I’m calling it like I see it.”

“Prove it,” Eve challenged.

“I caught the look in Hilary’s eyes when she first saw Stu. She’s seen the man naked.”

Eve’s eyes went wide. “You got all this from a look?”

“Her look and his palm,” Sloan stated. “A man’s hand on a woman’s ass is the universal sign they’re lovers.”

“You need glasses.”

“I saw what I saw, Eve.” He stood firm. “I’m sure Stu removed his hand by the time they joined the others.”

“Brek’s not blind.” Taylor exhaled. “He’d know if Stuart was making a move on his fiancée.”

Sloan shrugged. “A man sees what he wants to see. It all depends how much Stryke’s into his woman.”

“Maybe you’re reading more into the situation than is warranted,” Eve said, looking unconvinced.

“Maybe I am; maybe I’m not.”

Silence hung heavy as Eve and Sloan faced off, glaring at each other. Taylor took in their confrontation and found it amusing. Their dislike sparked like loose wires—wires that, if ever connected, would shock them both into tomorrow.

Sloan’s observations left Taylor thinking. She refused to believe Hilary was cheating on Stryke. Surely Sloan had misinterpreted Hilary’s look and Stuart’s palm on her back.

It had to be a mistake.

“Take care of your foot.” Eve patted Taylor on the shoulder. “I’ll be back to check on you.”

Taylor nodded and returned to work on her foot.

“Taylor.” Sloan said her name so softly, she wasn’t certain she’d heard him. Glancing up, she found he’d gone all serious on her. “I wouldn’t have come on so strong had I known you cared for Stryke.”

“You flattered me with your attention,” she said, easing his tension with a smile. “Brek lost interest long ago.”

“You’re a thrill seeker and a total turn-on.”

“Compliments are always welcome.”

His dark brows drew together, and genuine curiosity darkened his gray eyes. “What happened between you two? A miscommunication? A fight?”

She blew out a breath. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like? The man was a fool to leave you.”

“Not quite the fool you think,” Brek corrected from the doorway, where he now loomed, tall and broad shouldered. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth hard. The powder room felt suddenly small and very crowded. “I never left Taylor; she left me—at the altar on our wedding day. She chose paragliding over our vows.”

“Holy shit.” Sloan McCaffrey coughed into his hand. “Must have been one hell of a glide.”

Stryke took in the scene: Taylor sitting on the stool, her foot slightly swollen and already turning black and blue from the embedded glass; Sloan leaning negligently against the vanity, bold in his pursuit of Taylor.

His chest tightened at the reliever’s interest. He shouldn’t have felt a thing, yet he did. Pain wedged between his ribs like a spike, and his muscles felt roped and knotted.