Winner Takes All (23 page)

But he just stood there like the weak bastard he was, meeting her hard stare with one of his own while his security blanket was washed down the drain.

She threw the bottle on the counter, where it skittered until it hit a canister of sugar. “You'll thank me for that one day.”

“I needed those,” he told her through the ache in his jaw.

“What you need is help,” she argued. “Why hasn't anyone else done that?” She crossed her arms over her chest so tight he was surprised she didn't tear her shirt. “It's because no one else knows, do they?” Yeah, definitely too smart for her own good. “How long have you been hiding this?” When he didn't answer, she pressed. “How long have you been fighting this by yourself?”

“You don't know what the hell you're talking about,” he spat out, then left the kitchen. Left her standing there with the knowledge the she'd figured him out. Easier than anyone else had. He didn't want, or need, her figuring him out, thank you very much. He'd done just fine on his own so far, and he would continue to do so.

Being addicted to pain pills and not being able to admit it out loud is not doing fine.

Hot tears burned the backs of his eyes as he stomped down the hallway toward his bedroom. Crying? What the hell was wrong with him? The only time in his life he'd ever cried was when his grandfather died. And he'd been twelve, a perfectly acceptable age to shed some tears.

A thirty-four-year-old man getting this emotional over a woman he had growing feelings for calling him out? He had more problems than the Bobcats winning a season or overcoming his need for OxyContin.

He'd thought his early retirement from football was his official low.

This
was his official low.

Annabelle was following him. Of course she wouldn't leave him alone. The woman thought she could fix everything. She was hot on his heels as he turned into his bedroom. The beer he hadn't finished was still sitting on the dresser. He snatched it off, chugged a long, deep pull, then swiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Annabelle appeared in the doorway, all worry and care filling the depths of her bottomless green eyes. Sympathizing for him.

Feeling sorry for him.

Yeah, his official new low.

She's fighting for you, asshole. When has anyone else done that?

He turned from her, not wanting to see his own failures written all over her face. “Go away, Annabelle,” he ordered her.

“No,” she answered in a soft voice.

His room was a mess, his bed unmade and dirty clothes on the floor. Mostly because he'd been in a hurry that morning, oversleeping and not wanting to take the time to straighten up. He kicked a shirt out of the way and took another swig of his beer.

“Suit yourself,” he told her, making her think he didn't care, wanting to make her leave. Because the ache of needing to feel her body pressed to his was at odds with his need for more pills.

“Blake, I want to help you,” she told him, pushing away from the doorway and coming toward him.

“I already told you, I'm fine,” he answered.

“You're not fine,” she shot out, gripping his forearm with her slim fingers and turning him around. “You haven't been fine in a long time.” She blinked at him, waiting for him to respond. “God, you are the most bullheaded man I have ever known. What's wrong with you? Because I know this is more than just losing tonight's game.”

“You're so sure of that, aren't you?” he taunted her. “You think you can fix everything.”

“I'm not trying to fix you, because you're not broken. I'm just trying to help you.”

He lowered his face closer to hers. “I don't want your help. Go. Away.”

Most people would have run the other direction when he drilled them with the stormy look he'd perfected over the years. The one he gave his opponents during a football game, right before the center snapped the ball into his palms.

But Annabelle, damn her to hell, didn't back away. She didn't cower or cry or tell him to go to hell. She stood tall, meeting his hard stare with one of her own. When was the last time anyone had stood up to him or offered their support so unfailingly? So completely?

No judgment.

No self-righteousness.

His mother had tried prodding into his troubles after his retirement, but that had been motherly concern and he'd been good at hiding his problems. Plus the fact that his parents lived in Arizona made it easier to pretend.

Not even Brandon, his cousin and closest friend, had any suspicions Blake was in trouble. Not until that moment did he realize how alone he was. How much he needed exactly what Annabelle had done for him. Tough love. He enacted that very thing on his players, knowing it was the best way of showing he cared about them.

What had he done when Anabelle gave him a dose of his own medicine?

He'd tried to run like the coward he was.

Annabelle slipped the beer bottle from his hands and set it on the nightstand. “I'm not leaving you alone tonight,” she told him softly.

Blake knew that if he were to slip her T-shirt over her head, she'd let him. He also knew her statement had nothing to do with sex. The woman was just doing what she did best. What she loved. Helping people who needed a shoulder to lean on.

The woman was a freakin' saint.

“I'm sorry,” he rasped out. The word sounded so absurd. So asinine after the way he'd treated her. He didn't deserve her help. After the way he'd spoken to her, he wouldn't blame her for walking out.

For telling him to go to hell. Because that's where he belonged.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she told him.

He lifted his hands and gripped her hips, pulling her toward him. Any other time he would have kissed her, and she would have welcomed him inside her mouth. But he didn't. Instead he lowered his forehead to hers and allowed his eyelids to drop closed.

Exhaustion left his limbs feeling heavy. How much longer had he expected to carry on the way he had? It had taken a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound, pint-sized firecracker to open his eyes to reality.

“You need help, Blake,” she told him again.

“I know,” he answered. Yeah, she was battling for him.

And, damn, he wanted to kiss her. No matter the circumstances, he always wanted to kiss her. Only this time it was different because, in a way, she'd become his savior and he wanted to show her how grateful he was.

But turning it into something sexual would ruin the precious risk she'd taken for him.

They stood in silence, foreheads leaning together, breath mingling from their mouths being so close.

His hands on her hips tightened. “I don't want you to go,” he admitted, because he was just about all out of pride.

Without a word, she slipped away from him and pulled the covers back from the bed, even though they were already messed up. He stood back and watched, practically swallowing his tongue when she yanked her shirt over her head, revealing a flat tummy and full breasts supported by a lacy baby blue bra.

The woman was something else.

Then she reached out, removed his shirt, and tugged him down onto the bed with her.

As he stretched out on the cool sheets, allowing his legs to tangle with hers, Blake thought back to the last time he'd allowed himself to lie with a woman like this. No sex involved. Only comfort and acceptance and companionship.

The truth was, he couldn't think of a time. Because he'd never indulged in something as intimate as this. Yes, sex was just about as intimate as two people could get, but something about curling himself around Annabelle, pressing his chest to her back, was far more personal than any sexual encounter he'd had.

She'd stripped him bare and exposed all his secrets. Not only that, but she also knew who he was underneath and wanted to be with him anyway. She stuck by him, even though he'd tried to drive her away.

He didn't deserve her.

He closed his eyes. She laced her fingers through his, tugging his arm tighter around her and sighed. As though she were as content as him to hold each other.

In that instant, Blake knew, what was left of his heart crumbled. Annabelle Turner had taken it, as though she had every right, and held it in her soft hands.

The question was now, what would she do with it?

A
nnabelle had made a huge mistake. A six-foot-three, blue-eyed hunk of a mistake named Blake Carpenter.

As she'd lain with him, feeling his heart thump steadily against her back, she realized she'd crossed the point of no return.

The sun had just edged over the mountains and Blake was still fast asleep, sprawled on his back, one leg on top of the sheet, the other still tucked away. He looked relaxed and peaceful. She slipped from the bed, unable to bring herself to wake him.

With one last longing glance, Annabelle tugged her shirt back on and left the bedroom. Staubach trotted up to her, shoving his nose in her crotch and wagging his tail so hard, it had thumped against the wall.

So she let him in the backyard so he could relieve himself.

She quickly found where Blake kept his coffee and brewed some for him. It was scary how right, how normal the morning routine felt, as though she'd been doing this for years. Then, like the concerned girlfriend she was, Annabelle left him a note on the kitchen counter.

I put Staubach in the backyard and made coffee. Take it easy today and call me if you want to talk.

A.

She's stared at her own handwriting for several moments, wanting to write more. But what would she have said?

Sorry for butting into your life.

That would have been a lie.

I loved sleeping next to you.

While truthful, Annabelle couldn't bring herself to say it. Because, after making the impulsive decision to dump his entire supply of Oxy down his disposal, she had the feeling she was on thin ice with him. So she'd left the note the way she'd written it and driven home. The whole way she told herself not to be disappointed if he didn't call. It wasn't like they were in a relationship. He wasn't obligated to check in with her.

For some reason that thought chased away the cheerful sunny morning. She woke up refreshed and more than a little turned on at the sight of the man's magnificent naked torso, and now she was gritting her teeth together.

She went home, forcing thoughts of Blake away, and took a shower. Afterward, she pulled on a pair of jeans, a racer-back tank, and sandals. Yesterday, when she'd picked Naomi up for the game, Annabelle told her sister and her mother she'd stop by so they could all have breakfast together. Naomi had grinned and said she'd be happy to make something so Annabelle and Ruth wouldn't have to worry about it.

Annabelle had accepted the offer, thinking how nice it had been to have someone around to help out with their mom. It had been so long since she'd had someone to lean on and share the responsibilities with. It wasn't until Naomi stepped in did Annabelle realize just how much she did for her mom. How much of her time it consumed. Not that she'd ever minded. She loved her mother more than anything and was more than happy to give back what Ruth had given to both her daughters.

However, being able to take time to sit and visit with her mom, who was utilizing her cane more and more these days, and not spend all that time doing chores, had been refreshing.

As Annabelle headed out her front door, she reminded herself the help was only temporary. That it was only a matter of time before Naomi returned to her exciting and exotic life in Peru, always meeting new people and not having a care in the world. The same old resentment bubbled to the surface, but Annabelle did her best to squash it. Her only thoughts, for the moment, were to have a nice breakfast with her mother and sister.

Maybe eat while sitting on the back porch, enjoying the cool morning air and listening to the birds sing. Maybe they could spend some time talking or sharing old stories from when the girls had been kids. And not tiptoeing around the constant issue of Naomi's distance from her family.

Or a man Annabelle had spent the night sleeping next to, thinking she wanted to take care of him, if only he'd allow it. That she wanted to be the person in his life he leaned on. The only one he could confide in and dump his troubles on. As much as getting naked with him would probably be really good, she wanted something much more substantial than that. Something to build a foundation with that would last more than a few nights in bed.

Even now, after knowing each other for a few months, and everything else they'd been through, Annabelle still wasn't sure Blake was up for that. He hadn't given her any indication of wanting a solid relationship.

Which left them, where?

Of that, she had no clue and trying to pin their…whatever it was they were into a box was more exhausting than a conversation with her sister.

Annabelle pulled up to her mother's house and immediately noticed Naomi's car was missing from the driveway. Maybe she'd put it in the garage.

Since it was only about eight-thirty, Annabelle didn't expect much activity in her mother's house. Naomi was always up with the sun, but Ruth had never been an early riser. Expecting breakfast to be under way, Annabelle let herself through the front door and heard sounds from the kitchen.

Charlie trotted up to her, letting out a low growl, then barked nonstop.

She set her purse down on the hall table and glanced at the animal. “Careful or I might slip some antifreeze in your food.”

Charlie didn't care, and he continued his
yap yap yap
as she made her way to the back of the house. And bit back a sigh of frustration when she saw her mother, leaning heavily on her cane with one hand and whisking something in a bowl with the other.

Annabelle rushed to her mother's side, noticing how the woman was struggling to stay upright. “Mom, what're you doing? Go sit down.” Annabelle took the whisk and bowl of eggs away from her. Ruth turned and put all her weight on her cane. Deep lines of fatigue and stress were etched across her forehead, and her thinning gray hair was pulled back with a small black clip.

“I'm making breakfast. We've got to eat, Annabelle,” Ruth argued.

Annabelle hooked her arm through her mother's elbow and led her out of the kitchen. “Where's Naomi?” she asked. “She's supposed to make breakfast.”

They shuffled across the chocolate brown carpet, toward Ruth's favorite recliner. Charlie was already up in his seat, and Annabelle shooed him down. He immediately jumped off, giving Annabelle the stink eye. “I don't know,” Ruth answered. “She was gone when I got up.”

Annabelle lowered her mother to the chair and handed over her favorite blanket that had been stitched by Annabelle's grandmother. “How long have you been up?”

Ruth expelled a deep sigh and closed her eyes as Charlie hopped back into the chair and curled in a ball on her lap. “I don't know. About half an hour.” She opened her faded green eyes and looked at Annabelle. “I haven't done much, Annabelle. Naomi came home last night after the game and put together a French toast casserole. It just needs to be put in the oven, but I wanted some eggs to go with it.”

Annabelle put her hands on her hips, fighting back frustration for her sister. “Well, now that I'm here I can do it. But Naomi should have done it, because she's the one who said she was going to make breakfast. Anyway, she shouldn't have left you here with no breakfast already made for you.”

“I'm capable of making my own food,” Ruth argued.

Not really.
Annabelle kept the thought to herself. “Mom, mixing an instant breakfast is not the same as making eggs or cooking a casserole. How did you expect to carry a dish from the fridge to the oven while holding a cane with one hand?”

“I was going to let Naomi do it when she came back,” Ruth answered.

Annabelle glanced around the room, noticing how clean it was. One thing Annabelle had to give her sister credit for; Naomi had done a great job of keeping the house in shape. The furniture was free of dust and there were fresh flowers in a vase on the coffee table. Even the magazines in the rack had been organized.

“Did she leave a note or anything?” Annabelle asked her mother.

“No, and I was getting hungry.”

Annabelle found the remote control for the television and turned it to Ruth's favorite channel. Then she leaned over and placed a soft kiss to her paper-thin cheek.

“I'll get breakfast done, Mom,” Annabelle told her. “I'll bring your medication in with some juice.”

“I already took my pills.” Ruth smirked. “I even managed to wipe myself too.”

Good grief.

She left Ruth and returned to the kitchen. In the fridge, Annabelle found the casserole covered in aluminum foil and a Post-it with the cooking directions. At least Naomi had done that much.

Where could she have gone so early in the morning? And why would she leave without telling their mother she was going, where she would be, and not taking care of breakfast?

Annabelle shook her head, biting back another sigh of annoyance, and preheated the oven. Ruth had started the eggs, cracking a couple and leaving the rest sitting on the counter. Annabelle returned the carton to the fridge and cracked the rest of the eggs in the bowl. With a brisk movement of her wrist, she whipped the eggs together, sprinkled in some salt and pepper, and whisked them some more. When the oven dinged, she stuck the dish in, set the timer, and waited for it to cook.

The casserole needed thirty minutes, so Annabelle took the next twenty to check her mother's grocery supplies, making note of what Ruth needed and what she was out of. Then she took trips through the laundry room and bathrooms and made note of other supplies she needed to pick up. After that was finished, Annabelle dropped the list in her purse and returned to the kitchen to cook the eggs.

Naomi still hadn't returned and Annabelle couldn't call because her sister didn't have a cell phone. Only a local landline in Peru, which wouldn't do her any good. If Naomi wasn't back by the time breakfast was finished, Annabelle and her mother would eat without her.

And then Annabelle would take a private moment to find out what the hell Naomi had been thinking.

She doesn't know.

The voice whispered through her head, reminding Annabelle that Naomi wasn't used to taking care of someone else or having another person depend on her.

Annabelle tried to remind herself of this, but concern for their mother trumped thoughts of giving Naomi the benefit of the doubt.

Seeing Ruth standing at the counter, putting all her weight on a flimsy cane and trying to make eggs with one hand made Annabelle's heart constrict inside her chest. Ruth wasn't a young woman anymore. Each year she grew older and older and her body continually fell apart. Right now, she was still able to do some things for herself. But for the most part, she relied heavily on her oldest daughter and would rely on her more and more as she got weaker and weaker.

The realization of her mother's mortality formed a lump in Annabelle's throat. Did Naomi think about these things? Did she think about how to take care of Ruth when the woman was no longer mobile? Did she wrestle with the decision to look into a group home?

Those thoughts weighed on Annabelle all the time, lingering in the back of her mind, a cruel reminder of how fast downhill life could go. Naomi had never given any indication that she gave a passing thought to such things. The realization burned in the pit of her stomach while also making her feel very alone. Naomi lived however many thousands of miles away, running her little business, basking in the warm South American sunshine while Annabelle used all her spare energy wondering what she was going to do with Ruth's house one day. Or how to support her mother financially if she ended up outliving her income.

Annabelle glanced at the time for the casserole, then dumped the eggs in a frying pan. Even if Naomi didn't come back in time for breakfast, that didn't mean Annabelle couldn't have a nice meal with her mother.

So she pushed her jumbled thoughts away and finished the meal.

The timer dinged just as the eggs finished. Her mother was asleep when Annabelle carried two plates of food into the living room. She set Ruth's plate on an end table and nudged her mother's shoulder.

“Mom,” Annabelle whispered.

Ruth blinked open her rheumy eyes.

“Breakfast is done. Do you want some?”

“Well, of course I do,” Ruth answered as she pushed herself up in the chair. King Charlie opened one black eye, stared at Annabelle as though he didn't approve, which she knew he didn't, then went back to sleep.

Annabelle handed her mom the plate, along with a fork and a napkin, then took a seat on the couch. They ate in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the delicious dish Naomi had made. It really was tasty and Annabelle had to give her credit for that much.

After a moment, her mother spoke. “I see you've been spending more time with the coach of yours.”

A piece of egg and cinnamon-coated bread got stuck in Annabelle's throat. She took a swig of her orange juice to wash the food down. “First of all,” she said after clearing her throat. “He's not ‘my coach.' Second of all, how do you know I've been spending more time with him?”

One side of Ruth's thinning lips turned up. “I didn't until you just admitted it. Never could lie well, Annabelle.”

Wasn't that the truth.

“I also haven't seen you as much lately,” Ruth went on. “Figured a man was behind that.”

Annabelle set her fork down on her plate. “I'm sorry,” she admitted, pushing back the guilt over constantly centering her thoughts on Blake and not her mom's well-being. “You're right, I've been distracted.”

Ruth discarded her plate on the end table. “Don't you dare apologize, Annabelle.” She pushed herself straighter in the chair. “Do you think I like the fact that my still single daughter spends all of her free time taking care of me? You should be dating and having fun. Or, better yet, taking care of your own family.”

Those thoughts had crossed Annabelle's mind a time or two. Or one hundred. Of course, she'd thought by the age of thirty she'd have a family of her own. A man who'd slip his arms around her and place a kiss on the back of her neck. Maybe one or two kids to play dress-up with or toss a football to. Even after her divorce, she'd thought by now she'd be closer to walking down the aisle again.