“Fortunately for you, you’ve got a glamour-boy face. You might have terrified your neighbors going door to door in search of a phone this morning, but not a one called the cops.”
Heath Gibson forced his mouth into a grin in response to Coach Matt Richardson’s teasing. Unbeknownst to the Blaze head coach, though, Heath had terrified one of his neighbors earlier today, a woman he’d never expected to see again, much less here in Baltimore. Ten years had passed since he’d last laid eyes on Merrit Callahan. That day she’d been hightailing it out of South Bend, the tires of her car squealing on the pavement in an effort to escape Heath. Not that he blamed her; he’d screwed things up royally in their relationship, all because of a stupid game between teammates. Months of apologetic phone calls and letters explaining himself went unanswered until his youthful pride forced him to give up.
The last time he’d gone online to Google Merrit, she’d been safely ensconced in the bosom of her Chicago family, set to marry one of her father’s minions. She’d looked happy in her engagement photo, her pixie face alight and her crystalline blue eyes dancing beneath their mink lashes. That picture had gone a long way toward lessening the guilt he always felt when he thought of her. The look on her face this morning, however, had nearly stopped his heart.
“Let’s hope none of those neighbors snapped a picture of you in your short shorts and sent it along to that damn Girlfriend’s Guide to the NFL blog,” the coach added, taking the two bottles of beer the bartender handed him and passing one to Heath. “We’ve got enough groupies following Brody Janik around Baltimore. I don’t need the added distraction amongst the coaching staff.”
The two men stood in a crowded hotel ballroom, Baltimore’s Inner Harbor forming a panoramic backdrop through the windows behind them. Heath jabbed his thumbnail beneath the damp label on his beer bottle, peeling it way from the cool glass. “More likely it would be reported that I’m a half-wit as a result of the concussion.” He tried to make his comment sound lighthearted, but bitterness still swirled in his gut. Not to mention a healthy dose of fear. According to the doctors, he was recovering well from the brain bruise he’d suffered from a helmet-to-helmet hit midway through last season, but there were still some nagging symptoms—one of them being a tendency to forget things.
The coach gave him an empathetic clap on the back. “It will get better. You’ve just got to give it time.” His quiet, determined tone did a lot to reassure Heath. Matt Richardson had been a pro bowl player himself before becoming one of the most respected coaches in the league. Heath was still in awe that Richardson had reached out to him, offering a job just when his life had fallen into the shitter. “I know coaching wasn’t in your career plans,” Richardson continued. “But you have the instincts to be a top-notch offensive coordinator one day, if you want.”
If you want.
What the coach was too kind to say was: if your vision doesn’t stabilize enough to allow you to read a teleprompter and pursue the second career you’d trained for
.
Heath hadn’t taken being forced off the playing field too badly. He was pushing thirty-two and his body was beginning to wear down. But when it was time to audition for the television gigs he’d been working toward, the glare of the lights and the speed of the teleprompter caused his recovering brain to nearly shut down. His dream of becoming an NFL color commentator on television had apparently taken as brutal a hit as his head.
“I appreciate the opportunity. I’ll do whatever it takes to justify your faith in me,” Heath promised the coach.
“Hell, Heath, you’re earning bonus points just for pulling on a tuxedo and forking out the cash to come to this event tonight.” The coach tapped his beer bottle against Heath’s. “This charity is my wife’s passion, but I certainly don’t expect my staff and players to feel obligated to attend.”
Heath glanced around the crowded ballroom. Blaze players and personnel made up at least half the guests milling about, all of them seemingly enjoying themselves. “Then it’s a tribute to your wife that so many in the organization came out tonight. Either that or we all had nothing better to do,” he joked.
Of course, in Heath’s case that statement was true. After promising a neighbor two tickets to the Blaze home opener in exchange for calling a locksmith to open his damn door, he’d spent the entire day studying the offense’s playbook while keeping one eye trained out the window, watching for a silver Sebring convertible to reappear in front of the condo next door. But Merrit had never returned. The overwhelming feelings of shame and excitement at seeing her again after all these years had kept him edgy, until he finally convinced himself she’d just been an illusion, a nasty trick his messed-up brain decided to play on him.
“Uh oh, my wife is flagging me down,” the coach said, trying to sound as if it was an inconvenience when his face clearly marked him as a man who’d do anything for her. “Mingle a little bit. Better yet, follow Brody around. He always leaves behind a bevy of female castoffs who’ll likely need some cheering up.” With a sly grin, the coach was off.
Heath studied the crowd around him, searching for an unobtrusive spot to hang out until the dinner. No way was he going after Brody Janik’s rejects. It had been eighteen months since his divorce and Heath definitely needed to dip his toe back into the dating pool, but not tonight. His temples were already beginning to throb from the dull murmur and low lighting within the cavernous room. Not only that, but he was still tense from his encounter with an either real or imaginary Merrit Callahan this morning.
As he made his way to a quiet corner of the room, a voice caught his attention, his gut clenching at the familiar sound. A woman wearing a dress with a daringly low back chatted with the wife of Shane Devlin, the Blaze’s quarterback. She had her back to Heath. Her long black hair was piled high into an intricate knot at the top of her head, giving him a spectacular view of the pearly skin on her graceful neck and shoulders. Without conscious thought, Heath’s feet started toward the two women and he prayed his mind wasn’t punking him again.
Carly Devlin’s face lit up as he approached. “Heath!” She reached for his arm to pull him into her conversation and he was again face-to-face with the one that got away: Merrit Callahan. A soft pink blush crept up her cheeks, halting at the fringe of the heavy bangs that framed her eyes. Heath had always been able to read her emotions within those light blue irises, and his chest squeezed when he saw panic briefly flicker within them. He watched as she quickly surveyed the room, looking for an escape route before jutting up her pert chin in what he knew was defiance rather than defeat.
“Merrit, you have to meet the newest addition to the Blaze coaching staff, Heath Gibson. He just arrived in Baltimore this week,” Carly said, apparently ignorant of the surging undercurrent swirling around them. “Heath, this is Merrit Callahan. She’s leading the audit for the transfer of ownership from Mr. Tyson to his godson, Jay McManus. You’ll both be neighbors for the next few weeks or so.”
An awkward silence stretched out before Heath spoke. “We’ve met.”
Carly laughed. “Oh my gosh, were you the one who rescued Heath this morning when he was locked out?” she asked Merrit.
Merrit’s lips trembled, but no words came out. He watched as she tried to draw in a breath and guilt washed over him. “No,” he said, his gaze never leaving Merrit’s face. Her eyes darted around the room, landing anywhere but on him. “We met in college. Merrit was one of the academic tutors for the football team.”
“Wow. Small world,” Carly said. A brittle smile formed on Merrit’s lips, but she remained silent.
“Um, well, I think everyone is headed into dinner. Heath, did you find your place card?” Carly’s question contained a hint of confusion, as if she’d begun to pick up on the uncomfortable vibe he and Merrit were giving out.
Heath pulled his place card out of his pocket, on the one hand dreading that he and Merrit might be at the same table, but on the other wishing to be close to her again. “Table six,” he said. A look of relief settled on Merrit’s face, telling him all he needed to know: she was sitting elsewhere.
“If you’ll both excuse me then, I’m going to freshen up before dinner,” Merrit said. A moment ago, her voice had been like a siren’s song, calling him from across the room. Now, it sounded as if she’d swallowed gravel. He wasn’t letting her escape this time, though. It was her nature to run from a fight, he knew that well, but he’d lived with the guilt for too long now. They needed to put it behind them and they couldn’t do that without clearing the air.
“I’m headed that way myself. I’ll walk with you,” he said.
She bristled at the suggestion, but her innate politeness kept her silent. With a brief nod to Carly, she made a beeline for the hotel foyer. Heath kept a steady pace behind her. Once she reached the open area, her stride lengthened and she practically trotted toward the restrooms.
“Merrit,” he said, his tone insistent while he matched her steps. He could have easily overtaken her, but he didn’t want her that way. He had enough remorse for what he’d done to her a decade ago.
Giving in to the inevitable, she stopped in a small alcove that afforded them some privacy. Her shoulders slumped in resignation, but she didn’t turn to face him. A breathy sigh escaped her and Heath was surprised when the sound slid through his body, settling right in his groin.
“Merrit,” he said again, more softly this time, as he brought his fingers to her bare shoulder and turned her to face him. He wasn’t prepared for his body’s reaction to the feel of her skin, soft and warm beneath his fingertips. She trembled beneath his touch. At least he thought she was the one trembling.
He told himself resolving their past was as much for her as it was for him. Heath wanted her to go on with her life, to be happy in her upcoming marriage. Happier than he’d been in his. For that to happen, he needed to apologize, to explain.
“Heath . . .” His name came out of her mouth on a breathless whisper and the sound was doing crazy things to his body. “I can’t do this here. This isn’t the time or place,” she said.
“It’s never the right time or place. You’ve spent ten years running from this conversation.
Avoiding me
.”
She stiffened at his words, her eyes shiny with unshed tears and anger. “I should have run away the first night I met you.” She turned on her heel, no doubt to hide in the ladies room until he left, but Heath reached for her wrist, forcing her to face him again. Her pulse was hammering beneath his fingers, but he didn’t let go. Instead he trailed his fingers over her hand to clasp it gently, when he made a staggering realization—her left hand was bare; she wasn’t wearing a ring of any kind.
“I thought you were engaged,” he blurted out.
Merrit ripped her hand from his grasp, crossing her arms against her middle defensively. “My God, are you stalking me now, Heath? Haven’t you done enough to me? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
Because he couldn’t leave her alone. Even with his mushy brain, he knew she’d been his weakness then and she was still. Heath stood his ground, hope starting to flutter in his gut as he realized she might not be engaged any longer; he might have a shot at reclaiming what he’d lost, what he’d nearly destroyed. He kept his game face firmly in place, unwilling to apologize for keeping tabs on her. The silence stretched and Merrit shifted on the stilts she used for shoes.
“It didn’t work out,” she said, finally.
Heath’s body was suddenly overcome with need and hard as stone. She wasn’t some other guy’s anymore. He wanted to gather her against his chest, to absorb the fresh scent of her hair, to feel her soft skin against his lips, to taste her quivering body with his tongue. He pushed out a heavy breath to keep from reaching for her again. Hell, he didn’t want to dip his toe into the dating pool; he wanted to drown in Merrit Callahan.
“You’re one to talk, anyway,” she continued. “It’s not like your marriage lasted all that long.”
Heath quirked a brow at her. “Now who’s stalking?”
Merrit rolled her eyes. “Please, you married a reality TV star. Everyone who’s ever stood in a grocery store checkout lane has been bombarded with the not-so-intimate details.”
He wasn’t sure whether to smile with the knowledge she’d been keeping tabs on him or grimace at her true statement. His short-lived marriage was another relationship he’d been ashamed of, but that time, the ending was not Heath’s fault.
He mimicked her earlier words. “It didn’t work out.”
“What happened? Was she just a dare, too? Did you marry her to prove to your friends—your teammates—you could get anyone to fall in love with you?”
She couldn’t have wounded him more if she’d stuck a knife in his gut. “No!” He didn’t bother telling Merrit that he’d been the one duped by his bride. She would have thought it poetic justice, for sure.
“So you only lead on boring, shy math tutors.” Her arms pulled tighter around her midsection.
Heath’s temple was throbbing now and he rubbed his fingers against his head as much to alleviate the ache as to keep from taking Merrit in his arms. The pain in her voice and on her face was palpable and he hated that he was the cause
.
All because of a stupid, macho dating game his teammates had invented.
“It’s like I said, Merrit, if we could just spend a few minutes talking about this, if you’d let me explain everything—”
“Merrit. I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s time to go in for dinner.”
Blake Callahan materialized from somewhere behind them, leveling a suspicious glance at Heath before wrapping a protective arm around his sister’s shoulders. “Am I interrupting?”
Heath was trying to formulate an answer that would maintain the privacy of their past, when Merrit surprised him. “Heath and I were just catching up. We met when I worked tutoring athletes while I was at Notre Dame.” Fortunately, she left out the part about Heath being the one to take her virginity. He didn’t relish a dustup with the ad exec whose hobby was competing in extreme sports.