Back in the Game: A Stardust, Texas Novel (10 page)

Yeah? More likely, she would end up tainted from listening to his confessions. All right. Decision made. He needed someone fearless in the heat of battle, because after all that’s what this book was about—an all-out war with Dugan Potts.

He opened his mouth to tell her he needed a writer with more experience, but instead of saying that he said, “The job is yours.”

CHAPTER
7

The other sports are just sports. Baseball is a love.

—
B
RYANT
G
UMBEL

“What?” Stunned, Breeanne stared at him. She wasn’t sure she’d heard Rowdy correctly, and she needed to hear it again before she totally unleashed an internal Snoopy dance.

He looked as surprised to have offered her the position as she was. She was certain she’d blown her chances, and for a second there, she thought he might say,
Not really. Psych!

But then he cleared his throat, and met her eyes. “You’re my ghostwriter if you want the job.”

“Ra-ra-really?”
Stop stuttering and tell him yes, thank you.

“You’ve written two books. Your great-aunt is Polly Whitcomb. You know baseball. My dog likes you.” He shrugged “I like you.”

He liked her? Rowdy Blanton liked her? Oh gosh, oh wow, oh holy cow, she felt like Sally Fields when she won an Academy Award for
Places in the Heart.
He liked her. He really liked her.

“What more could I ask for?”

She glanced down a moment to reorient herself, before raising her eyes to meet his gaze again. “Um . . . someone with solider writing credentials.”

“Are you trying to talk yourself out of a job?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then say yes.”

“I would, except . . .”

“Except what?”

“If I work for you there have got to be some rules.” Why couldn’t she just say yes? Why was she—the one who did not rock boats—tipping this particular canoe when saying yes would give her everything she ever wanted?

One eyebrow crept up his forehead, and his upper lip twitched. “Such as?”

She had to be clear. This was a job. This wasn’t a hookup.

Why can’t it be a hookup?
asked the part of her that wanted to Snoopy break-dance?
It could be a hookup. What was wrong with a hookup?

Because hooking up with him was beyond insane. She wasn’t the kind of woman who did casual hookups. Heck, she’d never had any hookup, casual or otherwise. She was quiet, and circumspect. She didn’t step outside her comfort zone. Well, that is until today.

“I can’t have you pulling those tonsil-hockey moves again,” she said firmly.
Nooo
, wailed Snoopy Dancer.

He held up a Boy Scout palm. “I swear to a strict hands-off policy.”

She shook her head. “I don’t trust you.” Oh what a lie, she didn’t trust herself.

Seriously
, whispered Snoopy Dancer,
I really want to slap you right now. Hard.

Rowdy upped the wattage on his smile. “Did I mention the salary?” He quoted a sum so impressive her eyes bugged. She could do so much with that. Move from her parents’ house, get a new car, start her life in earnest.

Yeah
, gloated Snoopy Dancer.
Say no to that.

“Say yes, Breeanne,” he coaxed. “It’s that easy. Just one word. Yes.” He leaned in, the dizzy scent of him knocking any last scrap of resistance out of her. She wasn’t built to resist. She was a go-with-the-flow kind of girl.

If you don’t say yes
, threatened Snoopy Dancer,
I’m packing my bags and moving out and taking your one scrap of personality with me.

“You didn’t let me finish,” she said.

“Fair enough. What else?”

Breeanne hardened her chin, and fortified her resolve. She’d been accepting things her entire life, rolling over, acquiescing, being agreeable, deferring to opinions, giving in, accommodating, avoiding confrontation because it made her sick to her stomach. He had no idea how hard it was for her to set boundaries. She ached for an easy world filled with yesses and smiles and happy people. But if she gave in to him now he would steamroll her and she’d end up flat on her back in his bed. A pleasant idea that was far too tempting, and far too dangerous.

“Let’s get something straight. I’m not one of your women,” she said, quite calmly, and proud of herself for such a steady, succinct delivery. She could do this. She was a professional writer, a small businesswoman. Her whole career was at stake. No way she was going to allow a teenage crush and runaway lust to ruin her chance at big league publishing.

The higher his grin tipped up, the more his eyes crinkled. “My women, huh?”

“That’s right. If I take the job this would be a strictly professional relationship, and I expect professional behavior.”

“Hmm.” He canted his head, studied her. “Do you have specific parameters for what you consider professional behavior? You know, a little FYI so I don’t cross any lines?”

“First off, don’t use me again the way you used me with those other women. Telling them I’m your girlfriend just because you didn’t want to appear available. I am not your girlfriend. Please don’t behave as if I am. If you need a shield against predatory women call Warwick.”

“Okay. What else?”

“We have regular working hours. Nine to five.”

“What if something unexpected comes up and we need to reschedule?”

“We can renegotiate at that time.”

“What else?”

“We don’t socialize together.”

“That it?”

“It’s all I can think of right now, but I reserve the right to add ground rules as the need arises.”

“All right,” he said. “I agree to your conditions.”

Breeanne blinked. Well, that was easier than she expected. What now?

“Is it official?” he asked.

Was it? She wanted this job more than she wanted to breathe, but she was scared.

“If you’re still on the fence, think of the money,” he went on. “You could buy—”

Snoopy Dancer just damn well took her hostage. “Yes.”

He paused, thrown off by the interruption of his spiel. “Huh?”

“You can stop selling. Yes, I accept the job.”

“Wow? Okay. Good. Great.” He rubbed his palms together like he’d just gotten a great deal on a used car, and then stuck out his left hand. “I’ll call my agent and put this puppy in motion. Let’s shake on it, Breeanne Carlyle.” He said her name slow, deep, and throaty, his tongue caressing those last two words in an erotic I-wanna-have-sex-with-you sound that shocked her spine with a series of hot shivers.

Still in a daze, and wondering if maybe she was in a dream after all, Breeanne sank her hand into his.

Zap!

Zing!

Static electricity crackled the air, jumping from her to him. Or maybe it was the other way around. Either way there was no denying the hot, succinct snap. Even Snoopy Dancer hollered,
Whoa, wait, what was that?

Grinning, Rowdy pumped her hand, and a proprietary look came into his eyes as if he’d just claimed her as his.

Leaving Breeanne’s pulse skittering for shelter. What had she just gotten herself into?

Hours later,
Breeanne could still feel the imprint of his lips on hers. She marveled over the softness of his kiss versus the hardness of his body, but both had been hungry.

For
her.

Dear Lord, how long would it take for her to feel normal again? She was wound tighter than Elizabeth Bennet over Mr. Darcy. She stood in the middle of her parents’ kitchen staring blindly at the extravagant spread laid out on the table.

Her family had insisted on cooking a special celebratory dinner to commemorate her landing the position as Rowdy Blanton’s ghostwriter. The Carlyle clan loved celebrations, and used any excuse for fanfare. Dad grilled filet mignon. Jodi made her famous garlic mashed potatoes. Kasha bought champagne. Suki prepared caprese salad with a balsamic vinegar reduction. Mom baked a cake, and wrote “Well Done Breeanne” on it in pink icing.

She felt honored and loved and, quite frankly, more than a little worried as reality nibbled away at her self-confidence. First off, she was nervous about writing on a tight deadline. She’d spent three years researching and writing her book about Great-Aunt Polly. There had been no pressure. This was big league publishing, her make-or-break opportunity. What if she didn’t have the writing chops to pull it off?

Secondly, there was that world-altering kiss. If she was around him she feared she’d want more of those kisses, and then she would be the one to break her own rules. Also, she was pretty sure Jackdaw Press would frown on a ghostwriter fooling around with her subject.

Thirdly, and the scariest of all, was the cheetah scarf. No matter how many people she polled, she and Rowdy were the only ones who thought the scarf felt soft. What that meant, she did not know, but she was glad she hadn’t told her family that Rowdy felt the softness too. They were bound to turn it into a thing.

“Breeanne, honey, are you listening?” her mother asked.

“Huh?” She blinked rapidly as if it could dispel her obsessive thoughts about Rowdy Blanton.

“We were just talking about the day we brought you home from the hospital,” her dad said. “How we had to prepare ourselves in case you died.”

“But at the same time, we were determined to keep you alive, no matter what it took,” Mom added.

“And now look how far you’ve come.” Pride lit up Dad’s face.

“To Breeanne,” Suki said, and raised her glass of iced tea. “And to dreams coming true.”

They all lifted their glasses. “To Breeanne.”

She flushed happily.

“Just think,” Jodi said. “You’ll be working side by side with your teenage crush. How many of us can say that?”

“A crush that just happens to be a superstar.” Kasha sent her a knowing wink, as if she was privy to the chaos going on inside Breeanne’s head.

“Better watch out.” Suki grinned. “Rumor has it Rowdy is the best kisser in Stardust.”

She hoped the heat rising to her cheeks did not give her away. She was so glad that she had not told them that Rowdy had already kissed her. They would turn
that
into a thing.

Dad growled. “I should have a talk with Rowdy. Make sure he knows to keep his hands to himself.

Breeanne’s face blanched icy. “Dad, no!”

“Rowdy Blanton is a great ballplayer and I admire his pitching skills, but he’s got a reputation as a ladies’ man, and when it comes to my daughter, I want to set him straight—”

She pressed her palms together. “Please don’t humiliate me.”

A frown pinched his face, and his eyes narrowed as if he’d just as soon punch Rowdy as not. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“Come on, Dad,” she wheedled. “Think about. Why would someone like Rowdy be interested in someone like me?”

“Why not? You’re an amazing young woman.” Dad folded his arms over his chest. “All my girls are.”

“He’s not interested in me in that way,” she insisted.

“You sure? Why did he hire such an inexperienced writer if he didn’t have ulterior motives?”

Ouch. There it was, the real truth. Her father didn’t believe in her writing. He thought it was much more likely that Rowdy wanted to take her to bed, than she’d been hired for her knowledge and talent.

Stung to the quick, she sank her fingernails into her palms to keep her eyes from misting. “He hired me because I know something about baseball.”

“And no male ghostwriter fit that bill?”

“Who’s up for cake?” Mom interrupted, giving Dad a lay-off look.

Breeanne smiled gratefully at her mother. “I’ll take a slice.”

When dinner was finished, the family dispersed. Jodi and Kasha headed to their homes. Suki disappeared upstairs to her room to make jewelry. Dad went outside to clean the grill. Breeanne stayed in the kitchen to help her mother with the dishes.

“Dad doesn’t think I can do this,” she murmured.

“Your father is just worried about you.” Without glancing up, Mom rinsed off a plate and handed it to her to load in the dishwasher.

Callie was under foot and in an affection mood, eeling around Breeanne’s legs as she stacked the dishes. The cat’s proud fluffy tail brushed against her calves.

“I know.” Breeanne was acutely aware that she had been the biggest single drain on her parents’ marriage, physically, financially, and emotionally. It was one of the reasons she tried so hard not to rock the boat. She couldn’t help being born with a defective heart, but she could make sure that she was easy to get along with.

“I don’t think your father fully realizes that you’re twenty-five years old.”

“He doesn’t seem to have any trouble letting Suki grow up.”

“For one, Suki has a completely different personality. She’s much harder to corral. For another thing, you’ve been your father’s little shadow since you could walk, and because you were so sickly, he still sees you as much younger than you are. Besides, you’re special.”

Special.

She hated that word. Had heard it her whole life.
Don’t carry that Breeanne. You’re special. Don’t try that, Breeanne. You’re special. Don’t eat that, Breeanne. You’re special
. There had always been love behind those words, but to a kid who just wanted to be like everyone else, it felt like a judgment, and she absorbed the message as:
It’s not okay to assert yourself.

Absentmindedly, she rubbed her breastbone and, without intending to, let out a sigh.

Mom’s chin shot up. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Callie hopped onto the sill of the kitchen bay window, sat watching them like a tennis match judge.

“Something
is
bothering you. Are you feeling all right?” Her mother turned the water off, dried her hands on a dish towel, and moved as if to test Breeanne’s forehead for a fever.

Feeling like an ungrateful daughter, she stepped back, shook her head, and held up her palms to stave off irritation as much as her mother’s attention. “I’m fine. Really.”