Back in the Game: A Stardust, Texas Novel (11 page)

Concern darkened her mother’s eyes. “You haven’t been yourself since your father and I got back from San Antonio.”

She shrugged, not knowing how to broach the topic that had been on her mind for a while now. How did she begin to tell her mother that she felt constricted by her family’s love?

“Are you second-guessing your decision to write this book?” her mother asked.

“No. Yes. Maybe. A little.”

“Is it your ability to do the job that’s worrying you, or your attraction to Rowdy?”

“Both,” she admitted.

“You know you don’t have to do this. The bookstore is yours, and you’ll always have a place to live right here with your father and me. There’s no reason to step outside your comfort zone, or put yourself in a situation you can’t handle.”

There it was again, her family’s mistaken belief that she wasn’t strong enough to take care of herself. It might have been true once, but it wasn’t any longer.

“You and Dad can’t keep carrying me around on a pillow. I’m fine. I’m not on death’s doorstep anymore. I’ve got a long, healthy life ahead of me.”

“I know, honey.”

She moistened her lips, worked up the courage to say what she needed to say. “It’s time I started acting like a healthy twenty-five-year-old woman.”

“I see.” Her mother’s lips pursed. “You mean sex.”

Yes, among other things, she meant sex, but she didn’t want the conversation with her mother to veer off in that direction. She needed to get a life of her own, and while that included sex, it wasn’t her only objective.

“If you’re ready for sex, I’ll book an appointment with—”

“Mom! I can book my own doctor appointments. I’m not talking about sex.” Well, not to her mother. “I’m talking about finding myself. Now that I’ll be getting an advance for ghostwriting Rowdy’s book, it’s time I moved out.”

Her mother looked crestfallen. “All on your own?”

“I’ll get a roommate. I’m placing an ad in the Stardust flyer looking for someone to share a house with.” She’d thought about it, and decided a roommate was the best option just in case the ghostwriting thing fell through. She didn’t want to have to come crawling home.

Her mother’s hand crept across her throat. “What house?”

“There’s no specific house. Not yet.”

“Getting a house is a big step, Breeanne.”

“You didn’t say that when Jodi moved into the boxcar she renovated when she was nineteen.”

“Jodi’s different. She’s always been more mature than other young people her age, and she’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

Meaning Breeanne didn’t? “And what about Kasha? She’d backpacked through Europe after her sophomore year of college.”

“Kasha was homeless until she was six years old. She knows how to take care of herself.”

“And you don’t think I can.”

“Honey, it’s just that you’ve been so ill and—”

“You’re right. I was a sickly kid who needed a lot of attention. I’m not self-assured like Jodi, or strong like Kasha, or spunky like Suki, but I’m not going to be if you and Dad won’t let me stretch my wings. I need to make up for lost time.”

“Well.” Mom blinked, and rearranged her features, struggling not to show how upset she was. “If that’s the way you really feel.”

Her mother had no idea how hard this was for her. The last thing she wanted was to hurt her parents, but she
had
to do this. “Please, Mom, try to understand.”

Her mother didn’t say anything for a long time. The second hand on the kitchen wall clock clicked so loudly it was all Breeanne could hear.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Does this mean you’re not coming back to the bookstore once you’ve finished writing Rowdy’s book?”

“No, no. I love working at the bookstore.”

“Oh good.” Her mother’s eyes lightened. “Because we depend on you. If you’re worried that you’re a financial burden to us, please don’t be.”

“I’m so very grateful for everything you and Dad have done for me. You’ve got to know that.”

“Of course we do. And we love you.” Mom hugged her. “So very much. We’re always one hundred percent behind you.”

“Thank you.”

“Now.” Mom reached to tuck a strand of errant hair behind Breeanne’s ear, a loving touch. This woman had saved her life. She and Dad had nursed her to health when no one else believed she would live. “When are you supposed to start writing this book?”

“Rowdy and I begin the interview process on Monday, but I’ll start doing preliminary research right away. I told Rowdy that I had to train my replacement at the bookstore. Plus my agent has to iron out the contract details with the publisher.”

“You don’t have to worry about training someone. Suki can take over at the bookstore until you get back.”

“She’ll hate that.”

“She’ll gripe but she’ll come through. It’s only until you finish this book. Right?” her mother asked, needing reassurance.

“Yes.”

Her mother exhaled audibly. “Good. Then you have time to consider if writing this book is what you really want to do. And you have plenty of time to find the right roommate, the right house. There’s no need to rush into something you might end up regretting.”

But she didn’t need time. As much as her family loved her, or maybe precisely because of how much they loved her, they would never take her seriously until she struck out on her own. Accepting Rowdy’s job offer was her first step toward independence, and achieving her heartfelt dream of being a writer. She was about the endeavor, she was fully committed to this path.

No matter what.

But up in her room, as she was slipping into her nightgown, getting ready for bed, she stopped and opened the hope chest she’d moved from the bookstore to the foot of her bed. She knelt, took out the cheetah-print scarf, ran her fingers over the silky smooth cloth, read the quote on the box.

Two pieces split apart, flung separate and broken, but longing for reunion; one soft touch identifies the other, and they are at last made whole.

“One soft touch identifies the other,” she whispered.

When she and Rowdy touched this scarf, they felt the same thing. Extreme softness. How could that be? And what did it mean?

The sensible part of her scoffed, unable to believe the way she and Rowdy had connected so instantly. How he looked at her as if she were truly something special. How that look in his wild eyes, the amazing blue of an East Texas summer, had twisted her up inside.

She put the scarf back in the box, put the box back in the trunk. Closed the lid. Read the other inscription.

Treasures are housed within, heart’s desires granted, but be careful where wishes are cast, for reckless dreams dared dreamed in the heat of passion will surely come to pass.

The impact of those words fully struck her. She had wished on the hope chest and her wish had come true. And, if the old woman who’d sold her the trunk could be believed, the wish could not be undone.

The prophecy was a clear warning. Suggesting bad things could happen with unwise wishes. Her mind hopped to the obvious risk. She could so easily fall in love with him.

And there was only one way that could end, with her nursing a broken heart. Had she indeed been reckless with her wish?

CHAPTER
8

The pitcher has to find out if the hitter is timid.

And if the hitter is timid,

he has to remind the hitter he’s timid.

—
D
ON
D
RYSDALE

On the following Monday Breeanne drove to Rowdy’s place, her mind atwitter. She’d barely slept, kept awake by disturbingly hot thoughts of the blue-eyed pitcher who invaded her dreams.

And her body, well, it was behaving quite badly. Warming up in all the wrong, or maybe all the right places, depending on how you looked at it.
Wrong
places, the good girl in her scolded. Getting all hot and melty over Rowdy Blanton was a stupid idea any way you sliced it.

She had to keep this relationship on a professional keel. At least for the six months she needed to write the book and get the final draft turned in.

Feeling like the queen of the manor, she hit the remote control and opened the front gate. Rowdy had given her the remote after she accepted the job. Pressing it into her hand the way he’d pressed the baseball into her palm more than a dozen years ago on the teen ward at the children’s hospital.

She shook off the memory, tucked her notebook computer under her arm, marched to the front door, and rang the bell just before nine a.m.

The door opened.

She expected to see Warwick, and was caught off guard by a sleepy-eyed Rowdy rocking the bed-head look, snug Levi’s, a tight black T-shirt, and delectably bare feet.

Air stalled in her lungs at the sight.

Nut bunnies.

She was going to have to get over this breathlessness whenever she was around him. Breathing was definitely a job requirement.

A lazy smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, and his gaze zeroed in on her mouth. A slug of dark, moist desire latched on to that look, and pulled it straight down to her pelvic floor.

It was all she could do not to lick her lips.
Stop it. Stop it right now, Breeanne Bliss Carlyle.

It didn’t matter how handsome he was or how much he fired her engines with those knowing eyes. Ignoring for the moment that she was writing his autobiography, and that she’d set strict ground rules regarding their working relationship, a girl like her could never hold on to a guy like him. Not for any length of time. He could have any woman he wanted. Yes, he might seem interested, but it was his default expression. She couldn’t bank on it.

Not by a long shot.

She read the tabloids. Heard the gossip around town. She knew well enough what he was like. If he was interested in her at all, it was only as a novelty. Someone completely removed from the polished, sleek women he usually dated.

He was born to charm. He couldn’t help himself. It was in his DNA. His modus operandi. He could make any woman feel like she was the only person in the room. Until he got what he wanted, and then he would be on to the next conquest.

Determinedly, she leashed her libido, and unleashed an energetic can-do smile. “Ready to get down to work?”

“Are you always this chirpy in the morning?”

“Always,” she assured him.

“You’re a lark.”

“What?”

“You’re a meadowlark, like Warwick.” He yawned. “I’m a night owl.”

“Nine o’clock isn’t all that early. I’ve been up since five.” She wasn’t about to tell him she’d been so excited that she couldn’t sleep. Let him feel guilty for being a lazybones.

Yet part of her couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to stay up late into the night with him. She once read a study that said men who were night owls had more sexual stamina than men who were early risers. It was probably bunk, but she couldn’t help wanting to test the theory.

With Rowdy.

Dammit. She had to stop thinking like this.

Nolan Ryan loped into the foyer. When the bloodhound saw her, his tail started wagging, and even though his hangdog expression didn’t change, he trotted over the threshold, settled onto her feet, and gazed up at her with pet-me eyes.

“You have yourself quite an admirer,” Rowdy said.

“It’s mutual.” She bent to scratch the dog behind the ears, and she could have sworn she heard Rowdy mumble, “I’m jealous.”

But when she glanced up, he was walking away. Her gaze snapped onto his gravity-defying butt. High, tight, round, hard. Lord, but the man could fill out a pair of jeans.

“I need coffee,” he said over his shoulder. “You want some?”

“I don’t drink coffee,” she called after him.

“You coming?”

Coming.
The word had several connotations, including a particularly naughty one. Good grief. She was acting like a silly sixteen-year-old.

“There’s a dog on my shoes,” she explained.

Rowdy chuckled, whistled. Nolan Ryan got up and moseyed along after him.

Clutching her computer to her chest, Breeanne followed. In the kitchen, Rowdy waved her onto a bar stool. “Have a seat.”

She eased down at the bar, taking in the state-of-the-art kitchen with sleek modern cabinetry and stainless steel appliances, so different from the homey Victorian kitchen of her parents’ house.

For the first time Breeanne wondered how she might decorate a kitchen of her own. Maybe she’d start a Pinterest page and find out.

Rowdy went over to the K-cup carousel, selected a coffee cartridge, and plugged it into the individual-serving coffeemaker. She couldn’t help noticing how his biceps stretched the seams of his T-shirt, and this time, mesmerized by the map of muscles, she did lick her lips.

“We have tea. Do you want hot tea?” he asked.

“Is it herbal?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“A glass of water will do fine.”

“You don’t drink caffeine?”

“It’s not really all that good for you.”

He lowered his lashes, slanted a naughty look at her with those bad-boy eyes. “Do you always do what’s good for you?”

“Usually, yes. Except for dipped cones. My one weakness.”

“That’s your only weakness?”

Oh, that and good-looking left-handed pitchers with dark hair and sky blue eyes.
“For the most part. What’s your one big weakness?”

He laughed. “Sweetheart, I’ve got a whole lot more than one.”

She should tell him not to call her sweetheart. It went against her ground rules for professional behavior, but it sounded so nice and she wasn’t feeling nearly as brave today as when she’d accepted the job.

Instead, she propped her elbows on the bar and dropped her chin into her upturned palms. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Are you taking inventory of my sins for the book or is this for your own amusement?” he asked.

“I’ve read about you in the tabloids. I can guess what your sins are.”