Back in the Game: A Stardust, Texas Novel (20 page)

A man in his fifties, holding a wooden canoe paddle and wearing a red rubber apron, came toward him, hand extended. “Rowdy Blanton in my backyard? Pinch me like a crawfish and call me done. I’m in heaven.”

Rowdy shifted the box of balls to his other arm and shook the man’s hand. “Glad to meet you . . .”

“Dan, Dan Carlyle.”

“You’re Breeanne’s father.”

“That I am.” Dan straightened, squared his shoulders, and stepped into Rowdy’s personal space, slung the paddle over his shoulder like a baseball bat. “I trust you’re treating my girl right.”

“Yes sir. Pleased to meet a fellow ballplayer, sir,” Rowdy said, strengthening his grip and ignoring the part about treating Breeanne right. Much as it pained him, he was here to do Breeanne wrong.

Dan Carlyle looked flattered and flustered. “You know I used to play ball?”

“Breeanne told me about your family, and her aunt Polly. I read all about you in her book.”

“Oh yes, right. Breeanne’s book. We are so proud of her. Thank you for giving her a chance.”

Rowdy gulped, his mission growing more difficult by the minute.

“C’mon in, c’mon in.” Dan ushered Rowdy deeper into the yard. Over his shoulder, he called out, “Suki, fetch our hometown hero a cold beer.”

He allowed the small crowd to settle him at a picnic table, but all the while, he kept searching for Breeanne. He’d first gone to Timeless Treasures to look for her and found the place was closed for the day. A shopkeeper in the clothing boutique next door to the antique store had told him where the Carlyles lived.

He was about to ask where she was, but people were eyeing the box of baseballs, so he passed them out. There weren’t enough to go around, but he issued rain check promises to everyone who’d missed out. After that people asked him to sign other things—a paper towel, beer bottle labels, body parts.

A blond older woman came out of the house and introduced herself as Maggie Carlyle. Breeanne’s parents were friendly, gregarious, and welcoming—his kind of folk.

A cute girl with Asian features and an asymmetrical haircut put a beer in his hand. “Hi, I’m Suki, the younger sister.”

“And I’m Jodi, the oldest.” An auburn-haired, freckle-faced Meg-Ryan-in-her-romantic-comedy-days look-alike handed him a sturdy paper plate.

“Kasha,” said a husky-voiced brunette, her thick, waist-length hair floating around her. Kasha was darker than her sisters, her skin creamy caramel, cheekbones high. A young Rae Dawn Chong with straight hair. She went barefoot, and wore a long, flowy dress. Images of recycling, organic vegetables, Volkswagens, and Seattle popped into his head. “I’m the sister in the middle between Jodi and Breeanne.”

Dan, and another man about Dan’s age, dumped the contents of a kettle onto the picnic tables covered with newspaper—bright red crawfish, corn on the cob halves, new potatoes, pearl onions, and smoked sausage.

People vied for food and conversation equally, everyone talking at once.

“Eat, eat,” Maggie urged, using tongs to pile his plate with food.

“Where’s Breeanne?” he asked, but Maggie had turned to answer someone else’s question, and apparently she hadn’t heard him. He stood, a paper plate loaded with food in one hand, a beer in the other, not knowing what to do.

That’s when Breeanne came through the backyard gate with a plastic bag in her hand.

Golden twilight filtered through the mimosa trees, spreading shadows over the lawn like a Hallmark greeting card. Dying sunshine glinted off a dangly silver hook in her ear. He set down the plate and beer, and stared at her without breathing.

Through the dreamy dusk, she came toward him, moving gracefully, the dwindling sunlight darkening, shifting, shrinking around her. He stood motionless, struck by her softness.

She strolled toward the back door, a faraway expression on her face, swinging the sack in her hand in time to a melody that only she could hear. A honeysuckle blossom was caught in her hair, yellow-white and sweetly pleasing. She wore a blue sundress dotted with pink flowers that hugged her nicely at the waist, and pink flip-flops on her feet.

The cheetah scarf was tied at her neck. The print didn’t match the outfit, but it didn’t matter. At the sight of the scarf, he felt a surge of something hot and unexpected low in his belly. Something desperate.

Her hips swayed delicately as she climbed the back steps, and she paused when she reached the screen door, stopped, turned. Their eyes met.

She offered him a tiny smile, and instantly his heart swelled. He smiled back, hoping he looked more self-confident than he felt.

He moved toward her.

Everyone else stopped talking, and except for the lively Zydeco music, the backyard went silent. Without turning his head, he knew every eye was on him. That was okay. He was accustomed to the limelight.

He’d slipped off without Warwick. He should have learned his lesson about that on New Year’s Eve, but he hadn’t wanted his bodyguard hovering while he talked to Breeanne. What he hadn’t counted on was her entire family and neighborhood doing exactly that.

He started up the porch steps after her.

Breeanne turned around, stepped into the kitchen.

“Go get her, Rowdy,” someone hollered. It sounded like the cheeky older woman with the spiky hair and tattoos.

That brought a round of laughter and more urgings to go after her. It made him feel a little panicky. How were they going to view him after he fired her?

A stunningly beautiful calico sitting in the window narrowed her eyes at him, and her whiskers twitched as if to say,
Watch your step, buddy
.

He moved to the screen door, peered in at Breeanne. Suddenly, his heart was chugging the way it did when a heavy hitter took the plate in a tie game with the bases loaded. He raised a palm. “Hi.”

She hugged herself tighter. “Hi.”

“Can I come in?”

“Can you?”

“I’d like to come in.”

“Please yourself.” She shrugged like she didn’t care, the casual gesture belying the tension in her voice.

The screen door hinges squeaked and he was inside. He paused a moment to turn back the audience. “Y’all can go on back to eating.”

He waited a minute for the conversation outside to resume. Breanne didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She was good at staying still.

“What happened to your mouth?”

He raised a hand to his busted lip. “Zach.”

“Sibling rivalry?”

“Something along those lines.”

She took a deep breath, but didn’t say anything else, just stood there sizing him up.

“Are you going to come get something to eat?” he asked.

“In a minute,” she said. “After I put whipped cream on the chocolate pie.” She took a tub of Cool Whip from the plastic bag and set it on the counter.

“Need any help?”

She turned to face him. “Why are you here?”

Gosh, how he wished he could take her hand and lead her back out to the party, tell her he’d come here to see her because he missed her something fierce, which was true, but it wasn’t the real reason he was here. When had he started counting the minutes until they could be together again?

Forget that. As soon as he told her what he’d come there to say, it was all over. No more book. No more Breeanne. Dammit, he wished there was another way.

“I came to see you.” He took another step toward her, the floorboards of the old Victorian creaking beneath his feet.

“What for?” The pulse at the hollow of her throat jumped visibly. She was nervous.

Hell, so was he. Today they’d seen each other naked. Things had shifted between them, but he was about to shift them again.

She moistened her lips.

His gaze hooked on that sweet, strawberry-colored mouth. Christ, how he wanted to kiss her. Wanted it so badly he knotted his hands into fists to keep from doing just that.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said. “You know, after this morning in the pond.”

A pink stain the same color as the flowers on her dress sprang to her cheeks. “You came all the way into town to ask me that?”

“No,” he admitted.

“What’s up?” She canted her head, seeing straight through him. She had an uncanny ability to get to the meat of things.

“This isn’t a good time,” he said. “Your family is—”

Breeanne sank her hands onto her hips. She wasn’t going to let him wriggle off the hook. “Out with it.”

He stepped closer, trying to figure out how to phrase the sentence to soften the blow. She stood her ground, but the ends of the scarf trembled. She was shaking. Was she scared or excited? Maybe both? He was, for sure.

It was never his intention to touch her, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Rowdy reached out and ran a finger over the cheetah scarf, soft as a cloud. The scarf made him think of the day she’d gotten beaned on the head with the baseball and he’d got a provocative glimpse at her cheetah panties.

She was pretty. How in the hell had he ever believed her plain? He caught a whiff of her sexy scent—shampoo and cream and flowers.

Her lips parted, as if she was going to speak, but she didn’t say anything. They both drew in deep, simultaneous gulps of air. He could kiss her now. They would no longer be working together. No more rules, nothing to hold him back. Maybe she wanted him to kiss her. Did she want him to kiss her? He wanted to kiss her.

Not smart. Not smart. Not smart.
Especially when he was about to fire her.

His eyes captured hers. She was barely breathing.

“Well?” she said.

Resist, resist.

But he could not. He’d been resisting since the first time he’d kissed her, aching to taste those luscious lips again. To find out if lightning would strike twice.

“Rowdy,” she whispered, her green eyes clouded murky, beseechingly. She pursed her lips, licked them so that they glistened wetly. She wanted to kiss him as much as he wanted to be kissed.

The air fairly crackled with sexual tension. They could have been anywhere and nowhere. Nothing existed but the two of them.

She took a step toward him.

Rowdy let loose with a helpless groan and drew her into his arms. The feel of her skin against his, her warm breath fanning over his chin, and he was done for.

His head pounded, blood pushing tightly through his veins. This was sweet, naïve Breeanne Carlyle in his arms, not some random groupie who had shown up at the locker room door, and she was looking up at him with complete trust. He owed her the respect she deserved.

Ah shit, ah hell, ah no, no. How could this feel so right, but be so wrong?

She was everything he’d never known he wanted. Everything he shouldn’t have. He was taking advantage of her, of the moment. If anyone else tried to do this to her, he’d beat the crap out of them.

Her eyelashes lowered, a sultry shade of acquiescent, her body melting soft in his arms. The emotion between them was so solid he could slice it like a prime rib roast, meaty and raw.

God, he wanted her more than he ever thought possible.

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he stop fantasizing about her? Stupid. Stupid. She wasn’t some party girl out for nothing but a good time, and he couldn’t treat her as if she were, no matter how desperately he wanted to imprint her with his mouth. Take her. Claim her. Make her his woman.

Honestly, he treasured her. Admired her. She was easy to be with, cheery and smart.

“You’ve got a weird look in your eyes,” she said, and then stopped talking as he leaned in closer, and hovered there.

Those gorgeous green eyes widened to half dollars and her teeth parted and she whispered, “Rowdy,” and then he just went ahead threw her a crazy screwball pitch of a kiss, tenderly, easily, savoring every second of their bond—the way she tasted, the map of her lips, pliable and honeyed—and he heard her sharp intake of air and felt somehow baptized, fresh and new, his sins absolved. He didn’t care that the kiss made his busted lip hurt. Her mouth was a sweet balm. Her arms tangled around his neck, pulling his head down lower, and then she was kissing him back, putting every bit of heart she possessed into it, leaving only one thought in his head,
Magic
, and he forgot that he’d come here to shatter her dreams, and cupped her cheek against his palm, and surrendered everything to her.

No other woman had ever made him feel this way. So helplessly out of control. No woman had ever stirred his hunger to this degree that wiped every rational thought from his brain. How had he gone an entire lifetime without this, without her?

After a generous time with the kitchen clock ticking off the seconds in long, jerky
tick, tick, tick
s, he separated his lips from hers and gazed down into her face. Her eyes were half closed and a creamy smile pulled the corner of her lips up into a moony crescent.

“What did you want to tell me,” she asked in a dreamy whisper, and he said, “I don’t remember,” and kissed her again, deeper this time, chuckling when her delicate hand fisted the back of his shirt, and then someone cleared their throat, loud enough to make them jump apart.

Suki slammed through the back door. “Ignore me. I’m not here. They sent me after the pie.”

“Bad timing,” Breeanne mumbled, sounding sleepy. “I haven’t topped the pie with the Cool Whip yet.”

“I’ll do it. I’m rescuing the pie before you drool all over it,” Suki said, waving her hands like laundry flapping on a clothesline. “Shoo.”

“Come with me.” Breeanne took Rowdy’s hand and dragged him into the living room.

“Treat my sister right,” Suki called after them. “Or I’ll bust your nose to match that lip. She’s fragile as a hothouse orchid.”

“I can take care of myself,” Breeanne hollered over her shoulder. “I’m a damn sunflower, not an orchid.”

“Hurt her, Blanton, and my entire family will hunt you down and kill you,” Suki said cheerfully, ignoring Breeanne’s angry declaration.

“Your family loves you very much.” Rowdy wrapped his arm around her waist.

“Tell me about it.” Breeanne rolled her eyes and yanked up her spine. He noticed a toughening around her edges, her mouth zipping into a straight line, replacing the usual accommodating smile. “Now, where were we before my sister so rudely interrupted?”