Her heart had thumped at the mention of parents—her father hadn’t been in her life since she was a toddler, and she and her mom argued over every little thing—and of her guy. Yes, she’d been loyal to Anthony, and wished she’d had the opportunity to be loyal well into her eighties or nineties. She cleared her throat. “Loyalty quotient?”
“It’s a term the head coach uses. It means—”
“I get it. I’m just surprised to hear you say it, and surprised you picked up on that about me. It’s true. I can be exceptionally loyal. To people who earn my loyalty.” The thought of her mom put coolness in her voice.
Woody shot her a questioning look, then walked over to the bookcases that took up the walls on either side of the gas fireplace. “See what you mean about liking reading. And you’ve got real, uh, mixed tastes. There’s a word for that.”
“Eclectic?”
“Yeah, eclectic. Bestsellers, autobiographies, marketing, business,
and sociology.” He turned to her, scratching his head. “You really read all this?”
She curled her legs under her. “A lot of it, but most of the sociology books were my husband’s.” She and Anthony had spent so many nights curled up side by side reading, she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of his books.
Woody gaped at her. “You’re married?”
He thought she’d cheated on her husband yesterday? “No, of course not,” she said hotly. “I was. He died.”
Suddenly Woody was in front of her, dropping to his knees. “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”
The compassion in his eyes led her to go on. “It was a stupid car accident. Anthony wasn’t the world’s best driver; he got distracted easily. We were discussing a play we’d just seen.” She swallowed, still feeling guilty about that. “It was dark, raining. It happened so suddenly. The police said he ran a red light and the other car was going too fast, one of its headlights was burned out, and it T-boned our car.” She swallowed again. “On the driver’s side.” The car had been totaled. She’d never looked at it again, not even at pictures.
“My air bag blew up and I blacked out. When I came to, I was in the hospital. Barely injured.” And Anthony was gone. Dead at the scene of the accident. She’d never had a chance to say good-bye.
“Man.” Woody reached out to take her hands. “I’m sorry I was such a jerk about my driving. And I’m really sorry about your husband, but I’m sure glad you were okay.”
Sincerity warmed his striking blue eyes. The grip of his hands was comforting. More than comforting.
He was too bare-skinned, too masculine, too close. Too different from Anthony, too disconcertingly attractive.
She tugged her hands free and pushed her body into the back of the chair to increase her distance from him, when what she
really wanted to do was lean into him and have him put his arms around her.
“It happened three years ago,” she said, trying to sound brisk and professional. “Yes, it was tragic, but these things happen.” It shouldn’t have happened. One brief moment of inattention, and she’d lost her soul mate. “I’m …” Despite her best efforts, her voice broke. She gave a choked laugh. “I was going to say I’m over it, but that’s not true. I’m doing fine, though, really.”
The melting sympathy in his eyes would be her undoing. She felt it dissolving her defenses. A woman could lose herself in those deep indigo pools. She could dive in and never resurface. She’d just go down and down and—
No, what was she thinking? This was a hockey player, a man who didn’t even believe in serial monogamy, much less marriage. A man who had condoms in his car, condoms in his pocket. Here, there, everywhere a condom. A fact she hadn’t protested about yesterday. Oh God, she was usually so in control in work situations. Why did this man rattle her so badly?
“I appreciate your concern,” she said, managing to sound calmer.
He nodded, then rose and returned to the bookcase, where he picked up the small wedding picture that sat on one side. She knew the photo by heart. Anthony, slim and handsome in a tux; Georgia in a lacy white dress, her red hair a mass of curls barely confined by the pearl-studded band of her veil. She and Anthony stood at the top of the church steps, arms around each other’s waists, a shaft of sunshine slanting in to pool at their feet. Smiling as if it was the happiest day of their lives. As it had been.
They’d been joining their lives, their hearts, their souls, and anticipating the wedding night when for the first time they’d join their bodies.
Woody gazed at her. “You were a beautiful bride.”
Nostalgia crowded her heart. Softly she said, “I felt beautiful. I
guess every bride does. And is.” She pulled herself together. “Not that beauty is important.”
Woody was examining her intently from across the room. Judging her beauty, or lack thereof?
Oh God, she’d had sex with this man. She and Anthony had waited for their wedding night because, for them, lovemaking was such a meaningful, emotional act. Yet, she’d had sex with the hockey player, in an act that was unemotional and meaningless. What was wrong with her?
She popped out of her chair and headed toward the kitchen. “Want a Coke?” she asked from the doorway.
“No, thanks. Got any fruit juice or milk?”
“Sorry. Coffee?”
“I don’t do caffeine.”
“Pardon?”
He came over, the photograph no longer in his hand. “It’s a drug. I mostly don’t do drugs.” He tapped his chest with his knuckles. “This body’s a temple. Gotta take care of it.”
She stared at him.
He rolled his eyes. “Joke. But seriously, you gotta respect your body if you want it to come through for you. I ask a lot of my body, so I take care of it.”
She cocked her head. “Going on a bender is taking care of your body?”
He shook his head. “Nah. That was dumb.”
A man who would admit a mistake. It was another thing to like about him. “Then why did you do it?”
“Didn’t play well; we lost the game. I dunno. Looked into the glass of beer and—” He broke off, gazing into her eyes.
Funny shivers—warm ones, not at all unpleasant—rippled through her. “Yes?”
He gave his head a shake and looked away. “And didn’t come
out.” He turned and headed back to the bookcase, saying over his shoulder, “Water’d be good. With ice.”
Oh yes, ice was a very good idea. It was a relief to escape him, a relief to plunge her hands under the cold water tap. How absurd to react this way to Woody Hanrahan, a man who was the opposite of Anthony. She turned off the water and extracted the plastic ice tray from the freezer.
“You dating anybody?” His voice came from the living room.
Under her clumsy hands the tray snapped, spilling cubes all over the counter. He thought she’d had sex with him while she was dating someone else? “No,” she called back. “Why?”
“No reason.”
Did he always ask questions without the slightest reason? Surely, he couldn’t be interested in dating her. He was sorry they’d had sex— crappy sex, for him—so the last thing he’d want would be to go out with her. It was the last thing she wanted, as well. Well, the last thing she
should
want. Oh damn. She’d never had this kind of problem working with a man before.
She dumped ice into his glass and swept the rest of the cubes into the sink.
When she walked into the living room, Woody was crouched down between the chair and the bookcase. Kit-Kat sprawled shamelessly on her back with Woody’s fingers buried in her white belly fur, and gave him her most throaty, sexy purr.
Georgia stared, dumbfounded. “She doesn’t like strangers. Especially men.”
Woody grinned up. “Guess I’m special.”
“You just keep thinking that,” she said dryly, holding back a grin.
He chuckled. “What’s her name? Figure if I’m stroking a girl’s belly, I oughta know her name.”
“I’m impressed by your high moral code. Her name’s Kit-Kat.”
She and Anthony, both chocolate lovers, had come up with the name together.
“Kit the cat,” Woody was murmuring to the feline flirt. “Kit for short and practical, Kitty for cute, and Kitten when you’re acting like one.”
“And just plain Kat when she’s misbehaving,” Georgia finished, surprised that the hottie jock would have picked up on the cat’s nicknames.
“Aw, I bet she doesn’t misbehave. Do you, Kitty?”
The cat gazed up at him soulfully and Georgia shook her head. Kit-Kat had fallen head over heels: a cat who was easily seduced by Woody’s magic fingers. Just as Georgia had been yesterday.
“On the subject of names,” she said, “I notice you call me Georgia. Everyone else calls me George.”
He gazed up. “George is a guy’s name, and you ain’t no guy.”
That hadn’t stopped anyone else. She’d labeled herself George as a teen—when she joined the chastity club and rejected feminine wiles. Everyone had accepted the nickname. Even Anthony.
Not sure what to do with Woody’s comment, she decided it was high time they got on with the deportment lesson. “Sit, Woody. Let’s get started.”
He chose the couch, sprawling easily in the middle of it, starting to lift his bare feet to the oak coffee table, then thinking better of it.
“Thank you,” she said, “but they’re clean, so it’s okay.”
She took the chair and consulted her notes. “Here are some preliminary items I’d like to clear up: your use of ‘sunshine,’ the appropriate time and place for cellular phones, your rather inadequate and often questionable vocabulary, and …” Was that a groan? “And your attitude. Why aren’t you committed to this campaign?”
He picked up his water glass and slugged down half the contents. “I’m committed,” he said grimly. “Go on.” A smile tugged at his lips. “Start with ‘sunshine.’ Can’t wait to hear what that’s all about.”
“I’ve heard you call Viv ‘sunshine,’ and the receptionist at the office, the waitress at lunchtime, and me.”
“Something wrong with that?”
“We’re not interchangeable females. We have names.”
“Yeah.” He gave a puzzled frown. “Sandra, Viv, Tawny, and—” “Tawny?”
His eyes gleamed in triumph. “You mean you didn’t know the waitress’s name?”
“You’re making that up.”
“Nah, but I have an advantage. When you were in the ladies’ room, she gave me her phone number.”
“Of course she did.”
Tawny
had assumed Woody couldn’t possibly be dating Georgia, or else she hadn’t given a damn. Georgia was glad she hadn’t given her a sizable tip. “You remember what Viv said, that if you want to date someone, you should run it by us?”
“You remember what I said? My private life’s private.”
He’d also said he didn’t date during the playoffs because it was distracting. Sex with her hadn’t been, though.
“So what’s wrong with calling a woman ‘sunshine’?” he asked.
“Why do you do it, when you know their names?”
He reflected. “It’s when, you know, they give a big smile, or laugh, or their eyes sparkle. When they’re all bright and sunny and they make me smile. No one ever seems insulted.”
Her turn to think. Sandra, Viv, the waitress … They hadn’t seemed insulted. Georgia was the only one. Why did it get to her? Surely, she didn’t want to be special to him. And was he saying that he sometimes saw her as bright and sunny?
Damn, her headache had come back. She rubbed the base of her neck. She didn’t like taking pills, but it was hard to concentrate when she was in pain. Oddly, her headaches happened only when she was working—and yet, for the most part, she loved her job.
“Still got the headache, huh?”
“Vocabulary lesson. There are better ways of asking questions than making a statement and following it with ‘huh.’ In fact, ‘huh’ is not a word. I’d suggest you expunge it from your vocabulary. Uh, I mean, get rid of it.”
Suddenly he was there in front of her, on his knees. “How about we start by
expunging
that headache?” A huge but gentle hand landed on her shoulder and urged her out of her chair. “Sit on the footstool. Here, facing this way.”
Arguing with him made her head ache, so this time she went along. Or maybe it was because that hand felt so right there. Decisive and reassuring. Masculine and sensual. A shiver of pleasant awareness rippled through her.
She sat where he’d placed her, with her back to him. His hands eased her body upright until her spine was a straight line. Not rigid, but straight.
“Why d’you always wear your hair pulled back so tight?”
“It’s professional.” Then, “Ouch.” Was he pulling her hair?
“You ever think it might be the reason you get headaches?”
She couldn’t resist a comeback. “No. I thought it was you.”
“Oh, man, you wound me,” he joked. “Why not just cut it short?”
“I only pull it back for work. I like long hair. Oh!” She realized he’d tugged out her hair clip. Long strands of hair tumbled over her shoulders and down her back and brushed her cheeks and ears. He shouldn’t have done that—and yet the tension was easing from her temples.
“You can’t be professional with long hair?” His hands settled at the sides of her neck and began to massage, very gently.
She sucked in air in a little gasp, and tensed. He shouldn’t do this. She shouldn’t let him.
“Relax, Georgia.” One palm cupped her forehead, holding her steady while the fingers of his other hand worked the back of her neck.
This wasn’t professional; it was personal. Nowhere near as personal as sex, but still …
But still, it felt wonderful. There were calluses on his fingers but the slight abrasiveness was enjoyable, like the rough caress of Kit-Kat’s tongue. Georgia went for back massages on occasion, with a female massage therapist. This was therapeutic. No doubt that was the way Woody viewed it.
“Didn’t answer my question,” he said.
Question? Oh yes, about long hair not being professional. “In my opinion, gender should be irrelevant in the workplace.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Work assignments, promotion, success shouldn’t relate to gender.”
“Sure, but what’s that got to do with hair?”
“If women wear short skirts, have their hair long and wavy, and wear lots of makeup, then they’re bringing gender into the workplace.”
“But … gender exists. Thank God. And just ’cause men and women dress differently, it doesn’t mean they’re not equal.”