She casts me a keen eye. “Want to talk about it?”
I glance up at her, a pinch in my chest. She’s treating me like family; it’s foreign and wonderful. It’s confusing, too. “No,” I say appreciatively. “But thank you for offering.”
She seems to hesitate but lets it go. “Okay then.” She then runs through the plan for the baked goods, explains the setup for tomorrow, and then we’re off on a baking marathon. We’re just getting started when I worry that Jason might show up, and I’m not sure where that leads. “Is Jason coming around any time soon?”
“He headed to Dallas.”
My brows furrow. “Really. I thought that was Monday?”
She gives me a small smile. “He told you, did he?”
I sidestep with the courtroom skill I apparently maintained while my pride took a nosedive. “He mentioned it in case I needed anything while he was gone.”
“Of course.” Something flickers in her face and she messes with the bottle of vanilla extract. “Did he say why he’s going to Dallas?”
She doesn’t look at me, but reading people is my life. She’s worried, and why wouldn’t she be? His parents died while traveling two years ago, almost to the date. I set the bowl I’m holding aside. “No, he didn’t.”
She nods, her throat bobbing with a deep swallow that does me in. She’s definitely worried. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
She inhales and looks at me. “I want him to play ball again.”
He wants to play, I think, but I’m cautious about landmines here. “A trip to Dallas could be a good sign, then, right?”
“It might seem that way if I hadn’t heard him and Roarke talking, but I think this trip is him meeting with the bank. I think he’s already over his head and going in even deeper on the orchard. I think he thinks that’s the only way to get out of this.” I don’t ask what “this” specifically means or why she believes this. She’s already moved on. “And that means he’s not going to play.”
“If he plays,” I ask, “who would run the ranch?”
“We can sell. I’ve suggested it several times.” Her voice is animated, like she’s arguing with him, not me.
“You seem so happy here.”
“I have my moments. There are good and bad memories here. The bottom line is that life is for the living. He should be playing ball.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to play.”
“How can that be? It was a dream come true for him.”
As was me stepping into a courtroom and winning, but now that I have, it’s intense. “There’s a pressure that comes with anything as high profile as pitching. Everyone is watching. Everyone wants you to do exactly what they want you to do.”
“But he was successful,” she says. “Everyone was thrilled with how he did.”
“And I guarantee you that every time he stepped on that mound, he felt the pressure to keep thrilling them.”
“I get that. I do, but I believe in my heart of hearts that he wants to play. Case in point. He sneaks to an old barn we don’t use and practices. He thinks I don’t know. He wants to play.”
“Have you told him you’re willing to move?”
“Over and over, but he doesn’t believe me. I think he’s afraid that if he leaves, I’ll die when he’s on the road, which pisses me off. Why does he have to keep shortening my years?”
“I don’t think that’s an age thing. Losing his parents is still under two years fresh. I think with a loss, it’s pretty natural to fear another loss.”
She tilts her head, giving me a curious look. “You’re mighty informed on the topic. You speaking from experience?”
“Yes and no. Divorce is a common occurrence in the face of tragedy. I’ve dealt with a lot of breakups where a tragic loss was at the core. In my experience, loss tends to do one of two things. It either makes you live more fully or it makes you live in fear.”
“And you think fear is driving Jason?”
“I’m not saying that. He might just be tired of the constant pressure he was under.”
She purses her lips. “Maybe. I don’t think so, though. Why practice if he doesn’t want to play?”
“Why run if you’re not running professionally? Because you feel better. Because it’s a stress reliever. Because it’s good for your body.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not why he does it, and you know it.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He doesn’t like me. You know that.”
She laughs. “Oh please. That sparring you two do is pure flirtation. He’s quite smitten with you, just as you are with him. I’d hoped that getting a bit of the city here with you in the cottage would wake him up.”
Oh jeez. I’m her miracle, the city girl brought here to save Jason, when Jason doesn’t want to be saved. I’m now exceedingly pleased I didn’t tell her about the fight I had with him. She’s worried about him living his dream. I don’t want her to feel having me here pissed him off so badly that it pushed him further from that dream. No. She can’t know that, we not only fought, but it was over that silly romance list we created. I also need to talk to Jason, and pronto, before he lets the cat out of the bag.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Jason…
It all started with a city girl.
I’m a man who could start about ten different sentences that way and, in most cases, end each one badly. I’m a country song with city-girl drama. And where am I? In Dallas. In the city on a weekend when I should be at the ranch, tending to the damn orchard. Instead, I’m in the city tending to the damn orchard.
I park in front of the diner where I’m about to meet up with Mark Miller, the banker I’d inherited with the ranch, and a bunch of trouble I thought would be over by now. I figure this Saturday is more about him getting his money than me getting more of the bank’s, but that’s not how this ends today. I reach for the door when my cell phone rings and, speak of the devil, it’s the city girl herself. I decline the call, no interest in being her research project. Nor do I want my men to be fodder for her book.
I grab the business plan I’ve been working on and reach for the door. My cell phone rings again. Jessica doesn’t give up. This time I take the call. “Did you decide which chapter of your book I’m in yet?”
“The one about assholes who just can’t stop being assholes.”
“Am I bachelor number one or number ten? You never did answer that question.”
“No plans to put you in the romance novel. You will, however, get your very own chapter in the divorce survival guide.”
“And you called me why? For more material?”
“See, there you go. Your asshole skills are really, truly epic. I called to tell you that your grandmother had a great time last night. Don’t go at her about it or us. If she thinks it made us fight, she’ll be upset.”
“And you know this how?”
“Hours of baking with her. We talk.”
“Why are you baking with her?”
“It’s better than baking with you. Much better. And I like her.”
My lips quirk. Damn, what is it about this woman that amuses me when she should piss me off? “The implication here being that you don’t like me?”
“Quick on the draw there, cowboy. And the mound. You’re lightning fast, Jason.”
“Was,” I say, feeling like she just hit me with one of the balls I used to throw. “I was lightning fast. And then I got hurt.” And it’s time to end this little chat. “I need to go.”
“Because you have a meeting with the bank?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “My grandmother sees and says too much.”
“Your grandmother wants you to play ball. Don’t sign anything until you at least talk to her.”
“Jessica! Where are you, honey?” I hear my grandmother call out.
She lowers he
r voice. “Your grandmother’s calling me. I have to go, but she doesn’t know I’m talking to you. Please don’t say anything. And please, Jason. Think about what I said.”
She hangs up and I pound the steering wheel. Play ball. If only it were that simple. My grandmother sees me. I see her and the people we employ who count on us. The ones I’ve been paying out of my pocket. If I’m handed a check, I’m not thinking about taking it.
I open the door and get out of the truck, ready to talk to Mark and get back to the ranch where there appears to be a romance writer causing mischief. Crossing the street, I approach the door of the diner, thankful this is a low-key place where pitching doesn’t have to be about the balls.
The hostess greets me and leads me through a row of yellow-and-orange booths, pointing to an archway. “They’re waiting on you back there.”
Back there.
She takes off and I wonder who the hell “they” are, but I don’t have to wonder long. I walk through the archways to find a party room filled with kids, who cheer upon my entry. “He’s here!” A little boy with red hair and freckles hugs Mark. “Thank you, Daddy!”
Now I know why I’m here on a Saturday. My jaw clenches. I love kids. I have reputation for loving kids and being generous with my time, and once upon a time when I had it to give, my money. Things Mark has figured out about me and now takes advantage of. He knows I won’t walk away. He knows I want that money I asked for on the phone when I agreed to this. I paint on a smile, not for Mark but for these kids. Mark and I will talk, though. And he won’t like what I have to say.
I step forward and a swarm of boys with baseball bats surrounds me. The good news is the kids are happy a good hour later. I’d do almost anything to make kids happy and good, but I’m also holding a baseball in my hands in public for the first time in two years. A decision I’d like to have made on my own, in my own time. I stare down at it, rolling it around in my palm, my mind chasing that idea I’d had a few nights back while talking to Roarke. I glance over at Mark, and he gives me an arrogant prick of a smirk, the kind that says, “I own you.” Like tricking me into his kid’s party is a power trip. It is to him, but whatever. He apparently doesn’t know how many batters gave me that same look while I was on the mound. They found out real quick that they didn’t own me. Mark needs to find out, too. I’m done with this man owning me.
…
Three hours later, the party is wrapping up and Mark and I haven’t talked. He’s up to his neck in the party and a kid with a broken tooth, which suits me just fine. I head back to my truck, and rather than feeling used and abused, I’m motivated. That ball belonged in my hand. Those kids and their excitement made me excited. It’s time to get my head out of the apple orchard where I’ve buried it. Roarke was right. I have to make changes, and that doesn’t mean borrowing more money to fail at the same thing I never wanted to do in the first place. I toss the business plan I won’t be needing anymore onto the passenger floorboard. I need to drive and think.
I’ve just started the engine when my cell phone rings, and yes, it’s Jessica. I pull onto the road and answer the line. “I’m beginning to think you’re stalking me.”’
“Oh, good idea. I need to cover that in my book. A stalking after separation is more relatable than you might think. Your grandmother wants to know when you’re coming home.”
“Why doesn’t she ask me?”
“Because then she wouldn’t have an excuse to have me call you. And calling you for her also ensures that she doesn’t think she caused us to fight.”
“Tomorrow,” I say, making the decision right then to go see an old teammate I know here in Dallas. “I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“Okay. Drive safe.” My grandmother yells something in the background and Jessica clears her throat. “Kisses from your grandmother, not from me.”
“And here I thought you enjoyed my kisses.”
“It doesn’t matter either way, now, does it? I’m the opportunist novelist who will do her research elsewhere. Goodbye, Jason.” She hangs up and I dial her right back.
“Yes?” she answers.
“Don’t distract my staff.”
“Right. No cleavage. No tight jeans. Lots of ugly boots.”
“I’m not joking, Jessica.”
“I’m just a girl, standing in front of a man, asking him to date her.” She laughs and hangs up.
I growl. Holly hell, that woman is going to be the death of me. This is why I’m worried my idea isn’t going to work. Bringing the city to the country is a problem. Jessica isn’t the first woman to teach me that, but she will be the last.
Only this particular problem is making my grandmother laugh and smile. She might be city, but Jessica feels really damn real. I’m the one not being real. I’m the one buried in apples that I want to be baseballs. That idea I had back at Roarke’s the other night is back. I need to bring the city to the country. And I finally let myself think about what’s been in the back of my mind since before I ever left the Yankees. I want to open a baseball camp for all ages and levels of play.
This idea takes root and I turn the truck around. There’s a few people I know right here in Dallas that I need in on this, including a few friends working in the management offices for the Rangers. This is going to be good. And if it’s not, I think, my lips curving, I’ll just have to blame Jessica. She’s the one who woke me up and pissed me off, and apparently I needed to get pissed off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Jessica…
It’s early evening when I head back to the cottage, eager to see Kelly, and with the promise to bring her along for future baking dates. I skip a path through the remainder of the mud, one well-placed stone at a time, absolutely giddy when I almost fall only once. Progress. I might be a country girl after all.
Hurrying up the porch, I’m elated to open the door and have Kelly greet me. Lots of meows and purrs follow, and if any of them sound like bitching, it’s probably from the heat. “You are definitely going to go with me next time, girl,” I say, opening a can of food for her. “It’s much cooler over there.”
She meows a short yap of a meow at me and starts eating. I pull off my hot-ass boots and walk to the air conditioner, messing with the knob, but it’s as cool at it gets. I glance around and find a few windows where I might add extra units. I need to fix this because my “landlord” won’t do it.
As counterproductive to cooling as it may be, I brew a pot of coffee and decide I need to get some work done. I settle onto the couch, with Kelly on the cushion beside me, my mind on that call with Jason, specifically his use of the word “was” as it related to his arm. I Google his injury, and it was rumored to be rather serious. Could he have lost his edge when it healed? I tab through a few more screens and find headlines about the plane crash. Dated a few months later, headlines about his retirement, and the shocking way he walked away from millions by breaking his contract. Of course, he’d have insurance on his arm, so he’s probably set for life, unless—I sit up straight.
“His arm isn’t hurt,” I whisper. That’s why he was so defensive about the topic today; he’s hiding that fact. Well, that and it was me he was talking to. So does he just not want to play, or is there a reason he feels he can’t leave? Or can’t go back?
Maybe I’ll ask him. I snort at the thought. “Good luck with that one, Jessica.”
I sip my coffee and force myself to stop reading about Jason. We’re just landlord and tenant. He made that clear. I start typing, and I have no idea how it happens, but I don’t write the divorce guide. I don’t write a romance novel, either. I write about what happened the day I found my ex in bed with his secretary. When I’m done, my hand is trembling and I stand up, running my hands down my pants. I need to just write the book I’m being paid to write and get out of my own head. I need an outline. Or no. A storyboard. I eye the desk and decide that’s the spot to find note cards
or sticky notes or something I can use. I hurry that direction and sit down, digging through drawers. It’s the center drawer that grabs my attention, or rather what’s inside. A stack of bills that he has labeled “past due.”
I tell myself not to look further, but then I pick them up, and some of the invoices are quite large. The irrigation expert is probably not happy right now, and I wonder if that’s why the floods hit the orchards so hard. At the bottom of the stack is a letter from an attorney: I regret to inform you that our efforts to collect your parents’ life insurance remain unsuccessful, on both counts.
I stand up and hug myself, but I think it’s that big bear of a man that needs a hug. He could solve all of this with one pro contract. Why isn’t he doing it? This has to come back to his grandmother, who doesn’t even want this for him. Heck, she could bake them out of this. My eyes go wide. She could bake them out of this. She’s that good, and lord knows she can do it in bulk. I walk to the couch and grab my computer and start a new Google search. I need to learn how to sell her baked goods for her. For them.
…
A rooster crows.
A rooster crows?
I sit up straight, the first break of dawn lighting the curtains, and I’m still on the couch with my computer and the cat beside me. I never made it to bed, but I wrote a business plan for The Flying J Bakery that kicks ass.
Scanning my work, I smile, excited to share it with Martha and talk her into this before Jason gets back, and I get moving. I shower, dress in jeans and pink tank top with my ugly boots as the supermodel finish. Ready to go, I load Kelly up in the car, litter box and food along for the ride, and we head to the ranch, while Kelly does a meow that sounds remarkably like a scream. I’m pretty sure she believes either me or this car is going to kill us both. I try singing, but that makes it worse. I shut up. It’s a short drive anyway. I let her have the vocal stage.
We arrive to a dark house, which means Martha isn’t here yet, but I can get started on adding finishing touches to some of her desserts. Icing and whipped cream are two things I do, and eat, with quite a lot of skill.
The Truth About Cowboys Page 18