It Had to Be Them (An It Had to Be Novel Book 4)

by Tamra Baumann

  Her father, tired of hearing the thump of the ball when she’d practice in their driveway on early mornings, had built a court away from the house and nearer the road. After she finished off her banana, she grabbed a broom and walked down the drive to the full court built to exact NBA specs, complete with chain link surrounding it so she wouldn’t have to chase after loose balls into the woods.

  Basketball had been her father’s second-favorite passion after birding, and he’d taught her all he knew. Having one shot at a child due to complications during her birth meant Dad was unlucky to have a girl instead of a son he could mold into an NBA player, but he’d made the best of it. And so had she.

  Kline swept the court off and by the time it was clear of dirt and pine needles, she’d warmed up enough to take off her jacket. She dribbled the ball to get a feel for the bounce and then took a few simple shots. As her muscles became more fluid and loose, she began making shot after shot and was finally in her zone. She moved back to the three-point line and let the ball sail. A no-net three-pointer!

  She whispered, “And the crowd goes wild,” as she ran to retrieve the ball for a slam dunk. She hopped up in the air, but was short. Frustrated that she’d missed one of her signature shots in college, she lined up to do it again and again until she got it right.

  By her twelfth try she was sweating in the forty-degree temperature, but pleased she’d finally made the shot. She had to stop and lay her hands on her thighs to catch her breath.

  Her mom called out from the bench, “I knew you’d get it eventually.”

  Kline was so focused on proving to herself she still had it, she hadn’t heard her mom slip inside the court. She sat on a bench bundled up in a coat and had a thermos and two mugs. “Want some hot cocoa?”

  Kline shook her head and picked up the ball again. As she let it fly toward the backboard, she asked, “Why are you up so early?”

  “I’m always up early these days. What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

  “Nothing.” Kline started an approach shot again. “Just felt like getting some exercise.”

  Mom poured out the steaming cocoa into her mug. “So you’re not having second thoughts about running for mayor, or about whatever Ben climbed into your window to talk to you about last night?”

  That stopped Kline midshot. “How did you know about that?”

  Mom took a sip and chuckled. “When you were in high school, your father rigged up a wire that rang a little bell in our bedroom when your window was opened. He was worried about more than just talking going on in there, so he’d always stand outside your closed door to be sure he wasn’t going to have to throw Ben out.”

  Despite being a full-grown woman, heat crawled up Kline’s neck and warmed her cheeks. “Ben and I never . . . I told him I wouldn’t feel comfortable in my . . .” She gave up and threw another basket.

  “I know. Your dad kept a watchful eye. And don’t think I didn’t know the difference back then between practice and coming out here because you were upset by the bullies at school or when you had boy trouble.”

  Boy trouble? Her mother had no idea what trouble Ben was causing her insides at the moment. She dribbled toward her mom and stood in front of her. Still bouncing the ball to stay warm she asked, “If you knew about the bullying, why didn’t you make it stop?”

  Her mom took another sip of her hot chocolate. “Your teachers kept an eye on you for us. If we’d thought you couldn’t handle it, we would’ve stepped in. You needed to learn how to direct all that self-doubt and bad energy, Kline. Basketball was good therapy. I don’t think you would’ve ever earned a college scholarship if we’d solved all your problems for you when you were young. I remember you spending three or four hours in a row out here throwing one basket after the next. Next thing we knew, you were a high school state champion.”

  Until then, memories of her school years weren’t good ones. She’d been so tall and awkward and flat-chested. Glasses and braces had only made it worse. Most of the Anderson kids felt superior to the Grants and that it was their duty to stay loftier by being mean.

  But never Ben.

  Thankfully, puberty had been kind to her and once the boys started noticing, especially Ben, many of the popular girls suddenly wanted to be her friends. Between basketball practice and eventually dating Ben, she didn’t have time for new fake girlfriends, though. “Okay, you win.” She sat beside her mom and poured herself a mug of cocoa. “I’m worried about you. And maybe a little about living here if I beat the mayor.”

  “I can take care of myself, and you can do anything you put your mind to. You’ve proven that time and time again, sweetheart. And Ben?”

  She shook her head. “Ben . . . has a date tonight. We’re just friends.”

  Mom patted her leg. “Well, he passes by here most mornings when he jogs. If you want to avoid seeing him, I suggest you come inside now and let me make you a good breakfast.”

  Kline drained her mug and then hopped up again. “I’m not going to start hiding from Ben. This town is big enough for the both of us, despite what he says. What I’m going to do is throw this basketball into my hoop in my front yard until I figure out what I’m going to do with my damned life!” She threw a perfect half-court basket to make her point.

  “Says my stubborn little mule.” Her mom chuckled and gathered her things. “I’ll make you some French toast after you figure it all out. Here comes Ben now. Good luck.”

  Her mother called out, “Good morning, Ben. How are you?”

  The traitor.

  Ben lifted a hand, and then his eyes met Kline’s and his feet changed direction. He jogged up the drive and opened the gate. “You two are out early this morning.”

  Ben wore running tights that hugged his muscled thighs way too nicely, and his snug long-sleeve shirt highlighted his defined chest. Better not to look.

  She turned away and threw the ball into the hoop. “Don’t let us keep you from your run.”

  Ben jogged in front of her and scooped up the ball. “I always have time for some hoops. You on, or are you scared I’ll beat you?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother slink away. “Why would I be scared of a man who has never beaten me unless I let him?”

  He dribbled the ball, alternating hands. “I joined a rec league after you left. I’ve got moves now. But if you’re chicken . . .”

  Kline stole the ball from his hand and landed her shot. “One, nothing.” She bounce-passed the ball to him. “I’m taking you down, Anderson. First to twenty-one—street rules.”

  Ben crossed the half-court line, and then dribbled toward her at a full run. “Cocky, aren’t you, Grant?”

  She hadn’t expected that kind of speed from him. A bolt of adrenalin shot through her veins as she reached in to steal the ball. Ben swiveled his back to her and stuck out his fine rear end, defending. Then he turned and, before she could block, scored.

  He shot her a smug grin. “One, one.” Then he passed her the ball.

  She held back her smile as she dribbled back to the half-court line. Ben had gotten better and, oddly, it made her proud of him. She’d have to work to beat him for the first time ever. So she charged, faked right, threw him off, and then turned and threw the ball from the three-point line, earning her double the points.

  “Three, one.” Time for a little smack talk. “Are you sure you don’t want to save up all this energy for your date tonight? Wouldn’t want to poop out early and leave her unsatisfied.” She passed him the ball.

  He dribbled toward the basket. “Satisfaction in the sack is my trademark. Anytime you’d like a reminder of that, just let me know.” He jumped up to throw, but Kline anticipated him and blocked the ball. She grabbed it and ran back to the top of the key.

  “Now who’s being cocky?” She’d planned to throw another three-pointer, but Ben had learned from the last time and got in her face. She made a few moves to test him and then spun around and dribbled toward the basket. Ben’s hands reached in and
wrapped around her breasts to stop her, giving them a good squeeze. “Hey! Foul!”

  He lifted his hands palms up and plastered on an innocent expression. “I thought this was anything goes. Do street rules for women mean no chipping the other’s nail polish?”

  Good for him. He was smack-talking her right back.

  “Not wearing any nail polish.” She jabbed her elbow into his gut so hard he grunted, and then she ran to the basket to score. “Four, one.”

  His cell rang in his pocket so he held up a finger. He studied the screen, glanced up at her, and then back at the screen.

  She said, “Oh, just take it already.”

  “I’ll just be a second. It’s Meg.”

  Kline dribbled the ball to keep warm as Ben talked on the phone. Another call beeped in so he hung up with his sister and spoke to what sounded like a patient. When he was done, he slipped his phone back in his pocket and said, “Sorry. Ready to get your butt kicked now?”

  “I think you meant that the other way around.” She passed to him with all her might.

  After the ball slammed into his chest, he snagged it. “So you want to play hard now, huh?”

  “I always play hard.” She moved in front of him and assumed the position.

  He whispered, “You’re making me hard.”

  The same hunger she’d seen last night gleamed from within his steady gaze as Ben dribbled the ball. He kept his eyes locked on hers as he planned his next move. Like a lion, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Major turn-on.

  But she hated to lose, so she’d just stay focused on the game.

  Ben wiped the sweat from his face with the hem of his shirt. He hadn’t had so much fun since he could remember. He tried to tell himself it’d be okay to lose to a former college basketball player. No, Kline was a national champion former collegiate player who’d been recruited to play in the pros, but a major knee injury at the end of her senior year of college had ruled that out. He was still bigger and faster than she was, though, so it grated on his ego.

  She’d kept pulling out damn perfect three-pointers, so he was behind, eighteen to twenty. She only needed one more point to win. But she had to win by two, so if he could just make a long shot and earn two points he’d still be in the running.

  She passed him the ball. “Getting scared?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, I want to up the stakes.” He moved toward her, stopping just before their chests touched. He loved how Kline stood her ground.

  She raised an arrogant brow. “What did you have in mind?”

  “If I win, I want a five-minute reprieve from restraining my ‘baser desires’ with you. Then we’ll go back to being friends.” He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  She swallowed. Hard. “And if I win?”

  “Whatever you’d like from me.”

  She chewed her bottom lip as she considered, making him wish he could nibble that full lip for her.

  Finally she said, “If I win, you have to loan me the keys to your office tomorrow. Just for a few minutes. You’re closed, right?”

  It took him a second, but then he realized what she wanted. To get a look at her mother’s file. “I’d have to have a legitimate reason for loaning you my keys. So think of something else.”

  She moved closer and pressed her soft chest against his, the cheater. “You’ll loan them to me because I’m going to forget my purse in your office this afternoon, and I’ll need my EpiPen from it. You’ll be busy hiking tomorrow, so you can text me and allow me to get the keys from your unlocked house.” She stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “My life could depend on it.”

  Her warm breath caressing his ear made it hard to think. “Why do you carry an EpiPen? What are you allergic to?”

  “Bee stings. I found out the hard way in Africa.” She gave his earlobe a little bite that shot straight to his groin.

  Her idea could plausibly work, but he couldn’t do it. “Can’t mess with HIPAA, Kline.”

  She sighed. “Had to try. Then how about the name of a doc in Denver who would know how to deal with my mom’s ‘particular’ problem. You could give me that without telling me specifically what’s wrong with her, right?”

  Betty’s problem was matchmaking, not medical. He should give Kline the name of a good shrink. “How about I make a nice dinner for you instead?”

  Kline whispered in his ear, “Nope. But I’d gladly kick your ass for some of your world-famous chocolate-filled cannoli.”

  She was trying to distract him. And doing an excellent job, because a vision popped into his head of her, with just a thin sheet draped over her naked body, from when he used to serve those to her in bed. Then she’d thank him by making sweet love to him.

  He slipped a hand down to her nice ass and gave it a hard pat. “You’re on.”

  Her slowly growing grin as she pulled away made him hope she hadn’t been holding back so far, or he might be in trouble.

  Ben passed the ball for her to check it. Kline passed it back and then he made for the three-point line. Kline caught up and moved between him and the basket, then got a hand on the ball. It slipped from his grip so they both dove for it. Their feet tangled and she stepped on his shoelace, tripping him. He stuck out a hand to stop himself before he hit the pavement, then realized Kline was falling backward right beside him. He moved his hand behind her head to protect it as they both hit the concrete with a jarring thump that shot searing pain to his shoulder. His bottom lip was on fire, but that didn’t hurt quite as badly as his knuckles under her head.

  Kline winced. “You’re on my hand.”

  He quickly rolled back so she could slip it free, hating that he’d hurt her. “Are you okay, babe?”

  She squeezed her eyes closed and nodded, but the tears leaking out the edges sent a shot of guilt straight through his heart. She rolled on her side and held her wrist. “Dammit! And I was ahead.”

  Of course, Kline would think of that before the pain in her hand. She was the most competitive person he’d ever met. He liked that about her. “Let me see.”

  She slowly sat up and held out her palm. Her wrist had already started to swell. “Can you wiggle your fingers?”

  “Yeah.” She slowly moved them, wincing again from the pain. “Your bottom lip is bleeding. Did you bite it?”

  “Yep.” He prodded her hand and tried not to grimace as the movement caused pain in his own hand and shoulder. “I think it’s just a sprain. You need to get this iced down right away. Then wrap it up snug.”

  “’Kay.” She slowly stood and then held out her good hand to help him. “You sure know how to kill a mood, buddy. I guess we’ll have to call that a draw. We’re both down for the count.”

  He grabbed her hand, just to hold it, and got up on his own. “I bet I could get the mood back if you gave me my five minutes.”

  She slipped her hand from his and walked to the bench to grab the broom and the ball. “Kissing would be pretty painful for you at the moment. Hope it doesn’t put a damper on your date tonight.” She smirked, the brat.

  He’d awoken to a text from his date that said she’d rather not come to Anderson Butte because she had plans on Friday evening, so he wasn’t going to do any kissing anyway.

  He wouldn’t tell Kline that, though.

  As they walked to the gate he asked, “Have you given any more thought to what we talked about last night? If you win the election and stay?”

  “I’m still thinking about it.” She closed the gate behind them. “But I can’t win with just the Grants’ votes. Can I count on yours?”

  An Anderson had always run the town his relatives had founded. The tradition ran deep in his blood. And he needed his father’s support to get his new clinic built.

  Before he could speak, she said, “Seriously, Ben? That answer should’ve just popped right out. I can’t believe you’d vote for your dad over me.”

  She turned and walked up her drive.

  “Kline, wait
. I just—”

  “Don’t bother.” She let out a long sigh and then turned to face him. “Why would I ever expect you to take my side over your family’s? It’s never happened yet. See you.”

  Dammit!

  He could go after her, tell her he wanted to vote for her. He just hadn’t found a way to do that and have his clinic too. But he was still working on it.

  He spit out the blood pooling in his mouth and headed back to his house. Why, when every time he thought he’d made a little progress with her, did something like that have to happen?

  Ben walked up the steps to his front porch and found his dad sitting in a chair waiting for him. “Morning.” It couldn’t be good news. His father never just showed up on his porch.

  Dad frowned. “What the hell happened to your mouth?”

  “Fell. What’s up?”

  His father rose out of the chair and poked a beefy finger into Ben’s wounded shoulder, sending searing-hot pain down his spine.

  “You need to talk some sense into your damned girlfriend. She blows into town after God knows how long and starts screwing with our new distillery, one that this town desperately needs, and now she’s running against me? I was going to work with you on your clinic, but I won’t be able to without the sale of that land for the distillery.”

  Could the day get any worse? “What are you afraid of? That she might actually win?”

  His father’s jaw clenched. “You saw how many people jumped on her bandwagon last night. She’s something shiny and new, a novelty. Just pretty fluff who spouts liberal, happy cotton candy out of her mouth. That’s not what it takes to run this town. You need to remember your loyalties as an Anderson, Ben. That girl has always been a major pain in my ass!”

  “Kline’s a woman, not a girl, and whip smart, Dad. You know she’s always cared deeply about the welfare of others. Whether it be animals or people. Don’t disrespect her like that.”

  “She’s never earned my respect and never will. She’s always been a bad choice for you, Ben. Why you don’t see that is beyond me.” Dad stomped off the porch and called out, “I expect her to withdraw from the race before the election, or I’ll see to it that you never get the new clinic you so badly want. Fix this, dammit!”