To Win Her Trust

by Mackenzie Crowne

  When he had a point, he had a point. She smiled and nodded.

  His chest jumped on a pained chuckle. “I love that about you. You ready for more?”

  Her chin bobbed in anticipation.

  “Then hold on, baby, because we’re about to fly.”

  He began to move, slowly at first. A sweet pump of his hips. An answering pull inside. His lips met hers and his tongue joined the dance, in, out, stab, retreat. Every fantasy she’d ever had of what it was like to be with a man was eclipsed by the reality of coming together with him. Gentle, yet strong. Giving, yet greedy, he moved over her, in her, with her. Together, they left the world behind for a magical place one soul could never reach on their own, and when ecstasy found her again, she wasn’t alone.

  Chapter 19

  Feet propped on the coffee table, her legs bare beneath the T-shirt she’d pilfered from Tuck’s closet, CC dipped her spoon into her bowl.

  “What’s your stance on baseball?”

  She turned her head. “Other than kicking your butt in the batting cage the other day, I don’t have one.” She bared her teeth in a cheeky grin.

  Tuck’s eyes gleamed with silent laughter. “I cleaned your clock, little girl.” Bowl balanced in his palm, he scooped up a heaping spoonful of sugary sweet cereal and popped it into his mouth.

  “Ha! Your word against mine.”

  “Care for a rematch?” His mouth worked the oversized bite, crunching audibly before he swallowed. “I’ll make sure there are witnesses this time.”

  She snickered. “Anytime, big guy.”

  He grunted and dove in for another bite. Two hours in his bed had left them both ravenous. He’d offered to call for takeout, but she’d dismissed the offer. Tonight was theirs. She didn’t want anyone else to intrude, including the delivery boy from the Chinese restaurant around the corner. She’d almost changed her mind, however, when inspecting his cabinets proved his taste in food ran toward that of a twelve-year-old boy.

  After licking the spoon clean, he tipped the bowl to his lips and drained the remaining chocolate flavored milk. He sat up to set them on the coffee table, then flopped back with a satisfied sigh. “Some friends of mine are playing tomorrow. I thought you might enjoy a game.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “Will there be people there?”

  He flashed a grin. “A few.”

  “I’m serious about taking the challenge to the next level. How can I judge my progress if I never put myself out there? How few?”

  “Enough, and I promise they’ll be within arm’s reach.”

  The reminder of their agreement, and of the clock ticking down to its conclusion, dimmed her pleasure in the moment and she looked away. Regrets were for another day. Her gaze fell on the double doors at the far end of the living room. She pointed her spoon. “Where does that go?”

  He bumped up his chin. “If you’re done with that, I’ll show you.”

  She slipped one last spoonful of the sugar coated Os into her mouth and set aside the bowl.

  He stood and held out his hand. She put her palm in his, and he pulled her to her feet. Light flooded the large studio when he flipped a switch. She’d expected a gym. Maybe some free weights and a treadmill. The woodworking shop was a complete surprise.

  He wandered over to a high table and ran a hand over a partially built box of some sort.

  “You build furniture? Here?”

  He shrugged and dusted his hand on the drawstring pajama pants riding low on his hips. “The shop is soundproofed, and it has its own ventilation system, but it’s not technically necessary. I do everything by hand. No power tools. Working with my hands relaxes me, and it’s a good workout. You’d be surprised at the muscles used by swinging a hammer or sliding a plane.”

  She stepped to the far end of the table and swept a fingertip over the surface, leaving behind a squiggly line in the film of fine dust. “That explains the sawdust.”

  He leaned a hip against the table and crossed his arms.

  She curved her lips in a smile. “The day I met you. You smelled like cinnamon and sawdust. I thought you were a carpenter.”

  Straightening away from the table, he dropped his arms and stalked toward her. A familiar twinkle lit his eyes. “You smelled me?”

  He kept coming forward, but she held her ground. The bare expanse of his chest fanned the simmering coals of desire, and she lifted her chin. What the hell. It was only one AM. By Manhattan standards, the evening had just gotten started, and she could think of several delicious ways to spend the next few hours.

  She tugged the tiger’s tail. “And tasted you. It would have been difficult not to, what with your tongue in my mouth.”

  He stalked closer, wicked promises glittering in his eyes. “The tongue has a lot of interesting uses.”

  She gulped. Oh, hell yeah, it did. She melted into his arms as they wrapped around her, and she spoke against the lips that brushed hers. “Oh, yeah. Like what?”

  His dark smile said he meant to show her, and over the remainder of the night, he did.

  * * * *

  “You seem a little tense. What’s wrong?”

  CC shot Tuck a glance where he sat on the other side of the limo’s backseat. Dropping her at her condo this morning, he’d warned her to be ready by three. The car service limo pulled up to her curb two minutes early, and when she asked why he wasn’t driving, he’d introduced her to Edward, who apparently drove him occasionally, then made an offhand comment about afternoon traffic.

  “You mean, other than my mother coming to town to pester me into seeing my father and Ronald insisting I enter a piece into a show the Art Council is running? Not a thing.”

  “You forgot to add being exhausted after a horny wide receiver kept you awake most of the night.”

  There was that but, surprisingly, she didn’t feel tired in the least. Sated, energized, and greedy for more, but not tired. And if he thought she was going to stroke his ego by telling him so, he’d have to be disappointed.

  He chuckled when she turned away.

  “Why would an art show be a problem? Isn’t that how you artists make a living? By selling it?”

  She pursed her lips and turned her head slowly, but before she could comment on how art shows usually meant meeting a bunch of strangers, she blinked at the familiar spirals of the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge flashing by the window beyond his shoulders. “Where are we going?”

  “The Stadium.”

  She gaped at him. “Yankee Stadium?”

  “You agreed we’d go to a game.”

  “Well, yeah, but I thought you meant a little league or sandlot game. I pictured a smattering of locals on metal bleachers, not a stadium full of Yankee fans.”

  “What do you have against Yankee fans?”

  “What do I have…?” She squinted at his innocent smile. “Don’t be obtuse. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Yeah, I do, but you’re the one who said it’s time to ramp up your test, and you won’t get over your fear of crowds without facing them. The way to best a beast is head on.”

  “Thanks for the psychological pep talk, Dr. Freud.”

  He laughed and she groaned, doing her best to ignore her racing heart.

  “Relax. Like at the concert, the crowd will be watching the field, not you.” Mischief sparkled in his eyes. “Unless we end up on the Jumbotron somehow. But don’t worry. If that happens, I promise to give you mouth to mouth.”

  Instant panic tripled her racing heartbeat.

  “That’s not funny,” she grumbled.

  His secret weapon dimples made an appearance. Okay, maybe it was a little funny, and she appreciated his attempt to make her laugh, but his humor didn’t lessen the familiar contracting of her trachea.

  Her gaze snagged on the hulking form of the stadium in the distance. “I’d prefer testing it somewhere less crowded, if you don’t mind.” She swallowed a whimper. “Like Times Square.”

  Without warning, he slid across the car�
��s bench seat. His mouth was on hers before she could object. Instantly, his cinnamon and sawdust scent assaulted her, filling her nostrils and expanding her lungs. A low hum of pleasure sounded in his throat just before he lifted his head.

  He smiled at her. “Better?”

  She nodded silently.

  “Breathe, CC.”

  She sucked in air tasting of him, sniffing strongly to prove the point. “I am breathing. How else would I know you’ve been working in your woodshop?” He dipped in for another kiss and she stiff-armed him. “But I’ll be able to do a better job of it if you back off a little.”

  He chuckled and complied. She scooted closer to the car door and clamped her fingers around the armrest. God, she’d be naked and on her back in no time if he kept up those magical kisses. After last night’s marathon of indulgence, one would think she’d be too sated to get worked up. He was right. She was greedy.

  The car exited the highway toward the stadium, and her fingernails made indentations in the sleek leather armrest. He turned to look at her, and she knew she was pale. Couldn’t be helped, not with the looming prospect of facing down fifty thousand people front and center in her mind. “This is a bad idea.”

  “You said you were ready.”

  She met his steady gaze. “I know, but—”

  “Relax, sunshine. I’ve got your back.” His gaze slid over her chest before popping up to twinkle at her. “And your front.”

  She scowled as the demon drug heated her insides. “I haven’t jumped out of the car to escape, have I?”

  He eyed her hand on the door. “You look like you might be considering it.”

  She yanked her hand back, tucking it into her lap. The fact that she hadn’t jumped from the car was evidence of the incredible progress she’d made in facing her fears, and the knowledge lit a fire of excitement in her belly. While her heart thundered in her chest, she was still here, and not because of an abstract promise she’d made on her last birthday. She was here because she’d somehow begun to believe in herself. She had Tuck to thank for the transition, at least partially, but after her complete caving to his agenda last night, she wasn’t about to hand him another victory by admitting it.

  “Fine. Have it your way. But if you end up having to schlep me out of the stadium over your shoulder after I’ve fainted, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

  Blue heat sprang to life in his eyes. “I think I can handle you, and since I can’t imagine anything sweeter than getting my hands on your hot little body again, I can’t say I’d mind doing a little schlepping.” He winked and tugged on his ball cap disguise.

  When she bit her lip, he sighed.

  “I’ll take it off later, if you want, once you’ve settled down a little, but first we have to run the gauntlet to our seats.”

  Edward pulled the car to the curb, and Tuck turned away. She craned her neck to peer out the window and nearly chickened out at the mass of bodies streaming toward the entrance. The gauntlet? God help her.

  Thanking Edward, Tuck accepted his card for the return trip, then held out his hand. The palm she placed in his was clammy. He lifted a brow, assisting her from the car, then tucked her fingers in the crook of his arm. She slipped on her sunglasses, and almost immediately they were swallowed up by the teaming rush of fans entering the stadium.

  She made use of her breathing technique. In and out, slow and easy, but no one gawked. No one stopped short, then rushed forward to ask for Tuck’s autograph, or even seemed to note his presence. The tight band of anxiety loosened around her chest, and she began to think she might just survive the afternoon.

  At the gate, he presented their tickets and led her through the swarming halls to their seating section. Bright sunlight hit her face as they exited the tunnel. She blinked behind her sunglasses. The salty scent of popcorn mixed with the tang of hot dogs and made her nostrils flare. At the bottom of the steep flight of stairs, the cardboard brown of the pitcher’s mound and baselines was stark against the verdant green carpet of grass. She descended the steps beside him until he stopped at the second row from the bottom, twenty feet from first base. She slid past him, stepping by the row of strangers to the seat he indicated.

  “Wow,” she said as he slid into his seat beside her. “We’re practically on the field.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, great seats, aren’t they? The guy who owned them ran into some financial difficulties or he never would have parted with them.”

  “People are allowed to own seats?”

  To her left, a bald, beefy stranger with an impressive beer belly snickered. She stiffened, pressing her back into the chair as he leaned around her to grin at Tuck. “She’s cute, but she doesn’t know shit about baseball.”

  Tuck grinned, and she shot him a raised brow. “Fuck you, Mike. Season ticket holders, sunshine. With the Yankees, available seats are pretty much impossible to come by unless you strike a deal with a current holder.”

  “And second row, first base line is the golden ticket of season tickets.” Mike belched.

  She grimaced and he blushed.

  “Sorry. There was a mob ten thick rushing Parker for those seats. I’m not sure how he did it, but your boy here beat them all out for the prize.”

  “I have superior negotiation skills,” Tuck said lazily. He winked at her, his smile full of sultry suggestion. The memory of how his negotiating skills had paid off just a handful of hours ago heated her cheeks in a blush.

  “More like a superior bank account.” Mike shoved half a hot dog in his mouth and chewed.

  Tuck chuckled. “CC, this loudmouth is Mike O’Toole.”

  Mike shifted in his seat, his wide shoulder brushing hers, to hold out a hand.

  She tried not to stare at the glob of mustard clogging the corner of his mouth. “Uh, hi, Mike.” She placed her hand in his large paw, happy to find it uncrushed when he released it after a hardy pump.

  “Pleased to meet you, CC.”

  “Mike considers himself the resident expert on all things baseball,” Tuck explained.

  “I am the resident expert, around here anyway.” The big man winked. “Anything you want to know about the game, honey, you just ask.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Tuck signaled a passing vendor, procuring two plastic cups of cold beer and held up two fingers to another vendor hawking hot dogs. She flinched when the man tossed two foil wrapped missiles from the aisle. Tuck caught them with practiced ease, and she watched his twenty dollar bill make its way down the row of fans to the waiting man.

  Like a palpable force, excitement for the coming competition vibrated through the stadium. The rumble of shifting bodies was surprisingly loud as she, along with the crowd, rose to her feet for the national anthem. Disconcerted, she examined the odd sense of camaraderie that came from singing along with fifty thousand strangers. She snuck a peek at Tuck. He sang unapologetically, his deep voice added to the thousands of others. Contentment softened his tough-guy features.

  An answering softness turned her insides to mush, and she looked away. Last night, as he’d been about to change her body irreversibly, if not her life, he’d made a comment that had kept her awake long after he’d drifted off beside her. Sure, “I love that about you” wasn’t the same as I love you, but the word, coming from his lips and directed at her, made her heart skitter with a hope she had no business feeling.

  She blinked as the anthem came to an end. There was nothing she could do about her foolish heart at the moment and, in the end, she didn’t regret her decision to spend the night with him, or the three weeks of their agreement. She might be playing with fire, but oh, what a lovely way to burn. He was right. She’d allowed her dysfunctional past to cheat her of a normal future. Well, that was done. Today she’d taken a wide step toward emotional freedom, and so far, at least, the results were promising.

  The next few hours passed in a flurry of wild euphoria and nail-biting anxiety. The lead changed hands six times in the first eight
innings, much to the home fans’ dismay. Finally, with one inning to go, the Bronx Bombers were out front, but just barely. Despite Mike’s announced prowess of baseball facts, Tuck made a point of explaining the game in process.

  The courtesy was unnecessary. Thanks to Kris, CC knew more about most of the major sports, including baseball, than she cared to. Though her cousin lived for football, the large screen TV upstairs in their living room was forever tuned to whatever sport the season offered, once the gridiron boys hit the golf courses, of course.

  She didn’t bother correcting Tuck’s misconception of her knowledge. In fact, she was as charmed by his gentle tutoring as she was his obvious enjoyment of the game. With boyish enthusiasm, he celebrated each success along with the fans and players, and added his voice of displeasure to the crowd’s when things didn’t go the Yankees’ way.

  In the bottom of the ninth, she groaned along with everyone else when the tying run advanced to third. Thanks to the left fielder’s bobbled catch, the visiting player slid into third with an inch to spare. The stadium erupted in catcalls and boos as the runner was judged safe. Like jack-in-the-box bookends, Tuck and Mike leaped to their feet to join the melee.

  “That’s bullshit.” Mike tossed his third hot dog wrapper to the ground in disgust. “He didn’t tag up. Hey, Ump, are you blind? He didn’t tag up. He was running before the ball was caught!”

  On the field, the third base coach made his argument to the umpire with waving arms and bulging neck veins, to no avail. The on-deck batter moved to the batter’s box.

  Mike dropped back into his seat and turned to Tuck. “Do you believe this shit? He didn’t tag up.”

  “They must be asleep in the dugout.” Tuck sat down with a frown. “Why the hell aren’t they challenging the play?”

  “Maybe because there’s nothing to challenge.” Both men turned to stare at her. Tuck’s lips turned down in a slight frown, but Mike looked as if he’d swallowed a bug.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, CC.” He flung out an arm toward the Jumbotron. The crowd booed as the replay cued up. He turned to her with a smirk. “He left the bag before the ball was caught.”