by Kate Angell
She swallowed hard. Shifted her hips on the grass. The blades tickled her bare thighs. She dug her hands into the ground. Uprooted chunks of grass.
“You’re destroying my office,” Joe mumbled, his mouth full.
Unable to sit still, she collected the empty boxes, stuffed them into one big bag. She pushed to her feet. Stood over him. He looked up her body. Hot, interested. She barely managed, “It’s getting late.”
He glanced at his watch. “Little after ten.”
“I’m tired.” Actually she was wired.
“No rolling around on the grass?”
“Not a chance.” She’d nearly jumped his bones.
“Next time, then.”
There’d be no next time.
Joe got to his feet, took her free hand. Engaged their fingers. Loosely. More friendly than romantic. He drew her beside him as they left the outfield. She dumped the trash in an outside receptacle. A breeze kicked up, carrying the significant pop-pop of a batter hitting baseballs. Along with a series of painful grunts. Agonizing moans. Profanity.
Joe slowed, squinted through the chain-link fence. “Son of a bitch.” He ground out the words. “Jensen’s hitting balls.”
She peered over his shoulder. Dean pounded baseballs in a batting cage. His sunburn was as bright as the overhead lights. His face contorted. Each swing pure torture.
“Determined bastard,” from Joe. His expression was tight.
She had no words. Obviously, the men weren’t friends. She stood in Joe’s shadow, not wanting Dean to see her, should he glance their way. Dean did not. His concentration was on the ball machine, and what appeared to be well-timed pitches. He connected with every other one. Swore when he missed.
Joe’s nostrils flared. “I hate the guy,” he said flatly.
Joe’s dislike of her cousin hit Stevie low. Her heart hurt. Supper sat heavy on her stomach. Her feet dragged.
Silence walked them to his Jag. His large body towered over her at the passenger door, swallowing her in his heat. “Sorry,” he breathed against her forehead. “I have an aversion to Jensen. He wants what I have.”
She was aware of their competition for left field. She refused to complete the family puzzle. To tell Joe that Dean was her cousin. There was no reason to. Not now, anyway.
He dipped his head, scuffed his boot. “Lori and Dean are hooking up. Can I ask you to stay away from him?”
Her cousin had asked the same of her and Joe. For her to keep her distance from the Rogue. She couldn’t take sides. She lightly goaded, “I like him better than you.”
“No, you don’t.” Cocksure. He didn’t press her further.
They settled into the sports car. He curved her hand over the gearshift, then covered it with his own. Hand over hand, they shifted together. Cohesive. Smooth. Intimate. They soon arrived at the Victorian, and entered through a side door. They cut through the grooming room. The place was spotless. The cleaning team had come and gone. Hallway lights were dim. A brighter light peeked beneath the kitchen door. They checked it out.
Twyla and Lori sat at the small round table. Talking. Stevie noticed that both women had a glow about them. Her aunt’s expression was soft, her eyes sparkling. Her friend was all smiles. Turbo lay in front of the refrigerator. Joe went to him first, gave his head a knuckle scrub. The dog wagged his tail.
Greetings next, all around. Joe eyed Lori’s T-shirt with its washed-out Roanoke Rebels logo. A muscle flexed along his jawline. No comment from the man.
Stevie hugged her aunt around the shoulders. Took a chair beside her. “You look happy,” she noted.
“Relaxed,” the older woman replied. “There’s chamomile tea, if you’d like a cup.”
Stevie raised an eyebrow at Joe, who shook his head. They both passed on the tea. She was still full from supper.
Joe flipped a chair around, its back to the table, straddled it. “How was my boy?” he asked about Turbo.
“He took a liking to George. They bonded,” said Twyla.
“Did you take a liking to George?” Joe teased her.
Twyla blushed as red as Lori’s sunburn. “He’s a nice man with a strong work ethic. He’ll be here tomorrow to work on the rug.”
“Do I need to chaperone?” from Joe.
Her aunt giggled. Stevie had never heard her do that before. Very sweet and unassuming. Almost girlish. She waved Joe off. “He’ll be upstairs, and I’ll be down.”
“There’s always the stairs.”
“He’s here to do a job,” Twyla reminded him.
“And when the job’s done?” asked Joe.
“Maybe Turbo can take another bite of braid,” Twyla joked.
They all laughed.
“How was your evening?” Lori asked Stevie.
Stevie gave her the condensed version. “I drove the dogs home, Otis died, Joe saved the day, and we had supper.”
“Poor Otis.” Lori was sympathetic. “You . . . and Joe.” She raised an eyebrow.
Stevie sent her a look only a close friend could interpret. Not what you’re thinking. Don’t go there. “Your night?” she volleyed back to Lori. She prayed Lori wouldn’t mention Dean. Joe didn’t need the aggravation.
Lori was evasive. Stevie was grateful. “I met up with friends,” she said. “Showtime at the pier. Workers set up a large screen against the bait shop, and moviegoers brought their own beach chairs. Tourist season, and tonight’s Pete’s Dragon drew a big crowd. Families and couples. Kiosks sold sodas and snacks. Magical Disney animation. Good time.”
“Did Dean like the show?” asked Joe. Nonchalant.
His question silenced them momentarily.
Twyla didn’t pick up the undercurrent. She sipped her cooling tea. The girls had purposely kept her in the dark. Her aunt had enough on her mind. The conflict between the two men would worry her.
Turbo took that moment to rise, stretch. He crossed to Twyla, nudged her with his nose. Requiring her attention. “I’ll take Turbo outside.” She hobbled out on her crutches with the dog on her heels.
Lori collected herself. She folded her hands on the table. Faced off with Joe. The inevitable was spoken. “Dean didn’t stay long. He had business to attend to.”
“Batting-cage business,” Joe said dryly.
Lori started. “How’d you know?”
“I’m psychic.”
“No, really.”
Stevie arbitrated. “We saw him at the stadium.”
Lori was puzzled. “You were there because . . . ?”
“Picnic in left field,” Joe said.
Lori skirted their meal, blew out a breath. Sought reassurance. “How was he doing?” she asked.
Stevie was cautious. “Doing his best.”
“Your man looked like shit.”
Heavy sigh. “He’s not my man.”
“He got sunburned for you.” That said it all.
“Stupid on both our parts,” Lori said regretfully. “He’s sore, blistered, and jeopardizing his spring training.”
“Damn straight.” No sympathy from Joe.
“He’ll recover.” Lori was hopeful.
“Time’s ticking,” he pronounced. “Do or die.”
Twyla and Turbo came in through the back door. The dog charged Joe. He braced for the impact. Still, the rottie hit him hard enough that the chair rocked. Joe planted his feet to keep his balance. “Full of yourself, I see.” He scratched his dog’s ears.
“He ran the whole time,” Twyla said. “He wore me out watching him.” She yawned. “I’m turning in.”
Stevie stood and gave her a hug. “Sleep late tomorrow. I’ll catch the early drop-offs.”
“Thank you, dear.” Twyla left them.
Lori followed shortly thereafter. “I’ll be at the door by seven,” she told Stevie. Hugs were exchanged. “I want to see Dean when he drops off Etta, before he heads to the park.”
Etta drew Turbo’s bark. He’d welcome her, too.
Joe’s expression was far less inviting.
“Bedtime. I’m ready to call it a day, too,” said Stevie.
“Alone, or do you want company?”
“Alone . . .” sounded weak. The man was hard to resist. Rough and rugged. Experienced. Desired. She looked down at her grease- and grass-stained clothes. “Give me fifteen minutes in the shower, and it’s yours.”
“We could do thirty minutes together.” He was persistent.
“We’d run out of hot water.”
“Cold water, hot bodies.”
“Give it up for tonight.”
“Tomorrow night, then.”
“Not going to happen, Joe.” Longing would share her bed. Not him.
“Do I get a good-night hug?” he finagled.
He was pushing it. Standing now, arms open. She couldn’t resist. She’d hugged her aunt, Lori, but their embraces couldn’t compare to holding Joe. His bad boy enticed her good girl. Her body took to his, as if they were already lovers. She fit him tight. Perfectly. Secure. Her cheek pressed his chest. The steady beat of his heart lulled her. He massaged her back. Slow kneading. Satisfying. He released her too soon, withdrawing before she was ready to let him go. Her body missed his. She suddenly felt lonesome.
“Night,” she managed.
“Enjoy the shower massage.”
How did he know?
She hurried up the stairs.
Seven
Joe came down the staircase two steps at a time. He’d jogged with Turbo at first light. Two miles, in his ragged gray sweats. He hated throwing out worn workout clothes just when they were the most comfortable. The sky reflected a box of crayons. Long streaks of color. Returning to the dog day care, he stopped by his Jag on his way inside. He grabbed the two gift boxes holding the panties for Stevie, then he hid them in his bedroom closet to be presented when the time was right. Soon. He wanted her to wear the crystal bridal thong for the wedding shoot. Along with their garter.
He met up with her at the door on his way out, after a quick shower, shave, and change of clothes. She eyed his T-shirt, said, “A good way to solve arguments.”
He smiled. A great shirt, navy and printed with the slogan Let’s Settle This Like Adults, with hands shaping rock, paper, scissors. Tucked into frayed and holey jeans. Leather flip-flops.
He reached out, spiked the collar on her yellow polo. “My bite’s almost gone.” Barely a hint. He handed Turbo over to her. Short leash. “Take care of my boy,” he told her.
The Rottweiler bumped her affectionately. “We’ll be fine. Today will be better than yesterday.”
“A good day is no runaway.”
“You don’t need to remind me.”
“I’ll track him on the webcam to be on the safe side.”
“Concentrate on your baseball.”
“Always time to sneak a peek.”
A suited man wearing wingtips arrived with his whippet. She was a shy white female. He had the air of a professional. Joe pegged him as an attorney or a banker. Joe hated ties.
“Ron,” Stevie greeted to the man. “Willow,” to his dog.
Ron unclipped the leash, released his dog. She trotted down the hallway to the open door that led to the backyard. He glared at Turbo. “No knocking Willow off the dirt piles.” His tone was firm. “You are not king of the mountain. Share.” He departed.
Turbo is king, Joe wanted to say. Stevie’s look told him to hold his tongue. All narrowed eyes and flattened lips. Turbo whined, anxiously. His attention was on the door, his head tilted, as he awaited the arrival of additional dogs. Joe hated to think his boy was seeking Etta, Dean Jensen’s bulldog. He hoped he was wrong.
Two teenage girls came next, carrying a wicker basket with four golden retriever puppies between them. Roly-poly, happy puppies, trying to escape the basket. Turbo stretched, poked his nose into the carrier. The smallest blond puppy yelped, ducked down.
The shorter of the two girls spoke directly to Joe. “Your dog tried to pee on Bella yesterday.”
He looked from Stevie to the Puppy Room, asked, “Aren’t they closed off from the bigger dogs?”
“All of the large dogs were inside when the puppies had supervised yard time,” she told him. “No one realized Turbo was hiding in the crawl tunnel, until he jumped out. He”—pause—“lifted his leg on Bella. She’s not a hydrant.”
Crap. “Did he get her?”
“A sprinkle,” said Stevie. “The groomer gave her a bath.”
“Ah, Turbo,” was all Joe had. “Sorry, girls.”
They accepted his apology with stiff nods.
A lady in a flight attendant uniform, along with her Afghan hound, found her way inside. The grayish, long-and silky-coated geriatric female moved slowly. The curl at the end of her tail drooped. Her muzzle was white. The flight attendant handed Stevie a paper sack, said, “Anastasia’s medication for her arthritis. Once a day, with food. I’m scheduled on an international flight, and Stasia will need an overnight, please. I’ll pick her up on Thursday.”
“No problem, Sophia,” Stevie readily agreed. “Anastasia’s always welcome here. A very good girl.”
The woman eyed Turbo. “We know who the bad boy is.”
More criticism? It ticked Joe off. Fly Me was a snob. Apparently Turbo’s true personality didn’t shine on the webcam. It was one-sided. He was really playful, not a bully.
“Yesterday was the Rottweiler’s first day,” Stevie informed Sophia. “Lots of stimulation. He’ll settle in, find his place in the group.”
“Don’t let him take over,” said Sophia. “He’s dominant. Aggressive.”
“Anastasia can have the Quiet Room with the older dogs,” Stevie reassured the woman. “We have four geriatrics today. The Rottweiler won’t corner her to play. Promise.”
Sophia nodded, relieved. “Stasia’s fourteen. She was a show dog for many years. She has enough trophies and ribbons to fill a room. She’s earned her rest. We’ve been with Twyla for ten years now. I’d hate to change her day care.” She gave her dog a hug, then sent Joe a dismissive look. Wishing Turbo gone.
Joe’s nostrils flared. Snotty lady. He and Turbo weren’t going anywhere. He saw Stevie look at his shirt, then to the flight attendant. She formed a fist. He read her mind. She challenged him to be nice. He clenched his own hand, and they discreetly shook out. Rock for her. Scissors for him. Rock crushed scissors—she won. Shit.
Sophia now walked to the door, and Joe beat her to it. “Let me get that for you.” All manners and charm. “Safe travels,” he called to her back. “See you soon.”
Sophia gave him a reluctant smile.
Stevie, a thumbs-up.
Pet owners and their dogs trailed in. The entry hall grew crowded. Turbo did some solid sniffing as the dogs passed by him, but he didn’t tug on his leash to follow. Questions were asked about afternoon delivery, which gave Stevie pause.
Joe angled toward her, whispered near her ear, “You’ll have transportation,” he guaranteed.
Her lips parted. “How?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“You’re not the boss.” Her tone was firm. “Check with my aunt first.”
“I’m capable of making a decision.”
“Not when it comes to Unleashed.”
“Done deal. Too late now.” He left it at that.
Stevie didn’t have time to question him further. Lori made her way downstairs moments later. She was fresh-faced and casually dressed in a flowing white blouse and baggy shorts. Clothes that barely touched her sunburned skin. “Dean? ” she anxiously asked Stevie, afraid she might have missed him.
Stevie shook her head. “Not yet. Any minute, though.”
“He texted, mentioned an ‘initiation’”—she used finger quotes—“and that he’d shaved his head. Bald.”
Joe could barely contain his laughter. “My cue to leave.” He patted Turbo. “Be the best you can be.” His dog’s expression was pure innocence. He touched Stevie’s arm. “Later.”
* * *
Joe arr
ived at the stadium to find a newspaper article taped to the front of his locker. “Zoo, thought you might like a copy,” Rylan Cates called to him. “Good publicity. Jill was pleased. It’s also been posted on the Rogues’ website.”
Jillian Mac-Cates, executive liaison for community affairs, was all about positive promo. She connected with the locals and involved them in Rogue activities. Zoo glanced at the paper, seeing six photographs, followed by two columns dedicated to the superheroes and Kuts for Kids. Excellent coverage. Photographer Eden Cates-Kane had captured the moments. Beautifully.
He scanned the pictures, his gaze returning to the top-center photo. The one in which Super Zooker had kissed Stevie on the forehead, following her haircut. Her expression was soft, his attentive. Their attraction evident to anyone who really looked. He folded the article, placed it on a shelf in his locker.
Pax and Sam sauntered in moments later, their own newspapers in hand. They sat down on the bench. Eyed him speculatively. “Dude, what’s up? You’ve been ditching us.”
“Not purposely,” he returned.
“CliffsNotes.” Pax wanted a short accounting.
Joe wasn’t ready to enlighten them yet about Stevie. “Turbo, Unleashed, complications. Working through them.”
Pax covered his mouth, coughed in his hand. “Working through Stevie, too?” His voice was muffled.
Joe shot him a dark look.
“She gives new meaning to going to the dogs,” from Pax.
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” he denied.
“I think it’s more than we know. Maybe even more than you know,” said Sam. He shook out the paper. Flashed the Features section. Pointed to Stevie and Joe’s photo. “Looking pretty sweet.”
Pax grinned. “Like a couple. She appears vulnerable; you, protective.”
Joe snorted. “You’re seeing more than is there. You saw Eden take the photo. Stevie wasn’t into me.”
“That was then,” said Pax. “How about now?”
“Get real. What do you think?”