by Nora Roberts
Jack’s grin spread when Emma shoulder tackled an opponent. And looked gorgeous doing it, he realized—and just a little fierce. A fresh wave of lust curled in his belly as she charged the player in possession. Her slide tackle—Jesus, just look at her!—had the teenager off balance with his instep pass.
On alert, Parker leaped at the next hard, high kick, skirts flying as she sprang and executed a dead-on header.
“Well, well,” Mal murmured.
“Interception!” Laurel cried out when Emma trapped the ball. “Woo!”
Emma avoided her opponents’ attempts to regain the ball with a quick cut back. She bicycle kicked the ball back to Parker, who shot it between the goalie’s legs.
Hands up, a scream, and Parker slung an arm around Emma’s shoulders.
“Done?”
“Oh, so very done.” Emma sucked in a breath. “No longer seventeen, but still. Felt righteous.”
“Let’s leave winners.” They held up joined hands, bowed to applause, then deserted the field.
“Baby,” Jack said as he grabbed Emma’s hand to pull her back down to the grass, “you’re a killer.”
“Oh yeah.” And she reached out for the bottle of water Mac offered. Before she could drink, her mouth was busy with Jack’s.
The kiss earned more applause.
“I’m a slave,” he murmured against her lips, “to a woman who can pull off an accurate bicycle kick.”
“Really?” She scraped her teeth lightly over his bottom lip. “You ought to see my instep drive.”
“Anytime. Anywhere.”
At the edge of the field, Mal cut across Parker’s path, offered one of the two beers he held. “Want?”
“No. Thanks.”
Moving around him, she pulled a bottle of water out of one of the ice tubs.
“What gym do you use, Legs?”
She opened the bottle. “My own.”
“Figures. You’ve got some moves. Play anything else?”
She took a slow sip of water. “Piano.”
As she strolled away, he watched her over a lazy pull of his beer.
LATER, LAUREL SAT ON THE GRANTS’ FRONT PORCH STEPS, elbows braced behind her, eyes half closed. The quiet rolled over her, as did the smell of the grass, the front garden. The spring stars showered down.
She heard the footsteps, kept her eyes closed. And hoped whatever guest was leaving would keep moving, and let her keep her solitude.
“Are you all right?”
No such luck, she thought, and opened her eyes to look at Del. “Yeah. I’m just sitting here.”
“So I see.”
He sat beside her.
“I said my bye-byes. Parker’s still inside—or outside—doing the Parker check to make sure nothing else has to be done. I had too much tequila to care if something else has to be done.”
He gave her a closer study. “I’ll drive you home.”
“I gave my keys to Parker. She’s driving both of us home. No rescue required, sir.”
“Okay. So I heard the Robins made a comeback earlier. Sorry I missed it.”
“They ruled, as ever. I guess you were otherwise occupied.” She looked behind her, side to side, movements exaggerated. “Alone, Delaney? With all these pickings today? Can’t believe the Robins scored and you’re not gonna.”
“I didn’t come to score.”
She made a pffft sound and gave him a shove.
His lips quirked into a reluctant smile. “Honey, you’re toasted.”
“Yes, I am. I’m gonna be so pissed off at me tomorrow, but right now? Feels good. Can’t remember the last time I had too much tequila, or too much anything. Coulda scored.”
“Sorry?”
“And I don’t mean soccer.” Cracking herself up, she shoved him again. “Very cute guy named . . . something made the play. But I’m in a sexual morit . . . morat . . . Wait. Sexual mor-a-tori-um,” she said, enunciating each syllable.
Still smiling, he tucked her sunny swing of hair behind her ear. “Are you?”
“Yes, I am. I am toasted and I am in the thing I just said and don’t want to have to say again.” She shook back the hair he’d just smoothed, gave him a tipsy smile. “Not planning on making a play, are you?”
His smile dropped away. “No.”
She pffft’d again, leaned back, then flicked her hand several times in dismissal. “Move along.”
“I’ll just sit here until Parker comes out.”
“Mr. Brown, Delaney Brown, do you ever get tired of saving people?”
“I’m not saving you. I’m just sitting here.”
Yeah, she thought, just sitting. On a beautiful spring night, under a shower of stars, with the scent of the first roses sweetening the air.
EMMA PARKED HER CAR BEHIND JACK’S, RETRIEVED HER OVERSIZED purse. She got out, popped the trunk, then smiled as he reached in to retrieve her overnight case.
“No comments about what the hell’s in this thing?”
“Actually, I thought it would be a lot heavier.”
“I restrained myself. I never asked what time you have to get started tomorrow.”
“About eight. Not too early.”
She linked her hand with his, added a playful swing of arms. “I’ll repay your hospitality and fix breakfast. If you have anything to fix.”
“I probably do.” They walked up the steps to the back door of the apartment above his office.
“It makes it easy, doesn’t it, to live where you work? Though I sometimes think we end up working more than we would if we had more defined lines. I love this building. It’s got character.”
“I fell for it,” he told her as he unlocked the door.
“It suits you. The character and tradition on the outside, the clean lines and balanced flow of space inside,” she added as she stepped into his kitchen.
“Speaking of clean lines and flow, I’m still trying to find words over the soccer exhibition.”
“That impulse is probably going to have my quads crying tomorrow.”
“I think your quads can take it. Have I told you I have a weakness for women in sports?”
She walked with him through the apartment to the bedroom. “You didn’t have to. I know you have a weakness for women and a weakness for sports.”
“Put them together, and I’m gone.”
“And a slave to the female bicycle kick.” She lifted to her toes, pecked his lips with hers. “You should’ve seen me in my soccer uniform.”
“Do you still have it?”
She laughed, and setting her overnight on the bed, unzipped it. “As a matter of fact.”
“In there?”
“Afraid not. But I do have this . . .” She pulled out something very sheer, very short, very black. “If you’re interested.”
“I think this is going down as a perfect day.”
IN THE MORNING, SHE FIXED FRENCH TOAST, AND DID SOMETHING crispy and mildly sweet to an apple she’d cut into slices.
“This is great. Flower artist, soccer champ, kitchen wizard.”
“I am many things.” She sat across from him in the alcove he used for dining. She thought the space needed flowers, something bold and bright in a copper vase. “And you’re now out of eggs, and very low on milk. I’m actually doing some marketing today if you want me to pick some up, or anything else.”
She saw the hitch, the hesitation before he spoke.
“No, that’s okay. I need to make a run later in the week. How’re the quads?”
“Fine.” She ordered herself not to make an issue out of his reluctance to have her pick up a damn carton of eggs for him. “I guess the bastard elliptical is doing its job. How do you keep in shape?”
“I use the gym three or four times a week, play basketball, that sort of thing.”
She sent him a slitted-eye, accusatory stare. “I bet you like it. The gym.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“So does Parker. I think you’re both sick.”
�
�Keeping in shape is sick?”
“No, liking what goes into keeping in shape is sick. I get doing it, but it should be considered a chore, a duty, a necessary evil. Like brussels sprouts.”
Amusement warmed his eyes. “Brussels sprouts are evil?”
“Of course they are. Everyone knows this, even if they won’t admit it. They’re little green balls of evil. Just like squats are a form of torture designed by people who don’t need to do squats in the first place. Bastards.”
“I find your philosophy on fitness and nutrition fascinating.”
“Honesty can be fascinating.” She savored the last sip of her coffee. “At least when summer hits I can use the pool. That’s sensible, and it’s fun. Well, I should go up and shower since I slaved away over a hot stove while you had yours. I’ll make it quick so I don’t hold you up.” She glanced back at the clock on that hot stove. “Really quick.”
“Ah . . . listen, you don’t have to rush. You can just lock up the back when you leave.”
Pleased, she smiled. “Then I’ll have another cup of coffee first.”
It allowed her to linger a little, over the coffee, then over the shower. Wrapped in a towel, she slicked cream over her skin, then opened the moisturizer for her face.
As she started on her makeup, she saw Jack step in, saw in the mirror the way his gaze skimmed over the scatter of her tubes and pots on the bathroom counter. He barely missed a beat, but there was no mistaking the unease in his eyes—and no denying the hurt in her heart.
“I gotta go.” The brush of his hand down her damp hair was sweet, as was the kiss. “See you later?”
“Sure.”
Alone, she finished her makeup, her hair. She dressed, and she packed.
When she was done she went back into the bathroom, viciously scrubbed the sink, the counter until she was sure she’d left no trace of her or her things in his space.
“No need to panic, Jack,” she mumbled. “All clear. All yours.”
On the way out, she stopped and left a note on his kitchen board.
Jack—forgot I’m booked tonight. We’ll catch up later. Emma
She needed a break.
She tested the back door to make sure it locked behind her, carried her case down to her car. Once she got behind the wheel, she flipped open her phone and called Parker.
“Hey, Emma, I’m on the other line with—”
“I’ll be quick. Can we have a girl night tonight?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Really. I just need girl night.”
“In or out?”
“In. I don’t want to go out.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”
Emma closed the phone.
Friends, she thought. Girlfriends. They never let you down.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I OVERREACTED.”
After a full day of work, during which she’d replayed dozens of Jack details, Emma settled down.
“We’ll be the judge of that.” Laurel took her place in the third-floor parlor, then bit into a slice of Mrs. Grady’s exceptional homemade pizza.
“He didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t even say anything wrong. I’m annoyed with myself.”
“Okay, but you tend to be annoyed with yourself instead of anybody else. Even when the anybody else deserves it.” Mac poured a glass of wine, offered the bottle to Laurel.
“Nope. Detoxifying massive quantities of tequila. It could take days.”
“I don’t do that.” Emma scowled over her pizza. “That makes me sound like a weenie.”
“You’re not a weenie. You’re just tolerant, and you have a sympathetic nature.” Since Emma held up her glass, Mac filled it. “So when you get annoyed with somebody, you mean it.”
“I’m not a pushover,” Emma replied.
“Just because you’re not as mean as we are, doesn’t mean you’re a pushover,” Laurel pointed out.
“I can be mean.”
“You can,” Mac agreed and gave Emma a bolstering pat on the shoulder. “You have the tools, you have the skills. Mostly you don’t have the heart for it.”
“I—”
“Being innately nice isn’t a character flaw,” Parker interrupted. “I like to think we’re all innately nice.”
“Except for me.” Laurel held up her Diet Coke.
“Yes, except for you. Why don’t you just tell us what upset you, Emma?”
“It’s going to sound stupid, even petty.” She brooded into her wine, then down at the candy pink polish on her toes while her friends waited. “It’s just that he’s so protective of his space, his place. He doesn’t actually say anything, but there’s this invisible boundary around his area. Except he did say it before. You remember, Mac.”
“Give me a hint.”
“When you decided to reorganize your bedroom last winter. The closet thing. You got crazed because Carter left some of his things at your place. And Jack came over, and he agreed with you. He said all those things about what happens when you let somebody you’re involved with stake territory.”
“He was joking, mostly. You got mad,” Mac remembered. “Walked out.”
“He said that women start leaving their things all over the bathroom counter, and then they want a drawer. And before you know it, they take over. As if wanting to leave a toothbrush means you’re ready to register at Tiffany.”
“He freaked because you wanted to leave a toothbrush at his place?” Laurel demanded.
“No. Yes. Not exactly, because I never said anything about a damn toothbrush. Look, it’s like this. Even if we’re out somewhere and his place is closer, we come back here. Last night, I asked if I could stay at his place because I needed to be in town in the morning anyway, and he . . . he hesitated.”
“Maybe his place wasn’t in girl-friendly condition,” Mac suggested. “He had to think if he’d left any dirty socks or Big Jugs magazines lying around, or if he’d changed the sheets in the last decade.”
“It wasn’t that. His place is always neat, which may be part of the thing. He likes everything where it is. Like Parker.”
“Hey.”
“Well, you do,” Emma said, but with a smile that held both love and apology. “It’s just the nature. The thing is, you’d be okay if a guy slept over, maybe left a toothbrush. You’d just put the toothbrush in some proper space.”
“Which guy? Can I have a name, an address, a photograph?”
Emma relaxed enough to laugh. “In theory. Anyway, over breakfast I mentioned I was hitting the market, and since he was out of eggs and milk, I could pick some up for him. And there it was again. That same sort of uh-oh before the no, thanks. But the killer was when he came upstairs. I was putting on my makeup and, beat me with a stick, had my stuff out on the counter. And he got this look. Annoyed and . . . wary. I told you it was going to sound stupid.”
“It doesn’t,” Parker corrected. “It made you feel unwelcome and intrusive.”
“Yes.” Emma shut her eyes. “Exactly. I don’t think he meant to, or that he’s even fully aware, but—”
“It doesn’t matter. In fact, the unconscious slight’s worse.”
“Yes!” Emma repeated, and shot Parker a grateful look. “Thank you.”
“What did you do about it?” Laurel demanded.
“Do?”
“Yes, do, Em. Such as tell him to get over himself, it’s a toothbrush or a tube of mascara.”
“He went to work and I spent a half hour making sure I hadn’t left so much as a flake of that mascara in his precious space.”
“Oh yeah, that’ll teach him,” Laurel added. “I’d’ve stripped off my bra, left it hanging over his shower, left him a sarcastic love note in lipstick on the mirror. Oh, oh, and I’d have gone out and bought the economy-sized box of tampons and left them on the counter. That would get the point across.”
“Wouldn’t that be making his point?”
“He doesn’t. Ever.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me he never forgets to—”
“Never.”
“Well, Jesus.” Laurel slumped back. “Obsessive much?”
Mac raised her hand, offered a sheepish smile. “I’m just going to say I was kind of that way. Not as—okay, obsessive. I would forget things or leave things at Carter’s, and he’d do the same. But that’s what started me off that day you’re talking about, Em. His jacket, his shaving kit, his whatever, mixed up with my stuff. It wasn’t the stuff, it was what it meant. He’s here. He’s really here, and it’s not just sex. It’s not just casual. It’s real.” Mac shrugged, spread her hands. “I panicked. I had this amazing man in love with me, and I was scared. Jack’s probably feeling some of that.”
“I haven’t said anything about love.”
“Maybe you should.” Parker shifted to tuck up her feet. “It’s easier to know how the cards should be played when they’re on the table. If he doesn’t know what you’re feeling, Emma, how can he take those feelings into consideration?”
“I don’t want him to take my feelings into consideration. I want him to feel what he feels, be what he is. If he didn’t and wasn’t, I wouldn’t be in love with him in the first place.” She sighed and took a sip of wine. “Why did I ever think being in love would be wonderful?”
“It is once you work out the kinks,” Mac told her.
“Part of the problem is I already know him so well I pick up on all the little . . .” She huffed out a breath, sipped more wine. “I think I have to stop being so sensitive, and stop romanticizing everything.”
“You have to feel what you feel, be what you are.”
When Parker tossed her words back at her, Emma blinked. “I guess I do, don’t I? And I guess I should probably have an actual conversation with Jack about this.”
“I like my economy-sized box of tampons better. It requires no words.” Laurel shrugged. “But if you’ve got to be all mature about it.”