by Susan Wiggs
Misgivings sloshed over him like a bucket of ice water. He took a step back, breathing hard. “Aw, jeez, did I hurt you?”
“What?” She regarded him through half-lidded eyes. “No, honey, it’s nothing.”
As gently as he could, he took hold of her hand, angled her arm toward the light slanting in through a gap in the drapes. On the softest part of her upper arm was a stark bruise in the shape of a very large hand.
“Who hurt you?” Bo asked her.
She offered a short, dismissive laugh. “It’s not important. Let’s just get back to what we were doing.”
There was a part of Bo—a very specific, out-of-control part that wanted to do exactly that. But something had quieted the sirens in his head and turned his brain back on.
“Ma’am,” he said, “we can’t be doing this.”
She stared at him. To his horror, tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill over. Suddenly she looked old to him, and tired, and just so sad and desperate, needing something from him, not just sex but comfort and understanding and a hundred other things he didn’t have it in him to give.
“What the hell are you talking about?” she asked. “You know you want to do it. You’re dying to do it. I haven’t felt a hard-on like that since I was in high school.”
His face and ears caught fire. “Ms. Jamison, you and I both know this is wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong with two people sharing a little something,” she said. “Don’t you know that? Don’t you understand?”
He felt scared of her desperation. “Not wrong in that way. I mean wrong because it’s not going to fix that.” He indicated the bruise on her arm.
“You stupid little shit,” she burst out. “What the hell do you know about anything?” Her tone was harsh, cutting like a knife.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. I don’t mean any disrespect—”
“Then shut your mouth right now.” She snatched her shirt off the bed, stuffed her bruised arms into the sleeves. She was crying openly now, her face contorted. “You’re an idiot, you know that? You blew off a perfectly nice afternoon. And believe me, I won’t offer again, ever.”
He didn’t know what else to say. He was an idiot; every horny cell in his body was telling him so. He couldn’t, though, he just couldn’t have sex with Ms. Jamison, not with her being so sad and hurt. It wouldn’t be right, no matter what she said.
Bo learned something that day. He learned that, incredible as it seemed, having sex was not the answer to every problem. Which was totally weird because it was all he thought about. Listening to her car door slam, then the angry revving of the engine, he felt sorry for her. He knew he couldn’t help her, and that depressed him.
Feeling the woman curled against him now, he still wondered what he’d taken from that day. What if he’d done something different? Taken what she’d offered? Given her...what? He’d been a fourteen-year-old with a boner. He didn’t have anything to give her.
That had been half a lifetime ago, but sometimes—like now—he wondered if he’d learned anything at all about women. Did he have anything to offer Kimberly? Or should he get out now, before it was too late?
It was dark still. A digital clock across the room read 5:47 a.m., its green digits floating unanchored in the darkness. AJ would still be asleep. Bo could sneak into his own bed where he belonged.
Except it felt so damn good right where he was. He lay unmoving for a few minutes, loath to awaken her and reluctant to disturb the nest of warmth created by their comfortably entwined bodies. She was so soft, and she smelled so good... The temptation to start kissing her again, to finish what he’d started last night, burned through him like a forest fire.
AJ, he reminded himself. He didn’t want the kid to wake up and find him gone. Bo shifted slowly and carefully, drawing his chest and shoulders out from under Kim, attempting to replace them with pillows. Inevitably, she stirred, then woke up.
It was ridiculously gratifying that her first impulse upon waking was to curl her fist into his shirt, as though to hold him close.
He could tell the moment she remembered their position. She stiffened and softly gasped, sitting up in the bed.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
“I, uh, sorry to wake you. I didn’t mean to. I was just going to head upstairs. You know, before AJ wakes up.”
“Of course. I mean, that’s the best thing.” Faint light through the window limned her silhouette. She reached up, ran a hand through her hair, mussing it in a way he found incredibly sexy.
“That’s what I thought, too. Yeah, so...” He stood up, stuck his feet into his Chuckies, the only article of clothing he’d removed the previous night. “So I’d better go.”
“Yes, all right.” There was a pause. “Bo?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember falling asleep last night?”
He cleared his throat. “Barely. I was out like a light. Swear to God, that’s never happened to me before. Snowboarding tired my ass out.”
“So you fell asleep right away.”
“Yeah.” Now what? Did he apologize? He was sorry as hell he hadn’t made love to her, but he didn’t think that was the kind of sorry she wanted to hear. Probably better to treat the situation as though it had never happened.
“Then you didn’t really hear the conversation,” she said quietly.
“Conversation?”
“One-sided. I was just thinking aloud,” she said.
Uh-oh. He couldn’t imagine what she’d said. Apparently he’d missed his chance. “I’m all ears now.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”
A chill slid over him. It’s not important. “In my experience, when a woman says something’s not important, then that means it’s important.”
“Are you being insulting on purpose, or does this come naturally?” she asked.
“I’m not being insulting.”
“If I feel insulted, then you are. That’s how it works.”
Damn, but she was a mule-headed, difficult woman. Why in blazes did she have to be so difficult?
“Just so you know,” he said, “that was a first for me. Normally when I sleep with a woman, we do a lot more than sleep.”
“Just so you know,” she countered, mocking him, “I don’t actually care about your track record with other women.”
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I, uh, I better get on upstairs,” he said, pretty sure his thoughts would scare her if he said what was on his mind. “You know, in case AJ wakes up.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll see you later, then.”
“You will,” she agreed.
There were a lot of things he wanted to say to her. He wanted to say he actually liked sleeping with her. Yeah, he would have loved to have sex with her, but barring that, the sleeping gave him a feeling of intimacy he’d never had with a woman before. As he stood by the bed and studied her, a graceful tangle of shadows in the half light, a truth hit him out of the blue—he could fall in love with this woman. Hard. Maybe he was already heading in that direction. Whether or not this was a good thing remained to be seen.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kim didn’t want to wait for Bo to get back from pitching practice at the gym, so she drove there to find him with a pile of mail and messages on the seat beside her. Lately, each day brought more to do in preparation for spring training. This was the way she used to feel when she was first getting started—filled with anticipation, looking forward to each new day. Now there was more. There was Bo himself, who drove her crazy. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. He’d been at the gym for two hours, and she already missed him. The mail and messages were only an excuse.
The photos from the winter shoot at Camp Kioga turned out better than anyone had hop
ed. Expertly rendered by Daisy and then packaged for the press by Kim, they formed the centerpiece of the new-player press kit. The materials generated keen interest from a variety of outlets. Ultimately, Kim granted a temporary exclusive to the publication that offered the biggest spread and widest exposure for Bo—the Sunday magazine of the New York Times, including the cover, with reporting by one of the team’s favorite journalists, Natalie Sweet.
The shots created an instant sensation and a storm of buzz. Overnight, everyone wanted to know who Bo Crutcher was and where he’d been all their lives. The article was perfect, a pictorial, which meant the text would be kept to a minimum while the pictures told the story.
The cover shot ran with the predictable but always-compelling headline, “The Iceman Cometh” and featured the most unusual photo of all, a shot of him pitching a snowball in front of the frozen waterfall. The article played up his plainspoken manner, his lifelong affinity for the sport and his extensive knowledge of the art and craft of being a left-handed pitcher. No mention was made of the fact that calling him up was merely a strategy move to position the team for a trade in midseason. Kim had made certain that this was not the most interesting thing about him, and it worked. The overall effect of the article was a classy, artistic treatment of a fascinating subject.
The first sign that the publicity was having the desired impact was that Bo’s mobile phone and email inbox nearly exploded.
She found him in his usual spot at a handball court that had been fitted with a net so he could lob his sixty pitches a day. With his back to the door, he didn’t see her there, and she waited a few minutes, just watching him. And he was an eyeful, in shorts and a ripped T-shirt, a bandanna around his head. He pitched with a grace and athleticism that took her breath away. The intensity and concentration made him seem like a different person, someone with facets she hadn’t begun to explore.
Pushing away an untimely fantasy, she cleared her throat. “Mail call,” she said. “I just checked the post-office box in town.”
He turned and gave her what she was coming to think of as his trademark grin, the one that had the potential to win him legions of fans. “I was just finishing up.” He grabbed a towel, and they sat on a bench together and went through it. She tried not to be distracted by his sweaty smell, which she found maddeningly sexy.
For the most part, the mail was flattering and gratifying. Some was a little weird.
“Another blind proposal from some woman,” he said.
“That one’s presented quite...creatively,” she said, pointing to the large envelope he’d just opened.
“Definitely a first,” he said, indicating the proposal written on a pair of panties. “Did you know this was going to happen?”
“Well, I didn’t plan the panty proposal. We wanted to create a media sensation,” she said. “And guess what? It worked.”
“Worked...how? Sorry to be dense.” He slung the towel around his neck. “I’m kind of shell-shocked by all the attention.”
She handed him a message from his agent. Gus Carlisle had been in the loop from the start, and heartily approved of Kim’s work so far. “Congratulations, Iceman. You’re going to the press reception at the Pierre. It’s invitation-only, and you don’t get invited unless they’re dead serious about you.”
“I’ve waited my whole life for someone to be dead serious about me,” he said.
Although she knew the statement was meant to be lighthearted, it brought a lump to her throat. “The wait is over,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. Kim loved this part of her job—watching someone’s dream come true. At that same time, she’d seen guys like this before, athletes with raw talent, who shifted from obscurity to notoriety overnight. Not all of them handled it well.
Looking through some of the press materials, he came across her CV. “You have a degree in broadcast journalism,” he said.
“You seem surprised.”
“From USC.”
“That’s right.”
“Why aren’t you broadcasting anything?”
“I am, in a way. When I train a client for the media.”
“No, I mean you. In front of the camera or microphone at least. Doing, I don’t know, sportscasting or color commentary. Don’t tell me you never thought of it.”
“I did some of that as an intern. Loved it, but I needed to make a living, and the PR firm offered me that.”
“And now...?”
“Now my mother needs me. I can’t go beating the bushes for some local affiliate in Timbuktu, competing with college interns.”
“Sounds like an excuse to me.”
She snatched the CV away from him. “Shut up and finish opening your mail.”
“I got a better idea.” He picked her up and swung her around, and planted a long and unabashed kiss on her mouth. When he let her go, she looked around to make sure no one was watching. They were keeping their as-yet-undefined relationship a secret. Not because there was anything wrong with it but because it was new, and fragile, like something that could blow away under the barest breath of scrutiny.
* * *
Avalon’s annual Winter Carnival culminated with a celebration at the fire hall. It was a fund-raiser, featuring local groups performing in a battle of the bands, dancing, food and wine. Kim went with her mother, Daphne and Dino. As she surrendered her coat to the coat check in the foyer, a lurch of apprehension took Kim by surprise.
“What is it?” her mother asked, handing over her wool jacket. In a new dress the color of a valentine, she looked particularly pretty this evening, flushed and bright-eyed. She really did seem to be thriving on her new life in this small town.
“Nothing,” Kim said. “It’s just... I take that back. It’s not nothing. It’s everything. It all matters so much,” she confessed. “I never expected that. I thought I’d come here and lick my wounds and then move on, but it hasn’t happened like that.”
Her mother touched her hand. “It happened the way it’s supposed to. And I’m very glad about that, Kimberly.”
Kim felt grateful for her mother’s quiet, steady support. It had been there all her life, but until recently, she hadn’t understood how vital it was. Bo Crutcher had not been her only project this winter. She had also made a commitment to her mother. They were closer than ever now, with a new level of intimacy and understanding that made Kim feel both brave and vulnerable at the same time. She decided to level with her mother.
“I haven’t been to any kind of party since my last night in L.A.,” she said. “I know this is completely different, but I just had a moment there.”
“An extremely unpleasant moment, judging by the expression on your face,” said Penelope. She threaded her arm through Kim’s. “Don’t worry. I’ll be your wingman, dear.”
They walked into the party, side-by-side. At one end was a raised dais with a banner backdrop bearing a bold logo: O’Donnell Industries. The owner of the Hornets was the party’s sponsor, and it was instantly apparent that her mother was right—this was not like the kind of parties Kim used to attend. People were not posing and jockeying for position. It was almost a relaxed atmosphere. The old-fashioned hall had an enormous fireplace that lit the room with a warm glow. There were long tables laden with food, urns of coffee and hot spiced wine.
AJ was with some of his new friends from school. Kim recognized Vinny Romano, and Tad. They were hanging around the food table, elbowing each other and helping themselves to munchies. She caught his eye and gave him a wave. That smile of his was going to break hearts one day, just like his—
“Hey, Kim, over here,” Daphne said. “Come and meet my sisters.”
Emily, Taylor and Martha McDaniel were, respectively, aged nine, ten and eleven. “We miss you at home, Daffy,” said Emily, the youngest. “When’re you coming back?”
“Hard to say, Em. I don’t really have a plan.”
<
br /> “Dad wishes you’d come home, too,” Martha pointed out.
“Then Dad should say something.” Daphne added, half to herself, “He won’t, though.” Then she brightened up. “But hey. We’re together tonight, and it’s going to be tons of fun.”
“Yeah,” Emily agreed.
“Kim’s new, so you’ll have to introduce her to people. Kim’s working with Bo Crutcher, that guy from the Hornets. She’s helping him become a famous baseball star.”
“Dad’s gonna teach us to watch baseball,” Taylor said.
“It’s pretty easy,” Kim told her. “I used to be obsessed with baseball when I was your age. Come to think of it, I still am.”
“You’re nuts,” Daphne declared. “Pretty much all sports fans are. I mean, why invest all that emotion in a team? It’s a sure way to get your heart broken.”
“There are lots of ways to get your heart broken,” Kim pointed out. She turned to the sisters. “Tell you what. Once spring training starts, I’ll watch some preseason games with you and we’ll be fans together, okay?”
All three sisters nodded vigorously. Daphne sent them off to wait for the battle of the bands to start. Kim was surprised and gratified to discover how many people she recognized and how quickly she’d come to know them. Daisy Bellamy came rushing over when she spotted Kim.
“I was hoping you’d be here,” she said, beaming. “Hi, Mrs. van Dorn.”
“Hello, Daisy. And congratulations on your photographs. You had a very, very impressive layout in the magazine.”
“That was Kim’s doing,” Daisy said.
“It wouldn’t have happened without the photos. We’re a team, all of us,” Kim said. She loved seeing Daisy’s excitement and pleasure. Kim knew the feeling of finding the sweet spot in a career. She hadn’t felt it herself in a long time, but she still remembered feeling that way as an intern, working in broadcasting, following a sportscaster around a sweat-fogged locker room, analyzing plays. “Is your cousin Olivia here? I wanted to thank her again for that incredible location shoot.”