Whirlwind Romance: 10 Short Love Stories

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  He paused briefly, casting a glance at his Armada halfway across the lot, wondering if he could get to it without the women noticing. Maybe Benton would keep them diverted, he thought, as the younger player spat tobacco and tossed a ball up to them. Just like the infielder to carry balls in his pocket.

  In spite of his postgame weariness, the thought made Josh grin. Balls in his pocket, he thought again. I’ll have to remember that. Then, the more sobering thought — why? For whom? For women like the ones flirting with Marty, all over one player until the next one walked in? His smile faded, and he fished his keys out of his pocket, focusing on the SUV parked among all the other players’ expensive toys. If he were lucky, no one would notice him. At least there weren’t dozens of fans dangling way too far over the railing, clamoring for attention. Either no one had been excited about the team’s record come-from-behind win, or everyone had headed out to bars and restaurants in hopes that players would wander in and sign autographs.

  Drawing a deep breath, he headed for his vehicle with long strides and was reaching for the door when the clamor erupted behind him..

  Feminine squeals. And screams. God, I’m a ballplayer, not a rock star.

  “Hotstuff! Hotstuff Josh! Over here! Come talk to us!”

  “Josh, we’ve been waiting for you — ”

  “You heard ’em, man! Get on over here!” Benton called, although he looked a little annoyed to lose his audience’s interest.

  Josh hesitated, torn. He didn’t need female companionship, but even these screaming women were among those who plunked down money to see the Scorpions play, and baseball wasn’t just his job — it was his life. Keeping the team in this town that felt like home was important. He could contribute a few minutes to satisfy fans.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw George, the regular parking lot guard, moving out into a more visible spot. Waving slightly at George, knowing the security officer had probably already called someone to head out to the other side in case anyone tried to jump down, he sauntered over to the base of the rock wall and smiled up at the women. Women amazed him — beauty in so many forms, at all ages. He almost wished he didn’t find the fairer sex so damned enticing.

  Benton waved at the women and wandered off, leaving Josh alone with his admirers.

  “Hey, ladies! What’s happening?”

  They giggled and whispered things to each other before answering.

  “Great game, Josh! Where you goin’ now?” asked a zaftig blonde who was huddled up with a brunette friend.

  “State secrets.” He winked. “Seriously, I gotta go, but thanks for stopping by!”

  “Wait! At least an autograph!” The blonde, clearly the more outgoing of the two, leaned over, her boobs all but spilling out of the tank top she wore, and tossed him a Sharpie.

  Josh caught the Sharpie above his head, and the women giggled and clapped.

  “Got a picture?” he asked when no one presented anything to sign.

  While he waited, another woman approached, younger than the first two, in a bright summer sundress that bared her shoulders and showed some cleavage. She had a breathtakingly pretty face, but she stayed back a little, and he noticed her tug at the dress as if it bothered her. When she fussed with the fabric, she almost dropped her purse.

  All hot and bothered, he thought to himself with a slight smile. Too bad he’d sworn off any woman who might be a Scorpions’ fan. Twice he’d been stupid and paid dearly — literally and figuratively. Never again.

  “Mr. Arrevalos — ” the red purse slipped again as she moved closer to the other women. Was she a klutz or just nervous? He watched her approach, and apparently the first two gals noticed.

  “Hey, Josh baby, we were here first!” the brunette whined. “You promised us you’d sign … ”

  “Oh, here,” the blonde called, and something fluttered down to squeals from her partner.

  Oh, God! The woman’s tank top, damp with perspiration. He frowned. Marty’s signature took up a huge space. So … she’d already taken it off once? He shot a glance upward. Yep. She was there in all her glory. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  Josh could see a guard marching toward her on the walkway and George talking into his radio. His fingers shook in his hurry to sign his name. Finished, he quickly balled the shirt and tossed it up. His legendary arm failed him, and the top fell at his feet. Swearing under his breath, he scooped it out of the dirt and hurled it back to the woman, who tried to hurriedly put it on as one of the guards arrived.

  “Mr. Arrevalos! Josh Arrevalos! I’m Mandy Warner and I need — ” the newcomer was leaning over the wall yelling at him as a security guard caught her arm. He frowned as the guy — whom he didn’t recognize, must be a temp filling in — pulled her roughly, while another manhandled the original pair. They must have thought the women were all together.

  “Please! I’m not a fan! I mean — ”

  Somehow her dress must have snagged on the rough rock surface of the wall, because as she leaned over and the guard pulled her back, the brightly colored sundress slipped low and gave him yet another clear view of boobage. This newcomer, though, was clearly mortified. She quickly snatched her dress up, dropping her purse in the process, and swatted at the guard’s arm as she fixed her clothing.

  He watched the guard escort her away along with the others; clearly she continued to argue with him even though he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  Suddenly, she managed to slip out of the guard’s tight grasp and turned back to look at him again. She called out to him, her voice desperate. “Mr. Arrevalos?”

  No one called him “Mr.” Arrevalos. Women, more often than not, called him Josh. Or Hotstuff. What did she need badly enough to risk more rudeness from the uniformed man catching her arm?

  As she left, she turned her head once more. “Josh! Josh, I have to talk to you — please, we need to get together — ”

  Not a fan? Yeah, right. He turned to go, but a flash of red stuck in the scraggly ivy planted along the base of the wall snared his attention. He walked over and reached in. Gingerly he pulled out the woman’s tiny red clutch.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Logically, he should just turn the bag over to George and be done with it. But, perversely, he didn’t. Instead, he tucked it under his arm and hurried to his SUV. He’d return it himself. Not wise, when he’d become so tired of the games and the traps and tentacles of some of the fans, but something about this woman seemed different. Unless — he thought back to the brief flash of bared skin. No, she hadn’t dropped it deliberately. He’d been so wrong in the past, let himself be drawn into relationships he shouldn’t have with women who wanted a ballplayer, ego and opportunity. He’d fallen more often in the beginning than he should have.

  At worst, she had her eye on an affair but thought he might find an indirect approach irresistible. But the desperation in her voice had seemed far too anguished to be about wanting a one-night stand. It intrigued him, despite his misgivings. He looked at the red clutch in his hand. At the very least, he could return her purse, apologize for the guard’s rough treatment, and see if she really did have something interesting to talk to him about. If he was honest, he could admit to himself that he wouldn’t mind seeing that pretty face up close again.

  Some days being a hero was better than others.

  • • •

  Mandy Warner’s house sat in the back of an expansive lot, surrounded by plush native landscaping that featured palms and cacti inside intricate rock beds. It wasn’t exactly what he’d expected from the address on her driver’s license. Although in need of some fresh paint, the house and lot dominated their corner, clearly more expensive than the other aging, inexpensive properties in this part of town. Did his mystery woman have money? Maybe he was making a complete fool of himself, thinking she might be in some kind of trouble. He should have tried to
find her number and just called her. Or let George turn the purse over to the Scorpions’ office. Too late for common sense, though.

  Josh walked up the wide steps, noticing idly that there was a ramp on one side of the porch. He rang the bell and waited. Moments later, a man’s irritated, slightly slurred voice called out, “Come in! Door’s open, just come in!”

  Damn. I should have called. Hesitantly, he opened the door. A man in a wheelchair faced the entry, his hand stilling the German shepherd that rose to its haunches as Josh came in.

  Josh looked around. Was no one else here?

  “Uh, hello. Sir?”

  If anything, the man hunched in the wheelchair shifted, turning away from him, seeming to shrink in on himself.

  “What you want, boy?” a voice that Josh had to strain to understand asked.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Mandy. Mandy Warner?”

  The man made a coughing noise and tried to focus back on Josh.

  “You’re the hotshot,” he muttered with difficulty. “They call you Hotshot or some such nonsense, don’t they?”

  Okay, not a Scorpions’ household, Josh thought, but he walked over and held out his hand.

  “I’m Josh Arrevalos, Mr., uh … Warner?” He ended on a questioning note, but the man didn’t deny or confirm his own identity. He held out the bright red purse, feeling his skin warm a little under his tan, making him wish fervently he’d just had Scorpions’ office personnel take care of the whole sorry thing.

  “Upstairs, first door on the left,” the man mumbled. His mouth drooped on one side, characteristic of stroke victims.

  A pang of sympathy for the man struck Josh, but he wondered if this was really Mandy’s father — and if so, did he send all men upstairs so easily? “I could just leave it,” Josh pointed out. “I — ”

  “No, go up.” The man seemed a little defensive. “I fell asleep; don’t know if she’s still here or went to the store. Might’ve slipped out the back to not wake me.” Defeat lurked in his expression and sagging shoulders. “Not much of a dad these days.”

  Uncomfortable with the man’s candid disclosure, Josh just nodded and took the stairs two at a time. Curiosity killed cats — and acting on impulse like he often did could drive a man crazy. But he wanted to know what the woman with the clothing problems wanted from him. He wanted to tell her that the security guard had been out of line and apologize for the jerk. Okay. He also wanted to get a close-up of the girl who wasn’t a fan, and who, from a distance, struck him as cute. His lips twisted. He’d called his sister cute recently, and he was pretty sure he still had her palm print on his face. Why did women hate that word?

  He knocked before cautiously pushing the door open and stepping into an empty room. Not a fan? He looked around the room, with its walls covered with Atlanta Braves paraphernalia. Okay, so she hadn’t lied. She was a fan, just not his fan. Maybe not even a Scorpions’ fan.

  Her bed was — not a mess, but not as neat as the rest of the room, and it drew his attention just because it was cluttered. His gaze fell on a gray jersey, a little apart from the other clothing. Now that looked like Scorpion gray — he’d bet money the front boasted a larger-than-life purple critter and his team name. A little hesitantly, since he already felt awkward in this private place, he straightened it. There was a big navy 9 — his number, but the wrong color, and he doubted the shirt had become so worn in the two years since the Scorpions had come to town. The name above the number said Warner, and when he flipped the jersey over, the Atlanta Braves’ trademark insignia hammered him.

  At first he couldn’t put it all together, but then it hit him. “My God!” he breathed out loud. The man sitting downstairs, clearly the victim of some physical disability, sour and sullen, was Ed “Dad” Warner, a many-time All-Star and two-time MVP with the Atlanta Braves and a couple of other power teams. Josh could remember hearing about the man’s exploits before he even made the minors himself, though nothing in recent years. Warner had been loved for his performance, for the leadership that had given him the “Dad” handle. What on earth had happened? And why had his daughter been looking for a player she didn’t know, claiming not to be a baseball fan? How had Ed Warner, star of endorsements, television spots and game records, come to be so withdrawn and unfriendly?

  He laid the purse on the bed then snatched it up again. He might as well take it to her; she must be driving without her license. He hadn’t found a phone number, but maybe her father could call her before she started canceling credit cards. Suddenly in a rush, he spun on his heel and headed downstairs, taking them a little more cautiously. The last thing he needed when he was red hot was an ankle sprain.

  The service dog straightened and watched him, but whether from inability or lack of desire, Warner didn’t turn and look his way. Josh walked around the chair and squatted, holding out a hand. “Mr. Warner, I didn’t recognize you! It’s such an honor to meet you.”

  The older man flushed and took his hand with difficulty but without meeting his eyes. “Mandy gone?”

  “Nobody was there.”

  “Don’t hear ’em when they come and go,” Warner muttered.

  “They don’t tell you?” Josh asked, alarmed.

  With a great deal of effort, Warner moved his shirt collar a tad exposing a well-known medical alarm. “They know I don’t want to wake up,” he said gruffly. “And nobody would mess with Hank.”

  At the name, the shepherd turned his head and thumped his tail once. Suddenly, the 44 emblazoned on the dog’s saddlebag made perfect sense.

  “So … you’ve met him? Hank Aaron?”

  Warner nodded. “Years ago.” The words came out so softly Josh had to lean in to hear. “Don’t meet anyone now. Don’t want to, seein’ as how … ” His words trailed off.

  Josh swallowed awkwardly and held up the purse. “Should I leave it here?”

  Warner hunched his shoulders a little in a shrug. “Prob’ly needs it. If she left it at your place, you should take it to the store.” The last words petered out to a whisper, and his face looked more strained. He seemed to shrink into the chair, and Hank suddenly pressed a nose to his forearm, almost as if checking Warner’s health.

  There was so much Josh thought he should explain — like how he didn’t know Mandy, and she certainly hadn’t been at his place. But he wondered if it wouldn’t just confuse the man, maybe even alarm him that Josh was all but a stranger to his daughter.

  “Where?” he asked, noting that Warner seemed to be drifting off.

  “Store,” Warner muttered and pushed a button on his chair, turning it away.

  Josh ambled down the steps outside wondering exactly what store, where. He was climbing into his SUV when he remembered — Dad Warner’s was a huge building supply store across town. He’d go there first and pray she was there or someone could point him in the right direction. Whistling, he turned on the ignition, cranked the air, and headed off on his fool’s mission.

  Chapter Two

  Mandy watched the floor below absently, noting the handful of customers in the plumbing section, one couple looking at ceiling fans, and few other customers she could see. Employees in their Dad Warner’s baseball shirt uniforms were bustling around, but there were too many of them for the number of customers.

  She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead briefly against the cold glass of the lounge window. Her mother was right; they needed to let some of the employees go. She didn’t want anyone to suffer in these tough times.

  If only that stupid guard hadn’t dragged her away, maybe she could have spoken to Josh. He’d come over to see those other women, after all. Surely he wouldn’t have ignored her. She’d only wanted a few minutes of his time, but all she’d done was lose her purse. It was just a good thing she’d had her keys on her. One thing about being prone to losing personal belongings — her ke
ys never were anywhere except in a pocket or her hand. Too easy to be stranded if you tucked them in a purse and then lost the darned thing because of some little altercation at a ballpark. She should have called about it, but she’d walked into an emergency here at work — didn’t she always? — and had decided to risk her cards and personal information for a couple of hours.

  She rubbed the back of her neck, not caring that her hair wound up tousled, but the stress didn’t ease. Darn it all anyway! No matter what she did, things went awry, and not only hadn’t she spoken to Josh Arrevalos, but she’d given him a brief view of her boobs. Now how could she ask for a favor? He’d think the little strip show had been deliberate, that she was trying to get the answer she wanted by …

  Well, she had been, but she hadn’t expected to show that much. The sundress was now hanging out of sight in the closet that held spare clothes she and her mother changed into and out of whenever the need arose.

  Sighing, she turned her back on the glass panes. Time to get back to work. She hated working in the office, but her mother had already headed home. They took turns popping in and out of the house, trying to be two places at once without letting on that they were worried about anything.

  She pulled a diet soda with her name on it out of the refrigerator and walked the few steps down the hall to Shelley’s old office. Shelley was gone, had been for years, but, ironically, she was the one who had once wanted nothing more than to sit here at this desk going over sales reports and keeping the books.

  “Damn you, Shelley!” Mandy muttered, sinking into the chair with a sigh and reaching for a sheaf of papers.

  A knock on the door interrupted her almost immediately.

  “Come in,” she called, without looking up.

  None of the employees would have waited to be acknowledged; they would have launched into complaints or made demands before they reached the desk. Startled by the lingering silence, she looked up.