Unless…
I heard down at the Bob and Weave, Aunt Ruth had said this morning over a diet cola, some people saying Ames Crosby bought a ring last week over at Appleton Jewelers.
Brooke had waved away the rumor.
But Aunt Ruth and her beauty salon rumor had cruelly fueled the tiny ember of Brooke’s hope, kindling it into a flame— one she’d let burn morning from her lilac-bedecked spot on the Miss Chesapeake parade float. It had burned even brighter when she’d allowed herself to imagine how it would be to throw the ball at the iconic First Pitch and have Ames catch it.
He would run out to the pitcher’s mound, lift her off her feet and swing her in a circle, her bedazzled gown flying out around her. The crowd would be aghast at Ames Crosby, golden boy and former Maddox all-star recruited to the majors right out of Maddox High, falling for Brooke Chadwick, a nobody, rinky-dink pageant winner or not.— especially now that he was a doctor.
Brooke had expected it least of all. Not when they met at a town Christmas party when he’d come home to study for his state medical examination. Not when he’d asked her out for New Year’s Eve just three months ago. Not even when they’d started seeing each other every day, had she expected it to move so quickly.
Where was he? She checked the time on the Thunder Chadwick commemorative clock tower. Just five minutes to go, Grandpa Thunder? Thanks for the harrowing update.
“Brooke!” A shrill voice pierced the air. “You look so much better in that lavender gown than your grandpa would.” Pansy Proust sashayed up, her overly processed hair sticking straight up in places. One of the hazards of running the beauty salon was clearly acting as the guinea pig during all the down time.
“Thanks. Maybe I should have worn his coaching jersey since I’m representing him today.”
Pansy frowned. “I’m sure the organizers prefer you looking like Miss Chesapeake, or Miss Virginia first runner-up or whatever you are. But how can you pitch in that thing? It’s so clingy.”
Brooke instinctively tugged at the snug fabric.
Pansy waved away her criticism. “Not that Ames Crosby will mind, I’m sure. Where is he, anyway?” She looked around. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but I heard he’s planning something. Big.” She shot Brooke a glinting stare and then broke away when a churro vendor passed.
“Well, well, well. Brookester.” Up walked Brooke’s brother, Quirt, his ever-present baseball cap pulled down low.
“Quirt. You came home for First Pitch.” She should have expected him to, but since the accident a few years ago, his attendance at all festive things Maddox— and Chadwick— had been spotty. Seeing him here relieved a fraction of her tension, but things between them weren’t like they used to be back when mom and dad were around. Maybe they never would be.
“Grandpa’s ghost insisted. Look at you, making us all look under-dressed for the occasion.” He eyed her critically.
Brooke shoved his shoulder, their usual greeting. “I’m probably going to let the kid get a home run off me, I’m so nervous.”
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” A look of concern marred his face. “Physically, I mean.”
So, now he decides to ask how I’m doing. A little late, after three years, brother. He’d been AWOL emotionally after the accident, and without Quirt, she’d had exactly one person to lean on— Quirt’s best friend Dane Rockwell, her lifelong, soul-crushing crush. All he did was play catch with her for two months that summer while she sat in her wheelchair after her legs and hips were casted, throw-catch, throw-catch, not much conversation, but it was worlds more attention or consolation than she got from her own brother.
An image of Dane floated through her mind, with the little tug against her heartstring that always accompanied it, a twinge of the might-have-been, but she let it float out. She was looking for Ames and his killer smile.
“I’ll be fine.” She tweaked the brim of his hat. “It’s my arms I’m using today for first pitch, not my legs or hips so much.”
First Pitch of the little league season was only symbolic. They hadn’t even divvied up teams to their respective coaches yet since the neighboring towns’ seasons didn’t start until April. But they kept it this third weekend in March for Grandpa Thunder Chadwick’s annual tradition, where everyone wore their First Pitch t-shirts and ball caps and sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” with town pride.
“Well, then what’re you nervous for?” Quirt punched her shoulder. “It’s only the family legacy at stake here. Embarrass it and feel the wrath of generations.”
Brooke gave a faux-scared shiver and said, “How about you put on this dress and go throw the ball as the stand-in for Grandpa?”
“Hey, guys. Did somebody say Quirt’s putting on a dress?” From around the corner of the corndog stand, emerged another guy, the last person Brooke had expected to see today.
“Dane?” Her stomach did a double flip, followed by a round-off back handspring, and she had to grab the fence to keep herself from wobbling off her shoes.
There he stood, with that incredible dimple just begging her to press her finger into it and test its depths— taunting her for the tenth year running. It was as if thinking about him today had made him materialize. She hadn’t seen him but a handful of times since he went off to law school right after that summer they’d spent together as her hips and legs healed up— and her heart from the loss of her parents. He’d been her hero, and then…he left. And left a gaping hole in Brooke’s heart with his neglect and her complete inability to forget him.
Until Ames. Mostly.
“I’d be glad to watch you take off that dress for Quirt to put it on.” Dane’s eyes gave off a wicked sparkle, and Brooke’s face flushed— she’d had no intention of inspiring him to picture her undressing. What was Dane Rockwell doing here, besides making her tongue far too big in her mouth to utter any sense? She stared up at him, into his laughing, half-lidded eyes and tried not to fan herself. Mercy. Law school had been good to him, and he was putting off a serious swagger vibe that she’d succumb to if she wasn’t so preoccupied with Ames and whatever he might be planning.
“Shut up, Rock. That’s my sister you’re talking about.”
“I’m just saying.”
“No, you’re not.” Quirt edged between them, breaking Dane’s appreciative gaze. “Even if she’s covered with sparkles, she’s respectable— almost done with her first year of nursing school to get her NCAA.”
Uh, it was her LPN, Licensed Practical Nurse that she’d almost completed. “I think you mean CNA, Quirt.” The two designations were different. She’d gotten her CNA years ago, even before the accident.
“Dude.” Dane slapped Quirt upside the head. “NCAA is college sports. And there is nothing, I repeat nothing, double A about your sister.” He gave her a wink that sent a shower of tingles over her body, and try as she might she couldn’t help feeling that old, irresistible tug toward him.
Dane Rockwell had always been a problem for Brooke— mostly because despite his flirtatious words right now, he’d only ever seen her as Quirt’s kid sister. And then, while everyone else stayed a discreet distance away, he’d been the guy who saw her at her post-operation worst— hair messy, face without makeup, legs without mobility. The last time she’d spent any time with Dane, she looked nothing like the beauty pageant girl she appeared to be today in sparkles and pinching shoes, and the fact he’d probably always envision her that other way— that had been a huge problem, so she’d been trying to excise him from her heart, successfully at last, due to Ames, the gorgeous, newly minted doctor who’d swept her off her feet with his killer smile and his golden— everything.
Who was…where?
The emcee’s voice boomed over the park and brought her back to the real problem of the present. “Ladies and gentlemen. It’s time for the first pitch of the Maddox baseball season.”
The stands, filled to capacity and spilling onto the grass, cheered, but Brooke nearly choked. She still had no catcher.
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“And to throw out our first pitch here at First Pitch this year is Thunder Chadwick’s granddaughter, and our own town’s beauty queen who represented us well and went on to win Miss Chesapeake. The one, the only, Brooke Chadwick!”
More applause, but Brooke grabbed the chain link behind home plate.
“What’s wrong?” Quirt frowned. “You got cold feet? Because I was just kidding. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“Not cold feet.” She looked and looked for him. No Ames. How could this be happening?
This morning had dawned so bright and clear and hopeful, with that little flame of hope burning inside her just behind her collarbone, lighting her all the way here through the spring winds of the Atlantic seaboard.
“Then, what? Is your dress torn in back or something?” Quirt took her arm. “Come on, they’re waiting for you.” It was true. The little kid in the traditional white jersey with the navy blue pinstripes was winding up his bat at home plate. The crowd’s eyes were all on her.
“I don’t have a catcher.”
“And playing catcher for Miss Chadwick today, we have …” The emcee did a drum roll. “Maddox’s favorite major-leaguer-turned-doctor, Ames Crosby!” Now the crowd actually screamed. Brooke saw teenage girls fanning themselves at the mention of Ames’s name, even though he was probably almost twice their age and they couldn’t have known him when he was the king of baseball at Maddox High.
“Get out there, Brooke.” Quirt shoved her, and she twisted her ankle in her stupid shoes. “He’s probably coming. Making some kind of grand entrance, the show pony that he is.”
Oh. That could be. He did say he was planning something. It could be the grand gesture. Her mouth went dry.
Mincing in the mermaid-cut skirt, Brooke made her way out to the pitcher’s mound. These heels were ridiculous. She’d have liked to strangle the organizer of the annual event who insisted she appear in full pageant regalia, including her Miss Chesapeake crown.
With heart racing, she gave a graceful pageant wave to the crowd. A little girl’s voice called, “We love you, Brooke!” It helped. A little.
But then she looked toward home plate. There stood Shorty, wooden bat swinging. “I’m getting a run off this pitch,” the husky little batter said. “My grandpa never liked yours— said he couldn’t pitch for nothing. And you’ll be even worse.”
What! Now Grandpa’s reputation was on the line. She had to pitch— and well.
And to do that, she needed a catcher.
Ames, where are you? Brooke’s eyes blurred a little either from the sun or the wind or the terror of failure.
Then, from inside the dugout walked a tall, lean guy in a chest guard and catcher’s mask, with a ball cap turned around backward, like catchers do. He gave the crowd a wave with his rounded mitt.
Ames. Thank heavens.
“Hey, stranger. You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she called. He saluted in return, the crowd cheered again, and Ames crouched down behind the batter and signaled for her to pitch. She waved again to the crowd, and then wound up.
Strike! Right over the plate.
The crowd went wild, and the day had begun.
She’d done it. She’d saved Grandpa’s first pitch and his tradition with Ames’s help. Her hero!
An exhale of relief sent her head floating, and she didn’t even feel the pinch in her toes as she darted toward home plate, where the trash-talking kid dragged his bat back to his grouchy-looking grandpa. Served them right, trying to disrupt family tradition— letting an old rivalry try to rain on their opening day.
But Brooke’s eyes flickered back to her hero.
“Thank you! I’m so glad you showed up. Just in time, too,” she said, bounding toward home plate. The catcher threw his arms open to catch her this time, and she collapsed into his embrace, squeezing her eyes shut for joy. “Thanks. You were there for me.”
“Always,” he said, his voice lower and more resonant than ever. “Every time.” He swung her around, her shoes threatening to fly off from the centrifugal force of their spin, her back arching. Giggles tickled her insides, and his arms seemed stronger than she’d expected.
The crowd cheered, but that faded to a muffle. With her eyes shut and enjoying every sensation of this moment, Brooke was in the strong arms of the man she loved, everything else a blur. His soft breath caressed her lips, all cinnamon and mint, and she lifted his mask to kiss him her gratitude.
His mouth moved lower, their lower lips grazing one another in a gentle brush, and she nearly sank into his—
A hiccup in her stomach pulled her backward. Those lips—
Not Ames’s.
Her eyes flew wide with shock. “Dane?” she gasped.
“Brooker, you pitched killer.” He had a sly, satisfied grin. “And I appreciate your…appreciation.”
Their faces were just inches apart, his breath brushing her skin. Holy cats. Dane Rockwell had been about to kiss her— and he might still. In the three seconds they hung suspended only inches apart, she blinked a dozen times, scared of what she might choose: to allow him to kiss her, and to savor the lifelong dream of kissing Dane Rockwell, and then to rue the moment of public display of affection for a man she wasn’t even dating; or to miss out on the chance she’d only spent ten years of her life imagining, dreaming of his seductive eyes staring into hers just like this, his lips inching closer just like this, the taste of…
Exercising more will power than she knew she possessed, Brooke pushed back from him, her heels catching on the dirt, and making her stumble. With a quick arm, he reached out and steadied her.
“Oh, my goodness.” She pushed a mass of hair back from her face, steadying her tiara, trying to get her balance back, though it was unlikely to reappear anytime soon. “Er, what are you doing?” And then she remembered where they were, and her eyes flew wildly around the area, afraid Ames might be watching— and hurt. But there was no sign of him. In fact, the stands had emptied faster than the chapel on a hot Sunday, sending kids racing to the carnival rides. All that remained of the pitch were Brooke and her teenage dream.
“What am I doing? It should be pretty obvious,” he said, his voice low and sultry. “I’m taking a victory lap.” He pulled her closer, his lips now just centimeters from hers, his deep dimple tempting her, taunting her.
Not today. Not like this.
“You weren’t supposed to be my catcher.” She struggled against his strong pull, but without much effort, all her will power glitching on then off, on then off. Dane had rescued her from public embarrassment, but his near-kiss threatened an even bigger public shame. If she didn’t stop herself in time, who knew what they’d be saying about her down at Pansy Proust’s hair salon this afternoon.
“Somebody had to. And who’s played catch with you more often than I have?”
“No one.” She couldn’t lie. He’d been her hero once before, too, when no one else had given her so much as a thought, Dane’s every toss of the baseball had been a life preserver. She’d needed him then, and no question, she wanted him now. Her body said yes, but her head hollered no. “People are watching. Don’t you care?”
“Do I ever?”
Maybe he didn’t, but reality shouted that Brooke just might have something on the line today, something big—something that Ames was planning. Maybe planning so thoroughly that it made him late for First Pitch.
“I have to go.” Her stare lingered on the long dimple in his left cheek a long moment, conflict warring inside her. Oh, the years she’d waited for this moment. Aching years. How could he finally throw a seemingly affectionate moment at her so casually— on the worst possible day?
“Not until I’ve congratulated you.” His eyes beckoned to her, and he looked like he was going to lean in and close the distance, if she gave him so much as a faint signal to go ahead.
Indecision boiled in her.
But so did a sudden flash of anger. Was any of this even sincere? Dane Rockwell might not give two shakes about w
hat people would say about his character, but how could he so casually toss out Brooke’s reputation? Was he being a jerk, or was he being earnest? She couldn’t tell, too blinded by his charms as always, too eager to believe every single flattering thing that might fall from his lips and into her heart.
Her phone sounded, the interruption breaking the spell threatening to pull her under. The chime gave her the strength to shake away from danger’s grasp, and she tugged out her phone to look at who’d sent it. Hot lead peppered her when she saw the name: Ames.
“I have to go.” As she broke free and scuttled across the field, she knew exactly one thing and one thing only in life— that Dane Rockwell officially had the most horrendous timing in the world.
__________
Dane watched her go. The slinky dress hugged Brooke in all the right places, emphasizing the sweet curvature of her lower back and capturing his imagination. Mm-hmm.
“Get your eyes off my sister.” Quirt pushed against Dane’s head.
“Get your mind out of the gutter.” Dane might have talked big, but “I’ve got nothing but the purest intentions toward Brooke.” And I’ve got the diamond ring in his pocket from Appleton Jewelers as of this morning to prove it. Biggest, best diamond in the place. It would take about three paychecks to cover the cost, but since he’d landed a position at Tweed Law the second he’d graduated at Christmas, he didn’t have to worry about money so much now.
“Sure, you don’t.” Quirt shoved him again, and Dane peeled his eyes off Brooke. Dane didn’t mind the criticism— this was the most Quirt had acknowledged Dane in years. “I saw you almost kissing her. Just because you play catcher, doesn’t mean she’s metaphorically pitching to you, if you get my drift.”
It’d felt like she was, the way she trembled at his embrace. He’d wanted to kiss her, but the little tease between them at home plate was good enough to keep her blood high for him until he had a chance to express what was really on his mind— and had been for a lot longer than Quirt and his gutter-mind would begin to guess. But he’d seen the signals, felt them, coming off her in waves today. The girl liked him, whether he was a Rockwell and she was a Chadwick or not.
Wills & Trust (Legally in Love Collection Book 3) Page 2