Calling It

by Jen Doyle

  She sat up when that was followed by, “Chili cheese casserole? Hot damn.”

  Blindly reaching for her robe—literally, since she’d taken her contacts out and couldn’t see a freakin’ thing—Dorie stood up. The water cascaded down her body, taking her happy thoughts with it.

  Seriously?

  Had her brothers really done it? Planned a surprise visit just to check in? They were so ridiculous she honestly wouldn’t put it past them.

  “To-mmyyyy!” she roared. Because of all of them, he was the most blatantly obnoxious. With a huff, she knotted the belt around her waist, then yanked open the bathroom door and stormed down the hall. “My casserole, Tommy. I left enough meatballs for you to eat for a month. Get your hands out of my—”

  She stopped suddenly when the man in her kitchen muttered, “Shit.”

  That wasn’t Tommy’s voice, and it sure as hell wasn’t his stocky build. Tommy was only a few inches taller than her. The man standing in her kitchen was over six feet tall and all lean muscle. That much she could tell even without her glasses.

  She squinted, trying to see which of her brothers’ friends this could be—there was something about him that seemed familiar even in all of his blurriness. Plus, all of her brothers’ friends always went straight to the fridge. There was Sean’s college roommate, who was from Des Moines, and she was pretty sure that one of Jack’s old bandmates lived in Omaha, two and a half hours away. It was highly possible one of them had been recruited. “Okay, give. Who are you, and which of my brothers sent you?”

  An eternity of silence passed before the man answered. “You don’t know who I am?”

  Um, hello? Who came into someone else’s house—Ate. Her. Food.—and then had the nerve to sound offended that she didn’t know who he was. She took another step forward, trying to get close enough to see him better. “All I know right now is that you’re the guy who’s eating my dinner. Except I didn’t get to have it for dinner because N—”

  She cut herself off. No. She was not allowed to think that ever again. The mayor was her boss, not “Nate Hawkins’s mom.” “Because my boss asked me to have dinner, so I didn’t get to eat it, but I was planning on having it for lunch tomorrow and...” Trying to make out his face, she squinted again. “And I know all of three people in this town, so, no, I have no idea who you are other than the guy who’s eating my dinner!”

  So maybe she was overreacting. But she’d been having a really good—and on its way to being even better—bath. “I swear. Whichever one of my brothers sent you to check up on me can just go fu—”

  He coughed.

  No, that hadn’t been a cough. It was much more like a...

  “You’re laughing?” she asked. “You eat my—”

  “Dinner?” he said. Definitely laughing.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Sorry,” he said, wisely getting himself under control. “Although I’m pretty sure I’d happily eat anything you offered.”

  Dorie’s mouth dropped open. Was he...? Did he mean...?

  For heaven’s sake. So what if his voice had dropped down nice and low? It was just her overly active imagination moving her Fantasy Train from Nate Hawkins Land straight to hot-guy-in-my-kitchen territory. Which wasn’t the worst thing. Although she tried to avoid hookups with her brothers’ friends, Jack’s bandmate wouldn’t be the worst way to spend an evening. A touch of home and all that.

  He stood up straighter and she forced herself to refocus on what he was saying.

  “Look, I have no idea who your brothers are, and I’m really sorry about your dinner...”

  Um... “I’m sorry?” He had no idea who they were?

  So if her brothers hadn’t sent him—if, in fact, he had no connection to her family—then she was standing dripping wet in her living room, naked except for her robe. With a total stranger, no less.

  Thanks to a lifetime of defending herself in wrestling matches with brothers who couldn’t care less that she was a) a girl and b) smaller than them, she could take him down regardless of how big he was. Or how, um, solid. It would ruin her relaxing evening to the point of no recovery, however. She took a step back.

  “Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t come any closer.”

  She reached down behind her, groping for the phone but finding something else instead. A baseball bat, of all things. It belonged to her landlord, as did all the furniture and a surprising number of baseball-related knickknacks.

  Could be worse. There was one of those big foam hands around somewhere.

  Hauling the bat up into a swinging stance, she warned, “Come any closer and I swear to God I’ll take your head off faster than you can say casserole.”

  His hands went up in the air and he took a step back. “Uh, okay. Looks like we’ve had a bit of a misunderstanding.” Then he sat on one of the stools. “Damn, woman. You sure have a thing about food.”

  Hell, yes, she had a thing about food. She’d grown up with six brothers, every one of whom could eat an entire lasagna faster than she could wrap her hand around the serving spoon. “It’s an awesome casserole.”

  “That it is,” he murmured appreciatively, sending a bolt of heat directly down to where she did not need it. Her nipples puckered, but she blamed it on the fact that she’d just been living in major imaginary sin. She took another step back. His eyesight was probably better than hers. But, oh boy, did the man smell good.

  Then again, maybe it was just the casserole.

  “You should go,” she said. It came out much more hoarsely than she’d intended.

  “I, uh...” His voice had the same raspiness. “I could use a minute.”

  There was no doubt in her mind why he needed a minute, especially when she realized her robe had slipped when she’d lifted the bat, and he had a grade-A view of, well, everything. She lowered the bat and snatched her robe closed. “Maybe you could use that minute to tell me who you are.”

  “Right. Or maybe we could just cut to the chase,” he said, no longer giving off that somewhat amused vibe. It had pissed her off, but she preferred it to the turn things had just taken.

  “You break into my place and you’re giving me attitude?” Asshole. No more nice librarian. Using the I-mean-business trick the nuns at St. Mary’s had used, she rapped the bat on the floor for emphasis. “So let’s go back to ‘who are you’ and then move on to how you got in.”

  “You really don’t know.” This time, it was more a statement than a question.

  “I really have no idea.” And her patience was wearing thin. “Should I?”

  “Fitz didn’t tell you?”

  “Fitz, as in my landlord?”

  “Your landlord?” he snapped. “She moved out?”

  He’d asked that in kind of the way a...

  Oh, great—was she standing here half-naked with her landlord’s boyfriend? Or maybe ex-boyfriend, given that he seemed to have no clue Fitz had moved out a month ago.

  Even though she hadn’t gotten any crazy or dangerous vibes—something she was pretty attuned to after all the years of dealing with her brothers’ exes—she clutched the handle of the bat and adjusted her stance a little. Just to be safe.

  Reading her body language far too clearly, he dialed down the agitation. She actually felt it happen, like the air rushing out of the hole in a balloon.

  “D.B.,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “My name.” He gestured. “On the bat. D.B. My bat. My place.”

  She looked down. Brought the bat up closer to her face. Yes, there were the initials D.B. carved right in. “Oh. But...” She raised her eyes to his—or, rather, in the general direction of his. “So then who is Fitz?”

  “My sister,” he said, sounding kind of...sad? He recovered quickly, though. “I needed a place to crash tonight. Didn’t r
ealize she’d moved.”

  Oh, that wasn’t playing fair. Except if he didn’t know her brothers, much less that she had any, then he also probably had no clue that playing the sister card would get her every time.

  “I just moved in a few weeks ago,” she explained, feeling the need to reassure him.

  The air changed again. Although she still couldn’t make out his features, she had absolutely zero doubt that he was staring at her.

  And suddenly all the tension was back, albeit in an entirely different way. It crackled in the air around her.

  She nearly jumped when he cleared his throat and stood up, saying, “Look. This has been—” his laugh sounded as resigned as it did bitter “—fun. But I’ll go. Like you said. I’ll—”

  “Wait.”

  The word was said so adamantly Dorie almost didn’t realize it had come from her own mouth.

  Because it was asinine. Foolish. A mistake in a whole host of ways.

  He was her landlord’s brother, but that didn’t mean he was harmless. Yet she heard herself saying, “It’s late. It’s, uh, your apartment. And probably your bed. You should sleep in it.”

  When he started to protest, she said, “Really. Stay. Just let me grab some clothes and then the bedroom’s all yours.” She turned and walked down the hallway before she offered up anything else.

  Like dessert, for example. After she dropped her robe.

  For heaven’s sake. Maybe her brothers were right to worry and she truly shouldn’t be trusted to be on her own.

  The first thing she did was detour into the bedroom and grab her glasses—if the man was going to spend the night with her, she was damn well going to see what he looked like. And she’d call her landlord. Confirmation that the man was actually Fitz’s brother was still required.

  She pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of flannel PJ bottoms and then grabbed her phone before crossing to the bathroom. While she let the water drain from the tub, regretfully swirling her hand in the bubbles that were left, she made the call. There were voices on the other end when Fitz picked up. Sounded like a poker game.

  “Hi. I’m trying to reach Fitz?”

  “You’ve got her” was the answer. “Who’s this?”

  “Fitz, hi. This is Dor... Um, Lucinda. Lucinda Donelli.” Feeling a frightening urge to babble, Dorie shut herself up. The woman didn’t care that Dorie went by a nickname.

  After a few beats of silence, Fitz finally answered, “Oh. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. I just...” Dorie leaned back a little so that she could make sure the guy was still out by the kitchen. He was. She shifted forward again, softly asking, “Do you know someone named D.B.?”

  “What?” Fitz snapped so sharply that Dorie straightened up.

  Dorie nudged the bathroom door closed. “This guy just kind of showed up. Your brother? He said he actually owns the apartment and—”

  “He said his name is D.B.?” Fitz asked. “Can I talk to him?”

  “Of course.” As the last of the water disappeared, she opened the door again and went down the hallway. The man still had his back to her. He was on one of the stools at the island, kind of slumped down, his head in his hands. Just for the record, with her glasses now on, it was clear his body was exactly as built as she’d envisioned it.

  “Fitz is on the phone,” Dorie said, holding it out to him.

  And as he turned, she realized with a start that she did know who he was. He was so far beyond vaguely familiar that, if the circumstances were different, it would have been laughable. Even, possibly, thrilling. Because the man in her kitchen was...

  Holy good lord.

  The man in her kitchen was Nate Hawkins.

  Chapter Three

  Over the course of his career, Nate had met thousands of women. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say he’d been up close and personal with hundreds of them. But he was pretty damn sure that he’d never even been half as turned on as he’d been when the woman living in Fitz’s apartment brought the bat up over her shoulder and her robe began to slip.

  Hearing that Fitz had moved out was enough of a surprise that he’d managed to keep his tongue in his mouth until she’d disappeared down the hall. The back view was as good as the front, though, and it was with a groan that he rested his elbows on the counter and buried his head in his hands. The past six weeks since the accident were the longest he’d gone without sex since he was sixteen years old. He was due for something nice and physical. No strings attached.

  When he caught the sweet scent of her coming up behind him—when he turned and was nearly struck speechless—he almost threw caution to the wind. But then his eyes went to the phone she held in her hand and he realized she was saying it was Fitz.

  Damn.

  Yes, he’d chosen Fitz’s place to escape to, but with the exception of her phone call after his accident, all of their recent conversations had been short but tense conversations about his Thanksgiving and Christmas plans.

  Bat Woman handed the phone over and then walked quickly away. At least there wouldn’t be any witnesses. He did take one last look, however—holy Christ, yes—before letting his head drop back down. “Fitz. Hi.”

  After a moment of heavy silence, she said, “So you’re invoking the D.B. clause.”

  Right.

  It wasn’t that he’d lied. D.B. was a nickname of sorts, one bestowed on him by Fitz when he’d started to believe his own press. “Just calling a spade a spade, Nate. If you want to be a douche bag, I’m going to call you one.”

  “Yep. I guess so.” Not that Nate had truly thought through the consequences of saying that was his name. He’d been ridiculously happy to have someone not have any clue, and then the woman’s feistiness had thrown him entirely. He’d latched on to the first name he could think of. The bat with the initials carved on it had been a gift horse whose mouth he hadn’t looked too far into.

  Fitz finally said, “You’re here?”

  Though it wasn’t the most enthusiastic greeting, it also wasn’t hostile. He’d take that as a good sign.

  “Yeah,” he said. “So when did you move out? Why did you move out?”

  She sidestepped both questions. “I can still cover the rent.”

  Like he cared about that. She shouldn’t even have been paying him rent in the first place, but she’d insisted. It just got donated to the town anyway. “Where are you?” he asked, hating himself for not having a clue.

  “Deke’s place.”

  “You’re living with Deke?” Nate snapped. Max Deacon, more of a player than Nate had ever been, and Nate’s baby sister? Hell, no.

  Okay, so he hadn’t been the best at staying on top of things. And he was pretty sure Fitz would say he had no right in the first place. But if Deke had gone against the sister rule and was now shacking up with Fitz, there were going to be words.

  But she laughed and said, “No, I am not living with Deke.”

  Thank the Lord.

  “Poker night,” she reminded him.

  The poker night he’d started with Wash, Jason and Deke. Hell, Cal might even be there and out of the army by now for all Nate knew. They were his friends—his brothers. And he hadn’t so much as texted them in two years. It wasn’t a surprise she hadn’t invited him to join them. He’d chosen Courtney over them and burned that bridge.

  “What are you up to tomorrow?” he asked.

  She hesitated for a moment, then replied, “How about you come out to Wash’s place for lunch if you’re free?”

  Wash’s place. The farm that had been Nate’s grandparents’ but that Wash now ran. “Is Wash okay with that?”

  There was a muffled conversation, followed by Fitz laughing. “Sure. He just says that D.B. better be bringing some work boots.”

  “Done,” Nate said. “Fitz.
..” Fuck, this shouldn’t be so hard. But as his coaches tended to say, if it didn’t hurt, it wasn’t working. So... “I’ve missed you.”

  She didn’t answer right away, and he had the sense he’d taken her by surprise. There was a hitch in her voice when she told him, “I’ve missed you, too. Love you, Nate. I’ll text you a time for tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good.” The fact that he was suddenly looking forward to mucking out stalls was frightening. “Love you, too.”

  It wasn’t until Nate looked down to turn off the phone that he remembered where he was—that the woman who lived here was down the hall. Hell, she’d probably barricaded herself in the bathroom in order to keep a locked door between her and the stranger who’d barged in on her in the middle of the night.

  And ate her dinner, he thought with a quiet laugh.

  He’d give her back her phone and let her know he was leaving. Nowhere to stay, but he had a very expensive tiny car he could sleep in.

  He found her in the bedroom, changing the sheets, which he would have told her she didn’t have to do if his heart hadn’t just lodged itself directly into his throat, cutting off any possibility of speech. Her pajama pants and T-shirt weren’t nearly as revealing as the robe had been, but her bending over the bed and straightening out the corner stirred up something deep inside of him. And now the only thing running through his mind was how soft her hair would be when he wrapped it around his hand; how warm and wet she’d be when he buried himself inside her.

  “Christ, woman,” he groaned. He grabbed the doorjamb above his head and he clutched it so hard he practically splintered the wood.

  She gasped as she straightened up and spun around, her hand flying to her chest. “I was...I was just...”

  She bit her lip and sank down until she was sitting on the edge of the bed. Her eyes met his, and he had to tell himself he couldn’t take her right here. He needed to focus on climbing out of this hole—he didn’t have the time to fall further in, no matter how enjoyable that might be.