He shrugged. "Sports."
After all the baseball they'd watched in the last ten days, this was not surprising news. "Yeah—I've picked up on that. What about movies?"
"If they're about sports." He chuckled at her expression as she fluffed up several pillows so he'd be able to sit up straighter. He waited as she propped his leg up on the footstool. "What can I say? I'm a simple man."
She raised a brow. "A simple man who's about to get his ass kicked. Let's do this."
JEEZ—IF HE'D KNOWN he'd signed on for a blood match, Curt might have reconsidered. Shannon's suggestion of a friendly board game revealed more about her personality than she'd likely want him to know. Her philosophy was take-no-prisoners. The easygoing disposition he'd enjoyed for nearly eight weeks disappeared in a myriad of rules and pained expressions as she searched for the perfect word to crush him with. He'd watched her teeth work her sensuous bottom lip for nearly . . . He checked his watch. Four minutes. "Come on. There's gotta be a time limit in your exhaustive list of rules."
Her restless fingers drummed the table, keeping time to some internal beat. Deep in thought, she raised her gaze to his. He loved how immersed she became. Loved how it seemed to take a few seconds for her beautiful eyes to refocus. It reminded him of how she looked after sex. Hazy. Flushed. Distracted. And happy.
"If you think I'm bad, you should play with Kerry. She keeps the dictionary on the table. She uses an egg-timer and she doesn't allow any deviation from the rules." With a sigh, she finally placed her wooden markers on the board.
"Boob? It took you four minutes to come up with 'boob'?"
"I'm not good under pressure," she protested, her cheeks heating to a luscious shade of pink. "Put me down for eight."
"Pressure? You took four minutes." Containing his grin, he watched her eyes spark with annoyance.
Glaring at him as she dug more letters from the bag, she huffed out an aggravated sigh. "Just go already."
"You know . . . I've noticed the sweet, concerned nurse routine sorta goes out the window when you play this game." Curt studied the board. "Is there anything you'd care to discuss? Maybe some past issues you've had with this game?"
"Bite me."
"Just say the word, babe." Glancing up from the game, he watched her expression as she tried not to crack up. Shannon was right. Playing games with her was more entertaining than watching the Sox. He pretended to study his letters for several seconds, at least giving the appearance he was having a hard time. Then, he laid an 'S' on the end of her word.
"Plurals are not allowed." Shannon fought the smile twitching her mouth. "Even for that word."
"Have you ever seen just one?"
"I believe I'm staring at one right now."
Her disgruntled comeback made him laugh. She was so damn much fun to mess with. "If it makes you feel better, I'll use it in a sentence." Staring at her, he smiled. "Shannon's boobs are magnificent." Pulling a letter from the bag, he bolstered his argument. "Not that I could ever choose between them, but, I don't believe one boob would merit that comment."
Her shoulders shaking with laughter, she lifted his letter and winced. "Damn you. That's a triple word score."
Victory surged through him. "Put me down for twenty-seven."
AN HOUR PASSED, DURING which, Shannon's battle plan grew dirtier. More underhanded. Curt winced at her latest addition. Definitely dirtier. As a result, most of his blood supply had surged south thirty minutes earlier. His brain was left with little to work with. "Seriously? Is that your strategy? Get me so worked up with your word choices that I forget how to spell?"
Her eyes widened innocently. "What's wrong with 'mouth'?"
His gaze drifted to the body part in question. Her amazing, talented mouth. He released a frustrated breath. "I'm speaking more to your pattern of word choices."
"That pattern has me leading by sixteen."
Though her smile was smug, her face flamed with mortified color. Sexy flirtation and scorching embarrassment wrapped up in one seriously appealing package. Who would have thought a board game could be so arousing?
"Fine." He placed his word on the board, wishing he had enough letters for long, slow orgasm. Because that's what Shannon was about to win—just as soon as they finished. Before her chick flick. Hell—maybe during it.
She plunked down her letters. Dragging a hand through his hair, Curt scrutinized her too-quick response. His breath quickened. Exactly what he wanted to do. With her. Repeatedly. Through clenched teeth, he said, "I think that word has a 'K' on the end."
She rewarded him with a devastating smile. "If you hadn't pointed out the rules were unclear on misspellings, I wouldn't have been able to make that word."
"That's it. I'm conceding." Hoisting himself up on his crutches, he leaned over the table, drinking in the slumberous heat in her animated eyes. The gorgeous, gifted, full red lips parted in surprise. The shallow breathing of a woman who was as turned on as he was. "Here are my terms. I'm going to strip you out of those clothes and make you scream."
Shannon released a startled breath. "Is that all?"
His chest flooding with a hot burst of pleasure, he nodded. "Then . . . we're gonna hold hands and watch your chick flick."
"SO, THERE ARE THREE of you?" Stretching against his pillow, Curt posed the question several hours later. One hand stacked under his head, his other arm wrapped around Shannon.
"Uh-huh. Randall is the oldest, then me, then Kerry." Lifting her head from his chest, she glanced at him. She liked his arm around her. Protective and reassuring. Instead of claiming her prize, they'd spent the last few hours talking. About everything and nothing. She'd wondered whether a relaxed Curtis might contemplate talking about his past. Or whether he'd steer clear, as he usually did. Thus far in the information department, 'nothing' was beating out 'everything' by a mile.
"Randall is the lawyer?"
"A very snooty one." She smiled. "Now that he works with rich celebrities, he insists we call him Rand."
"There was just Travis and me," he admitted. "And we have different fathers. Shirley preferred quantity over quality. I think I had five stepdads in the span of seven years." He stifled a yawn. "So, what finally made you come home?"
"Well—I was out of money . . . and I figured it would be easier to start over back here. Once my friends loaned me the money I needed for bus fare, there wasn't much else keeping me in Denver." Part of her wanted him to open the door, providing her with the opportunity to confess her ugly role and be done with it. Her breath huffed out in a sigh. Then again, the longer Curt kept the door closed, the more time she'd have with him . . . without him hating her for what she'd done.
"That was nice of them to help you. You must have been a good friend to them." He shifted closer, trailing his fingers lightly up and down her arm. "Who were they again?"
"Ellis and Gwen Donovan. They used to come into the restaurant . . . we started chatting and it developed into a friendship." She brushed her lips against his collarbone and felt him stir. "Turned out we shared an interest in old furniture. Me with refinishing it and them being collectors."
"Do you think you'll ever see them again?"
Denver already seemed a million miles away. "I plan to pay them back, of course. But, I wouldn't travel back there. Despite the Brad part, I enjoyed it, but now . . . it's over." Shannon chewed on her lip, trying to find the words to explain how she felt. "You know how sometimes you want to recreate a situation—either because you loved it so much—or for the opposite reason?"
"Yeah. Like you wish you could go back and do it over?"
She snuggled closer to him. "But, then you realize it can't be undone. Everything happened the way it did for a reason . . . and you just have to take what you learned and move on."
Curt stilled. He was silent for several moments. "I get that completely."
Damn. The accident. Why the hell had she said that? Shannon debated whether to acknowledge what she knew he must be thinking. She waited several beats—before fin
ally chickening out. She didn't want to ruin the night. He would talk with her when he felt like it. Or, he wouldn't. Prodding him wouldn't make it happen sooner. "Anyway, I'm glad to be back. I hadn't been home in years and I missed Kerry."
"Your parents were probably happy to have you back, too."
Tracing a pattern on his chest, she smiled at his indrawn breath. She was still in awe of their attraction. And a little unnerved. To want someone as much as she wanted Curtis. To be so attracted to one specific person. And to have that person want you back. "Not so much. My parents divorced when I was eighteen, but they'd been fighting for years before that."
She sighed when his hand drifted to her scalp, his fingers gently massaging. "God, keep doing that," she whispered.
"Not that I'm counting, but you've said that at least three times tonight."
Smothering her laughter, she rested against him, absorbing the soothing sensation. "So—the parents." There were so many difficult things she'd yet to confess. Telling him about her family seemed like an easy second choice. "My dad left my mother for a younger woman, so I've lived with that fallout for fifteen or so years."
His magic fingers moved to her shoulders. "Why was she hard on you? It's not like you did the cheating."
"Yeah, but Marilyn needed someone to dump on." Surprised by her admission, Shannon pushed up on her elbows. "I've never realized that before."
"That your mom needed someone to punish since your dad wasn't there?"
"Yeah."
"You're talking to an expert on that subject." Curt shifted to his side. "Ow. Your elbow is performing exploratory surgery on my stomach."
She moved to accommodate his ribs. "She's always been so . . . critical. No matter what I did—it was never good enough."
"She still that way?"
"For the most part." She forced a smile, sensing a deepening awareness in his brilliant eyes. "You know . . . not successful enough. Why wasn't I a doctor instead of a nurse? I don't know why I let it bother me. She treats Kerry the same way, and she's already had three promotions in her job."
"Overachievers," he muttered. "Like my brother." He shrugged, his smile not meeting his eyes. "Me? I was the screw-up. I was five when my mother pretty much told me I'd never amount to anything."
Shannon was outraged on his behalf, suspecting the deep hurt behind his smile. His bleak smile attested to the fact that Curt had carried those harsh words his whole life. A shiver coursed through her as she remembered her own hurtful words. How would she ever tell him what she'd done? How she'd hurt him?
"And what'd I do?" He stroked a warm hand down her arm. "I proved her right. Skipping school. Getting in trouble. I didn't even try to get into college." He released a troubled sigh. "And then . . . I made the worst mistake I could ever possibly make."
Forgetting her own worries, Shannon shifted closer. "A mistake you've paid for," she reminded. "An accident—that cost you, too."
Shutting his eyes, Curt's hand stilled on her arm. "Yeah."
Her heart thumping a wild beat, Shannon wasn't sure she was helping. Whether she could help. Whether anyone could help alleviate his guilt. Could she make it worse? Releasing a terrified breath, she took the first step. "Curtis? I saw all the plaques in the drawer. I think . . . if there was ever a way to try to forgive yourself . . . I think you've done a wonderful thing."
For several tension-filled moments, he was quiet. Too quiet. As the seconds passed, she wished she could pull her words back. Why had she jumped in? Why hadn't she just let him talk about it—the way he wanted to?
"In comparison to taking a life, I think what I do with the tournament is pretty insignificant."
Her throat filled with tears. Hell, this was not where she'd wanted to go tonight. But, his pain was so sharp. His regret so deep."It's not insignificant to the family."
Her whispered words seemed to hang in the air between them. "How would you know?"
This was it. Tell him. Tell him now, her brain screamed. Though he'd likely be furious with her, at least he would finally know what his charity event had meant to her family. She'd been too resentful to ever realize it. "For her family . . . you've kept her memory alive."
"Yeah, I'm a regular hero." Distracted, he pushed himself up in bed.
"Wait . . . There's something I want to tell you-"
He ran a hand through his hair. "Shan, I appreciate what you're trying to say, but . . . seeing her name on a plaque doesn't change anything for her family. Every year, it reminds them what I did. It reminds them she's still gone." Swinging his leg over the side of the bed, he sat on the edge, facing away from her. The muscles in his back were knotted with tension. "And I'm still here."
In a clinical, detached way, the nurse in her couldn't help but marvel over his growing ability to move independently. "Curt . . . let me explain-"
"Seeing those plaques make me physically ill," he confessed. "That's why they're hidden away. I've asked the literacy group to stop sending them—to save their damn money."
Sliding into his spot in the bed, she tentatively reached out, grazing his shoulder. It wasn't the right time, she realized. Telling him now would be disastrous. This moment was not about her— finally getting something off her chest. It was about him. "Why?"
He shrugged. "Every time I see them, it's like . . . I feel worse. As much as I can't forget, I also don't want to be reminded. Does that make any sense?"
"You put it on hold for one day a year . . . so you can get the job done and raise some money."
He turned, his expression startled. "Yeah. I'm proud of the money we raise. But . . . I don't want to think about it too much." His sigh was frustrated. "Those plaques—make it seem like I'm trying to make myself look good. Or . . . feel better. And—it's just wrong. I don't want to forget. It's sort of . . . become part of me. But—is that all I am?" He shrugged. "I don't know the answer to that."
Shannon held her breath. Nothing she could say right now would make him feel better. He wasn't looking for answers. For fixes. Because there were none. There was only acceptance. And moving forward.
"Some days, I wonder what I would've been like now—if the accident never happened. Would I have amounted to anything?" He shrugged. "I don't resent my life. I don't feel bad for myself. I just . . . exist. I try to work hard each day. But, I sure as hell don't want to be rewarded for . . ."
"It's not a reward, Curt." Absorbing the warmth from where his body had just been, Shannon was surprised that she could still feel cold. "Those plaques are recognizing effort. They aren't judging you. Nor are they forgiving you," she added. "They're just saying thank you."
He shifted on the bed to stare down at her. "Sometimes I think about being in jail. And I wonder if that might've been the best thing for me. Like—at least it straightened me out. It got me away from the crowd I'd been hanging with. I learned I never, ever wanted to go back." He shook his head. "I realized if I ever wanted a future, I needed to have a plan." His intense gaze pinning her, she couldn't look away. "Is that weird?"
Heart in her throat, she sat up, resting her cheek against his back. "We all learn to adapt in different ways. I think I learned from my parents' constant fighting how to be a pleaser. If I'm only good enough, maybe they'll like me. That's probably why I ended up with someone like Brad." She tugged him back against her, wanting to feel his warmth. "You took a bad situation and somehow made it better. You learned to cope in a rigid, structured environment—and instead of rebelling against it, you used it to your advantage. You came away with a plan for the future. How could that be weird?"
"You're like my own personal cheerleader, Shan."
When Curt chuckled, relief pounded through her veins, making her want to sink back against the pillows in relief. Lord—she was in over her head. How would she know the right things to say? How could she ever help him feel better? When she was groping for answers herself? Shannon wondered whether she was helping or hurting him. Because the last thing she wanted was to cause him more pain. He'
d experienced enough for several lifetimes.
When he slid back into bed beside her, she helped him with his leg. Curt wanted to lay on his side, so she shifted pillows under the brace. When he was finally comfortable, she slid back under the sheets. He pulled her into his arms and her chest clenched with the rightness of it. He was a good person. Worthy of a good life. He deserved someone who could love and protect him when his own thoughts got the best of him.
She wanted to be that person. Snuggling closer to him, she felt the weight of his arm secure around her waist. She was in love with Curtis. A man who'd just revealed the depths of his soul to her. To the woman who had deepened his pain. Who had made him question his worth. Muffled against his chest, she released a troubled sigh. How the hell would she ever tell him?
THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS passed in a blur of happiness. And a generous dose of fear. Plopped on the newly painted floor of Four Seasons' spruced up lobby, Shannon stretched a muted, gold leaf patterned fabric over the ancient chair cushion. Things were going well with Curtis. "Almost too well," she muttered, frowning at the stubborn wrinkle that refused to lay flat. He was opening up to her. He was smiling. Joking. Eager to return to work the following Monday. Each night, they spent hours together. Cooking. Stargazing. Laughing. Playing board games. Her cheeks heating as she remembered the previous evening, she glanced toward the shop, grateful to be alone for this last chair.
Today was the first lunch hour she didn't have an audience for what had morphed into a furniture refinishing 101 class. Billy and two of the guys in his crew had sat in for the first three chairs she'd refinished. Since they'd been eager to learn the whole process, she'd worked on each step of the refinishing project, one chair at a time, instead of working in phases.
Sliding her hand over newly sanded and stained wood, Shannon took a moment to appreciate the feel of the grain. Working on furniture always seemed to calm her. Anything bothering her always took a backseat to the project sitting before her. Indecision. Nerves. Raging worries. All were shelved as she poured herself into the creative process.
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