“Do you talk to them?”
“Who?”
“Your father and stepmother?”
“Too much.” M. J. laughed, remembering Felicia’s call from earlier today. “A few hours ago, I had a conversation with my stepmom that went something like this. Her: ‘Saturday is Annemarie’s baby shower.’ Me: ‘I have a game in Buffalo.’ Her: A huge sigh, and then, ‘I’ll tell them you’re sick.’ Which is crazy, because everyone knows I play football.”
Repeating it made her realize it wasn’t really funny that Felicia would rather blatantly lie to people at a baby shower than have to talk about M. J. playing football. But it was what it was, and interactions like that were not going to define her. “I’ve developed a pretty decent immunity to it all,” she said. “Probably because I talk about it, and somehow that defuses it.”
“Walking away would end it. If you cut ties, then you don’t have to deal with it at all.”
“Says the man with Edna Dean for a mother. We can’t all be so lucky. The rest of us just take what we can get.”
With his elbows on the arms of his chair, he steepled his hands in front of his mouth. He bounced his fingertips off his sealed lips enough times to send her in search of something reasonable to say.
When M. J. was about to ask about his father, Tag dropped his hands to the table with a soft thud. “Honestly, I wasn’t always that lucky, either. Edna and Simon adopted me.”
“Wow.”
Okay, that was probably the absolute worst reaction to someone revealing they were adopted. What was the big deal anyway? There wasn’t a big deal. But by the pale flush to his face, she could tell either her reaction or the subject was a very big deal to him.
Tag folded his arms across his chest and looked around the restaurant.
“Adoption is a wonderful thing,” M. J. said, scrambling to put a positive spin on her reaction. “What’s that saying? Adoption is parenthood by choice not chance.”
Tag scoffed. “Yeah, well, I’m not sure Edna and Simon would’ve chosen me had they known exactly what I came from.”
Again, M. J. had put her booted foot in her mouth. She wished to God she had put it in her ass, instead. A swift kick could’ve sent them right past this heavy conversation.
So much for a simple lust-filled ruse tonight.
Waiters and waitresses moved around them, refilling glasses, setting down plates. When they finally fluttered away, M. J. picked up her fork and knife and painstakingly cut her filet into bite-sized cubes. She could either take the pause as an opportunity to change the subject and get back to light and easy, or she could push him to confront the uncomfortable, like she would anyone else.
I do not want to be walking on eggshells around anyone, she thought again.
“How old were you when you were adopted?”
His face still wrinkled, but his arms had returned to his sides. “Nine.”
“Oh. Well then, surely they would’ve known your childhood hadn’t been easy. They chose you despite what they knew. That’s even better.”
“They didn’t choose me. They wanted a child, so they went to social services and specified an age range and checked mild neglect, but no physical or sexual abuse on the forms. They were given me, because I fit the criteria. Of course, they love me now, but I can’t help but think if they had the choice between me or, say, a biological child, they’d choose the biological child. I just can’t imagine being anyone’s first choice.” He winced. “You know what? I don’t really want to talk about this.” An extra-large bite of chicken shoved into his mouth made the statement loud and clear.
That was her cue to back down, wasn’t it? She usually missed that sort of thing, and now that she recognized it, she felt guilty not respecting his wishes—even though it bothered her that he had such a negative view on something that clearly worked out for the best. Cue or no cue, she had more to say.
“I disagree. They had the right to refuse the placement in the first place, didn’t they? They chose you then. And they chose you again when they made the adoption final. To me, it looks like you were their first choice . . . twice.”
He blinked at her while he chewed. She’d overstepped his boundaries. He was probably gearing up to throw her out.
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” he said.
She exhaled, and a smile pulled across her face. The gamble had paid off. “A fresh perspective is a good thing.”
“It is.”
“Edna and Simon sound like good parents.”
“They’re the best,” Tag said without hesitation.
“Then I say they’re compensation for whatever happened before them.”
Time stilled. She held her breath as he placed his fork on the table and reached out with an open hand, curling his fingers in a way that encouraged her to set her hand in his. When she did, the purest warmth climbed her arm and settled inside her heart.
“You have no idea how badly I needed to hear that.” He squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”
M. J.’s breathing regulated, and the steady supply of air allowed a satisfied smile to stretch across her face. “You’re welcome. And just for the record, despite where you came from, you look like you turned out pretty damn good to me.”
He grinned. “You’re only saying that because I’m wearing the glasses.”
Maybe she was. He was that good looking, that smooth in those glasses.
Who was this man sitting across from her in a dress shirt so expensive it shined, with not a hair out of place, and eyeglasses sporting a designer label M. J. most certainly couldn’t afford on a female quarterback’s one hundred dollars per game coupled with a bartender’s minimum wage? Who was the scarred boy behind the perfectly coiffed man?
There were numerous warnings in those complicated questions, but as he smiled at her from across the table, heating her entire body with the touch of his hand, M. J. decided some questions were better left unanswered. She liked him, and she couldn’t deny that she wanted to be with him. So for now, the only question that seemed important was could she handle seeing Tag during the football season.
She definitely wanted to try.
Chapter Eight
Tag had told M. J. critical things he’d never told anyone, including Edna, Simon, and the parade of therapists from his youth. He’d never confessed his worry that his foster-turned-adoptive parents had bitten off more than they could chew and would’ve sent him away like his biological father had if they’d known ahead of time the effort it would take to make him into a competent human being. Even after all the hard work and polish, the truth remained written in his genetic code. He’d come from a low-life, mean-spirited, cold-hearted alcoholic, who’d cared more about a stupid sport than he had about his boys. Tag understood biology. He knew some of that could be lurking in him. And tipping others off to that truth didn’t sit well with him.
Still, thirty minutes after his revelation, M. J. sat across from him, licking crème brulee off her spoon like nothing he’d said had been a big deal. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he was skewed. Then again, maybe she didn’t particularly care about his family issues, because she had her own. There was power and connection in commiseration like that.
“Do your father and stepmother live in town?” he asked.
She nodded and dipped the spoon in her dessert. “They live in Beachwood.”
A sliver of cherry pie stuck in his throat, and he coughed to dislodge it. “You are a product of a wealthy suburb?”
“Guilty.” She grinned. “My dad’s a judge. My stepmom’s a retired ballerina, now a committee maven.”
Tag would’ve never guessed. She’d looked so natural, so comfortable in her urban surroundings, and yet she looked pretty damn good sucking on that silver spoon. “Where’s your biological mom?”
For the first time all evening, M. J. faltered. Her face flushed as she placed the spoon on the table and stared wistfully into space above his head. He should’ve known better than to ask a personal ques
tion with the potential for causing pain. He wished he’d used more tact or skipped the question all together.
“You don’t have to ans—”
“My mom died when I was a baby.”
They both spoke at once, and she looked at him them, wincing before a quiet calm settled over her face. “It was in a car accident, so I don’t remember her, but I have some pictures, and I’ve been told stories. She was a high school basketball star. That explains a lot about me, doesn’t it?”
Her smile returned, and when it did, Tag marveled at her ability to face the ugly parts of life and push through them with a peaceful outcome. It was inspirational, and it made him want the same for himself. Even more, it made him feel like he owed her something of equal consequence in return for taking the topic down a dark road in the first place.
“My biological mother died when I was seven,” he said, pushing through an increasing tightness in his throat.
“Is that why you were put up for adoption, because you were an orphan?”
More tightness. Ruthless tightness. The kind that caused panic to burn his lungs. Tag looked away, thought about changing the subject, thought about running off to the men’s room, but when he looked at her, she was staring at him with such earnestness, he knew only a coward wouldn’t push on.
“Not exactly,” he said. If the waitress had been passing by he would’ve ordered another drink. “My father was still around. He just didn’t want me anymore.” Fuuuuuck. Tag bit into his left cheek until he tasted blood. It was a welcome distraction from the searing pain in his chest.
M. J.’s pretty face twisted, and she shook her head. Her mouth opened and closed, like her hands, resting on the crisp, white tablecloth. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“But I am. How can I not be? It’s a terrible story.”
“With a happy ending. Remember, Edna Dean adopted me.” Tag tried to smile. It felt funny. He probably looked deranged.
How long would it take for him to accomplish peace like M. J. managed after her moments of upheaval?
“Has he ever tried to contact you? Some biological parents do when they realize they made a mistake.”
Tag scowled. “He’s dead now. Died in a plane crash a few years ago. And he would’ve never seen it as a mistake. I sucked at sports. My brothers didn’t. He made it clear I didn’t belong in baseball, and eventually, I refused to step foot on the field. It was pretty clear-cut as far as a man like Francis Kemmons was concerned. I had to go.”
M. J.’s eyes widened. “Kemmons.”
Tag wasn’t thinking straight anymore. He hadn’t been for a long time. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have admitted such a guarded thing. And yet, maybe he was just done holding it in. Maybe he needed someone to share the burden. “I take it you recognize the name.”
She nodded. “Tanya is a baseball super fan. She has a Fathead of Yadier Molena on the ceiling over her bed . . . and a Grey Kemmons jersey hanging in her closet.”
Tag winced. “Grey is my brother.”
“Small world,” she whispered.
“Infinitesimally tiny.” They were her words from earlier when they’d been talking about his mother, but they applied here, too, and somehow they buoyed him, comforted him with the same connection and shared understanding M. J. effortlessly brought into his life.
She must’ve recognized the repetition, too, because her mouth curled into the sweetest smile.
It was confusing and surreal that after everything Tag had just admitted, he was happy just being with her.
• • •
M. J. didn’t think she’d ever had a meal so fraught with emotional highs and lows outside of dinner at her parents’ house, but by the time they’d reached Tag’s car, they were laughing.
“I pulled my helmet and skull cap off, and the minute my hair hit my shoulders, the coach started yelling, ‘You got burned by a girl,’” she said, continuing with the story she’d started while Tag settled the bill. “Every one of those guys was crying in the handshake line.”
She laughed again as she sat, shaking her head, pulling one foot and then the other into the car. That’s when she noticed Tag, staring down at her, his laughter gone quiet.
Images from earlier when he’d opened the door, buckled her in, and had his way with her mouth filled her head and heated her face. She wanted him to do it again, and this time, she didn’t want him to stop.
He shut the door instead, the crooked smile playing on his lips letting her know he was having similar thoughts. She watched him cross to the driver’s side and settle behind the wheel. Just the smell of him in these close quarters had her itching to crawl across the center console. Very unladylike indeed. Why did pushing the boundaries always rev her engines?
“Now where?” he said, his voice wavering the slightest bit.
Maybe she imagined the hesitation. Maybe she wanted vulnerability to be there. Not that he hadn’t been vulnerable enough already tonight. Not that she needed him any more exposed. On second thought . . .
“How about somewhere I can get you naked?”
His laugh sounded like a cough, but he managed to smile.
“You know, if that’s all right with you,” she added, grinning the entire time.
Tag reached beyond the gearshift and ran his hand along her thigh. “I think I can be good with that.”
“You think?” She almost yelped when his fingertips dipped between her legs.
“As long as I can get you naked, too.”
M. J. had done it now. She’d let impulse and desire make a decision for her she couldn’t possibly refuse—consequences be damned.
With her head against the seat and her eyes closed, she didn’t know exactly where they were going when Tag pulled out of the parking lot. It was hard to get caught up in details with his right hand roving her body.
Eventually, she opened the window for air, and as time dragged on, she thought some music would be nice. Then maybe she wouldn’t be so self-conscious about her rapid breathing and turned on by his.
He flattened his palm against her belly and dipped fingers beneath the waistband of her pants. How was he managing to stay on the road?
“I hope you don’t mind my place,” he said. “It was closer.”
M. J. opened her eyes as he put two hands on the wheel and pulled into a garage beneath a stately brick townhouse. “I don’t mind.” And yet she was feeling a little foolish without his wandering hand keeping her thoughts at bay.
Tag exited the car and crossed around the front to her door. A mix of embarrassment and doubt had M. J. frozen, but her arousal lingered. She had suggested this. She wanted this. Him. Complications and all.
“Shall we?” he asked as he opened the door and held out a hand. Such a gentleman.
Still, she paused. Suck it up, Rooney, said the coach-like voice in her head. Nerves are part of every game. And this was a big one. She hadn’t been looking for a man, but she’d found one, and she didn’t seem capable of pushing him away. There was something there—even when she didn’t want there to be.
M. J. placed her hand in his, because unless she played the game, she’d never find out how it ended.
Tag pulled her through the damp chill of the basement garage and up the stairs behind him. At the top, he let her go, and she stepped into a spotless, sparsely decorated kitchen. Unlike her peeling, sauce-stained laminate countertop, his granite gleamed. No dishes in the sink. Not a bag of bread or chips left open. Perfectly maintained—just like him. Again her worry spiked. But then she remembered he wasn’t perfect. Not on the inside. She had the oddest urge to lunge for the cupboards and see what he was hiding in there. More turmoil? M. J. hoped so, because she liked him that way—laid bare. It balanced the playing field.
She faced him as he shut the basement door. “I wish I had known you then.”
“When?” He reached up with one hand and loosened his tie.
“When you were a boy.”
Her answer startled
him into stopping mid-motion, leaving the tie hitched around his neck like a designer noose. “Why?”
She walked to him and finished the job, slipping the tie over his head. “Because we would’ve been quite the pair, don’t you think?” She smoothed her hands over his shoulders and up to his neck. “You, the boy who felt unloved because he refused to get on the field, and me, the girl who felt unloved because she refused to get off it.”
His warm hands slid over the curves of her ass to the small of her back, urging her closer. “The way you see things blows my mind.”
“We can find better things to blow.”
Eyes wide, mouth open, and head tipped back, he laughed. It was the most beautiful sound M. J. had ever heard. Placing her lips against the vibration in his throat, she quieted him. He smelled like mulled spice and tasted like salted bread—pure comfort. Lust zip-lined from her heart to the hot spring between her legs.
He cupped her jaw, tilted her head, and covered her mouth with his. Gentle suction, warm and wet, so soft and unassuming she didn’t realize how far gone she was until her head was spinning from lack of air.
“The bedroom’s upstairs.” He stared down at her with cloudy eyes, raking his fingers through the hair on the sides of her head, lulling her into the sweetest surrender.
M. J. didn’t care where they went. She was more than fine right here, but she followed him up another flight of stairs, her heart swelling with every step. What was it about this man that made her feel strong when she was being weak?
He pulled her into the first room on the right, wrapping her in his arms. “For the record, when I was on the field with you, I didn’t mind being there at all.”
“When I fell?”
He nodded.
M. J. felt suddenly sad their first meeting was one-sided. “I’m sorry I don’t remember that.”
“Funny, I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”
He kissed her, slow and deep, until the heat at the core of her body melted everything in its path, buckling her knees. She curled her hands into his shirt to keep from slipping to the ground.
Blackout curtains and no light from the hall meant the room was dark, and M. J. had no idea the direction of the bed. She needed the bed. Her legs were not going to hold out. Some professional athlete she turned out to be. Where was her almighty stamina now? Busy, trying to keep pace with her pounding heart, because Tag traced the length of her neck with his fingertips, and then his lips followed.
Hearts Are Wild Page 49