by Melissa Tagg
“Wasn’t much work at all. And besides, breakfast food is a thing with us Walkers. Family comfort food of choice. We all have our specialties.” She moved the eggs around the frying pan with a spatula. “Beckett is the pancake king. Logan can make an omelet seem like a religious experience. Raegan, she’s extra creative with fruit salads.”
Colton snuck a grape from the bowl. “Does your dad have a specialty?”
“Mini quiches.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not even. Seriously, you should see him line mini muffin tins with Pillsbury dough.” She giggled. First laugh he’d heard from her all day.
“And what’s your specialty, Rosie?”
She wrinkled her nose at his use of her nickname, then slid her spatula underneath a piece of French toast. “This right here. Might just look like any old French toast. But I’ll tell you my secret if you want.”
“I want.”
“I smash up some Captain Crunch and add it to the batter.” She pointed out the empty cereal box sticking up from the trash bin.
“Genius.”
She waved her spatula like a wand. “I’m no Julia Child, but I do have my strengths.”
While she dipped additional pieces of bread into batter, he glanced around the smallish kitchen. White cupboards and stainless-steel appliances against bold blue walls. A peninsula counter jutted from one wall, the open space above it looking into the living room, where beige furniture faced a corner fireplace.
It was a comfortable home, clean and uncluttered, but not without touches of Kate. The hanging shelf in the hallway with a line of books about classic films. An antique typewriter on a slim table edged against the entryway wall. And a smattering of family photos throughout the first floor.
When he turned back to the stove, he caught Kate watching him. “What?”
“My kitchen seems so much smaller with you standing in it.”
Funny, when he’d been thinking how much bigger his world felt with her in it.
“I can’t believe you hung around the hospital the entire day.”
“I was exactly where I wanted to be. Besides, I had some good reading material.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, just a sec.” He strolled back to the living room and pulled the book from his duffel bag. “A little something I picked up from the Maple Valley Public Library.”
She turned from the stove, mouth forming into an O as soon as she saw the cover. “Oh, Colt, no.”
“What? It’s this great book by this famous author I know.”
“Please tell me you aren’t really reading it.”
The French toast on the griddle sizzled behind her. “I’m a hundred pages in. I like it.”
“It’s overbearing and pretentious.” She’d always dreamt of writing a book—her once-romantic bent revealing itself in the love stories she scribbled in notebooks as a teenager. College, however, had convinced her she needed to up her literary game. Write something high-minded and lyrically decadent.
Which might not have been a bad thing if the story had come even close to connecting with readers. If it had sounded even a bit like her own voice.
“I like it.”
“It barely sold three hundred copies, and the few reviews it managed to get weren’t flattering.”
He laid the book on the counter. “All right, so it reads a little heavy. But I still see touches of you in it. I did wonder one thing, though.” He opened the book to the beginning—the dedication page. Two simple words: To Gil.
Kate eyed first the book, then him. “He was a university professor and a co-writer for a while. We were . . . close.”
Close like how he was close to Logan?
Or close like how he’d been to Lilah?
And, wow, this was the first time he’d thought of Lilah in he didn’t even know how long.
She turned back to the stove, pushed eggs around the frying pan. “Things didn’t end so great between us. I gave up this amazing communications internship opportunity in DC to stay in Chicago and help him with a TV movie script he was writing. That’s how I ended up falling into writing for Heartline.” She moved to the griddle, struggled to slide her spatula under a piece of bread that had sat too long. “But I got a big honking surprise the day I found out he’d been married the whole time I knew him.”
Colton came up beside her, gently took the spatula from her, and took over with the French toast. “He sounds like an idiot to me.”
There was a wry edge to her laughter. “I think I deserve the title, too, though. I mean, I gave up DC for a guy who really hadn’t made any firm commitment to me. Yes, he helped me get a book published—and at a very young age. I wanted to get it done before my mom passed. She died before it released, but at least she got to read the final version.” She rushed through the explanation, an effort at holding emotion at bay.
“I think it was all that time working on the book with Gil during my senior year plus the pain of Mom’s death right after graduation that just completely clouded my common sense when it came to him. So I followed him to Chicago. But how dense does a person have to be not to realize there might be a reason he always wanted to meet at my place, never took me anywhere we might run into mutual acquaintances?”
He flipped over the piece of toast, one side nearly black. “You’re not dense, Kate.”
“Well, anyway, I thought he was a thing of the past. But he’s been trying to get back in touch with me lately.”
Colton pointed the spatula at her. “Don’t do it.”
“You sound like my brother.”
Yeah, well, he didn’t feel like her brother. She smiled up at him, strands of still-damp hair framing her face.
“So I was thinking we’d eat in front of the TV,” she said, a catch in her voice that matched the pulsing of his own nerves.
“Monday night football?”
She rolled her eyes and pulled the spatula out of his hands. “I was thinking an old movie. You are woefully uneducated when it comes to the classics.”
He didn’t care what Ian said. He was right where he was supposed to be.
Kate awoke to the faintest rhythm thumping from somewhere. And the warmest, most comfortable nest of pillows and blankets she’d ever experienced. Like a cocoon, this bed, if only she had any sense of where she actually was.
She opened one eye, then the other and peeked over the blanket pulled up to her neck.
Wait . . .
That wasn’t a blanket.
And this wasn’t her bed.
And that rhythm . . .
She felt her eyes bug but swallowed her gasp before it could squeak out. That was a heartbeat under what she’d thought was a pillow. Colton . . . And it was his arm wrapped around her like a comforter. His legs stretched out in front of him, propped on her coffee table beside their empty plates from last night.
Her own legs were tucked underneath her. She was curled up in a ball next to him. And wearing his hoodie.
Slowly, like a blurry Polaroid coming into focus, scenes from last night drifted in. Dinner of French toast and scrambled eggs in front of the TV, black-and-white movie they’d hardly paid attention to. The glow of her electric fireplace. The scrapbook Colton had found on the shelf underneath the coffee table—full of childhood photos and memories she recounted as they flipped through the pages.
And her book. He’d brought it into the living room at some point and showed her the lines he’d underlined. Oh man, if there was ever a way to steal a writer’s heart . . .
And then the best part. He’d gone and torn out the dedication page and wadded it up.
“Colton, that’s a library copy.”
He’d only grinned. “So I’ll pay a fine.”
Wasn’t long after that he’d slipped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She’d shifted to lean against him. And then . . .
Then apparently fallen asleep.
And now she couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do than let
herself drift back to sleep. So warm . . . so comfortable . . .
But the second she closed her eyes, the ringing of a cell phone cut into her haze of sleepiness. Colton’s, sitting on the coffee table. He didn’t twitch a muscle. Poor man must’ve been exhausted last night after not sleeping the night before.
As gently as she could, she slid out from underneath Colton’s arm, grabbed his phone and padded from the room. She couldn’t figure out how to silence the thing fast enough, so instead she tapped into the call and lifted it to her ear. “Hello?” she whispered the greeting as she trailed into the kitchen.
“Uh, this is Ian calling for Colton.”
“I’m sorry . . .” Her voice came out froggy. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Sorry, this is his friend Kate. He’s asleep.” Great. She didn’t want to think about what the person on the other end of the phone probably assumed. Ian—that was Colton’s manager, right? “I can wake him up if I need to.”
“I’d hoped his common sense would return by morning. But if he’s still sleeping at nearly noon—”
“Noon?” She somehow managed to whisper and shout at the same time. She’d told Hailey and Marcus they’d be back at the hospital by midmorning.
“Look, maybe you can talk some sense into him. I was able to get an interview set up for him at the station. They’re expecting him there at one o’clock. I’ve called three times this morning.”
And they’d slept through every one.
He had a potential job prospect? Here . . . in Chicago?
She abandoned the coffee filters she’d pulled from her cupboard and walked to the peninsula dividing her kitchen and living room. Colton still hadn’t moved a muscle.
“What do you mean, talk some sense into him?”
“He refused to do the interview today. I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately.”
Why would he refuse . . . ?
Because of me. That was it. He didn’t want to leave her alone, and so he’d said no to what could be a game-changer for his future.
She couldn’t let him do it.
“I’ll talk to him,” she said softly.
“Good. I emailed the station address and all the details to him, so just tell him to check his inbox. Tell him he’ll regret it if he misses out.”
She tapped out of the call and paused for only a second before calling the taxi company. Then she paced back to the living room. Morning light filtered through the bamboo blinds over her front window, painting stripes of gold over Colton’s sleeping form.
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” she whispered. “You’re a good man, Colton Greene.”
She bent over and nudged him until he woke up. His eyelashes fluttered as his eyes opened. Oh, this man put to shame every mascara model she’d ever seen. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
“Don’t wanna.”
She was tempted to plop beside him on the couch, muss his hair, and tease him into consciousness. But there wasn’t time. “Rise and shine. The day’s a-wasting. Time to hit the ground running. Early bird gets the worm.” She jiggled his arm. “I’m running out of clichés.”
Suddenly his feet thumped to the floor and he sat up straight. “Wait, is it Breydan?”
His hair stood every which way, and a night’s worth of stubble covered his cheeks. “I haven’t heard about Breydan yet. You need to get up and change and get to your interview.”
She grabbed his hand and jerked. Nothing—dead weight. “Gonna need a little help here.”
“Interview?” he repeated, still holding her hand.
“Your manager called just now. He wasn’t in the detail-sharing mood, but I got the gist. And apparently you’ve got an interview. In about an hour. You are not missing this, Colton Greene.”
And suddenly he was on his feet, grim expression on his face. “Nope. Not happening.”
“Yes, it is, but you have to hurry. Taxi’s already on its way. I’d take you myself, but even after this many years of living here, I’m the worst at navigating traffic.” She ran her hands through the knotty tangles of her hair.
“Kate, I said no last night to Ian, and I meant it. I want to be here for you. We can reschedule the interview when—”
“You don’t know that.” She pushed his duffel bag at him. “Go change.”
“I’m not abandoning you.”
She paused, his words sinking in, sweet to the taste, like hot chocolate warming its way down to her stomach. She stepped back around the couch, stood right in front of him, and lifted her palms to his cheeks, like a mother to a child.
Only with the way she had to tip her head to look up at him, with every nerve in her body suddenly alert, motherly was about the last thing she felt at the moment. She swallowed.
“Colton, you are not abandoning me. You’re walking through an open door.” She waited, hoping her words sank in. “Now go get dressed.”
Something in her tone must have convinced him. Because even though he opened his mouth to argue once more, he closed it just as quickly, then disappeared into the bathroom.
While he changed, she gathered up his things—the book from the library, his phone, his wallet. He emerged from the bathroom in less than ten minutes, wearing the same jeans he’d worn yesterday and a polo. “All I had with me,” he said as he met her near the front door.
“They’ll understand.”
She dumped the library book into his duffel bag.
“Kate—”
“Cab’s here.” She handed him his wallet, his phone.
He stuffed them in his pocket. “Kate.”
“Oh, your sweatshirt.” She shrugged out of it, tucked it in his bag, then reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt, brush his hair off to the side. “All right, you’re all ready to go.” She slung his bag over his shoulder for him.
And then stood on her tiptoes.
And kissed him.
And froze, lips pressed against his and brain screeching. What. Are. You. Doing?
She jerked back and landed on her heels, the surprise plunking through her matching Colton’s wide eyes. “I don’t know why I . . . I was just caught up in . . . it was . . .”
His grin could have melted an igloo.
The cab honked.
And with a “Good luck” that came out in a squeak, she pushed him out the door.
11
And this is where you’d spend the bulk of your time when you’re actually in the studio.”
The kid showing Colton around the Sports Circle studio couldn’t have been older than twenty-four, and next to him, Colton felt ancient.
“You said when I’m actually in the studio. So most of the time I’d be . . . ?”
“Out covering stories. At games. It’s a travel job, for sure. The dude you’d be replacing—Carlton Jennings—he always said there were two things he could count on in life: tax season sneaking up on him and being gone on weekends.”
Colton glanced around the studio’s main room. It was so small. The blue desk with the sprawling glass surface filled up most of the room. A matching blue background with the gray-and-white Sports Circle logo covered one wall. Lights and camera equipment crowded the rest of the space.
“It’s no ESPN, but it’s not a bad place to work,” the kid said. When he fiddled with the security badge he wore around his neck, Colton caught sight of his name. Landon.
He still couldn’t get over how fast this had all happened. Ian’s call last night. Kate waking him up this morning, insisting that he take the interview. The missed night of sleep as they drove to Chicago and the rush of this morning meant his brain was more fuzzy than focused.
Well, if he was honest, it was actually Kate’s kiss that had him less than attentive now. So hilarious, the shocked look on her face when she’d pulled back, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just done. Hilarious and awkward and . . . awesome.
He grinned now, just thinking about it.
And if that taxi hadn’t been waiting at the curb, if
she hadn’t practically shoved him out the door, it wouldn’t have ended with that one little peck—that was for sure.
“So anyhow, our core viewership is Chicagoland, but it’s a regional show, so we’ve got viewers in a six-state area.”
Colton gave his head a small shake. Forced his attention back to Landon.
“We hit a ratings record last month. We’re hoping to keep holding strong this month. Of course, with Carlton Jennings leaving us, that’s a concern, but if you come on board, that could shoot us higher than we’ve ever been. Do you have any questions?”
Yeah, how did the guy breathe when he talked that fast? “Hmm. I guess . . . what’s your role exactly on the show?”
Landon fiddled with his security badge. “Oh, ha, probably would’ve been nice to tell you that. I’m an intern—at this point little more than a glorified fact-checker for you—well, if you get the job, but come on, how could you not?—and your co-host. Her name’s Stella. You’ll like her. Just never do a Marlon Brando Stella! yell around her. She doesn’t take it well.”
Colton looked around the studio again, caught sight of a promotional poster with Carlton and Stella’s faces smiling back at him. She looked nice enough. He tried picturing himself in Carlton’s place. Tried imagining weekends spent on sidelines, instead of out on the field. Evenings in the dim lighting of the studio, chatting with an audience he’d never see.
He could do this job, couldn’t he? So maybe it wasn’t what he’d ever imagined—talking about the game he loved rather than playing it. So maybe he’d never warmed to talking to a camera. That didn’t mean this couldn’t work.
And in the past hour, somehow he’d come to want it to work. Much more than he had before. And the reason had nothing to do with abstracts like success or fame or career . . . and everything to do with a woman who’d kissed him an hour ago.
Maybe the thought should worry him—considering his recent past. Considering Lilah, how all that had ended for him, and not all that long ago.
But Kate wasn’t Lilah. And he wasn’t the same person he’d been a month ago.
“Colton Greene?”
The voice came from down the hallway, and both he and Landon turned. A lanky man with a wiry frame, something like impatience clinging to his features. He held out his hand. “Jerome Harving, executive producer for Sports Circle.”