by Mindy Klasky
“You got tossed, what, two weeks ago? Against Philly, wasn’t it?”
“Against Philly,” Tyler agreed.
Will swore enthusiastically about the city of Brotherly Love. Tyler drank deeply before he started to offer his own opinion about which teams in the league had the worst management, the dirtiest players, the most obnoxious fans.
Half an hour later, they were disagreeing good-naturedly about Texas’s chances of making it into the post-season. “Maybe if they had Ormond down there catching,” Will said. “But once he retired and decided to stay in town—”
Tyler interrupted. “They can get by on their own catching staff. It’s the bullpen that needs help. A left-handed—”
“Gentlemen!”
Both men jumped like kids caught smoking cigarettes in the school bathroom. Tyler whirled around to find Emily Holt standing by the back of the van.
“Sorry,” Will said, and immediately pushed past him. He made a lot of noise gathering together his tools. More noise than was strictly necessary. Enough noise to cover up the sound of Emily’s tirade as she pulled Tyler toward the driver’s door of the van.
* * *
“Don’t do this to me,” Emily said. Anger tightened her throat, and her words came out a lot shakier than she meant them to.
“Do what?” There was that easy smile, the one she’d seen in dozens of online photos the night before. She’d never admit how many hours she’d spent looking up exactly who Tyler was, trying to figure out exactly what she’d gotten herself into. The guy had to know precisely what he was doing. He had to understand how her heart skipped a beat as he looked down at her, how her lungs forgot how to breathe.
The thought that he delivered that smile all the time to a million different women forced some of her rage back into her words. “Don’t screw this up, Tyler. You know I have to report on the hours you’ve worked. I have to swear in a court of law that you’ve completed your community service.”
“I’ll work my hours,” he said, unperturbed. Damn, his voice was smooth, like an aged bourbon, soft and husky. It was a voice that belonged in a bedroom, a voice that should never rise above the most seductive whisper.
“Stop it!” she said. “I’m not one of your squealing baseball fans, waiting outside the stadium after a game. Just stop it!” she said again, pulling away as he tried to settle a pacifying hand on her arm. “I agreed to do this because Anna’s my best friend. She needs you on her team. I don’t care what happens to you, Tyler Brock, but I’m not about to let my best friend fail because you can’t complete your sentence.”
He looked shocked. Stunned. Like no one had ever failed to swoon before those storm-dark eyes, no one had ever resisted the chance for Tyler Brock to smile his easy, aw-shucks grin.
“You’re right,” he said, his voice truly dipped in remorse. “I wasn’t thinking.”
He refused to meet her gaze. He actually seemed upset, no, devastated. It was like she’d popped some invisible balloon that had hovered between them. She’d destroyed his confidence, shredded the swaggering attitude that had melted her the first time she saw him.
And that was why she was still a virgin.
The thought almost made her reel. She was living the same pattern, over and over again. A guy liked her. A guy did his level best to seduce her. A guy got her this close to losing control.
And then she snapped back to reality, like a binder clip clamping down on a stack of papers.
The first couple of times it had happened, she’d been proud of herself. She’d known her parents would approve. Even Aunt Minnie would be proud. Emily had let logic rule over her emotions. She’d remained in control despite the fire of hormones, the roller-coaster swoop of desire. She’d sent home her disappointed dates, knowing she’d been true to her own beliefs.
But Caden Holloway hadn’t gone home quietly. The day after prom, half the class was calling her Bluebell. She knew it was because she’d left the high-school quarterback with blue balls. His only revenge was taunting her with a nickname she hated, a sweet-sounding joke that made her hate the end of her senior year.
In college, she’d done a lot of dating. She eased her restrictions—a lot. There were plenty of ways to have fun that didn’t involve actual intercourse. But whenever she’d felt herself slipping out of control, she’d stepped away. She’d always preserved the Virgin Technicality. Even if she’d ended up with an ironic reputation as the girl who broke a million hearts.
And here she was, twenty-six years old, throwing up that familiar wall all over again. Tyler Brock could smile, and he could glance up at her through his eyelashes, and he could look all rueful and remorseful and downright pitiful with the bruise that spread across his cheek.
But that inner part of her, the brake on her emotions, said no. It ordered her to get back to business. It said she had to forget about the flirtatious flicker between them and remain absolutely calm. As always, it was easier to go through life as Bluebell than to face the consequences of losing control. It was easier not to trust that some guy—that Tyler—would be there in the morning. Easier to stand on her own two feet.
“All right, then,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. I just need to get settled here. Just need to learn my way around.”
There was something about the way he said the words. He sounded so…lost. Not just confused about the city streets, but that was part of it. His entire life had been turned upside down. He’d moved halfway across the country on a few days’ notice, was probably living out of a suitcase. He was working for a team that had been his sworn enemy a week ago.
She sighed and let her social worker instincts take over. “Let’s just make sure this works,” she said. “Get through this community service, and you’ll never have to worry about it again. Let’s start by getting back to work.”
She led the way up the steps and into the house. The air conditioning hit her like a satin sheet, and she nearly sighed in relief from the soaring temperature. Instead, she said to Tyler, “Can you grab one of the paint samples from the kitchen? They’re laid out on the counter there. I’m going with Cappuccino Creme. The labels are on the back.”
His jaw tightened, the instant she named the color. So, Mr. High and Mighty Baseball King didn’t like being sent on errands. Well, he’d better get used to it. It was going to be a long hundred hours, if he planned on spending the entire time chit-chatting with the handyman and getting that strained look across his face whenever she asked him to do the least thing to actually help her out.
Feeling like some sort of Ice Goddess, she planted her fists on her hips and said, “Now, please? We really need to get this room done, before we move on to the rest.”
* * *
Cappuccino Creme.
What the hell was that going to be? There were four pieces of drywall on the kitchen counter, each painted a different shade of beige. As he stared at the samples, his pulse sped up. This was like all those projects in elementary school—the idiotic worksheets where he was supposed to color in some stupid bat or cat or hat, the spelling homework where he was supposed to underline the mistakes in words. Cold sweat pooled in his armpits, and he wiped his palms against his jeans.
The first sample was practically white; just a hint of color darkened the surface. No way he’d call that Cappuccino. He’d gamble the assholes who named paint colors thought the same way.
Same thing with the fourth sample. It was dark brown. Too heavy for that front room, anyway. It would make the place look like a cave. Emily wouldn’t have settled on a shade that dark.
That left the two middle ones. Did Cappuccino Creme mean the foam on top of the coffee? Or did it mean the milky drink beneath? Was it the second panel, or the third?
Gritting his teeth, he turned the boards over. Emily said they were labeled on the back. He squeezed his eyes shut, then forced himself to open them, to study the wavering letters. Cappuccino, she’d said. C—. He recognized the curve of the C. Ano
ther one, in the second word. Creme.
A wave of relief washed over him. This had to be the sample.
But then he glanced at the other piece. C. Another C. Jesus. Just his shitty luck the other name started with two Cs as well.
Well, he’d bluffed his way through twelve years of school. Those teachers had wanted to pass him, had done everything they could to move him up the ladder, year after year. He just had to make Emily want to help him out the same way. He picked up the two samples and carried them down the hall with all the authority of a man offering an opinion.
She looked up the second he stepped into the room, cutting off whatever conversation she’d been having with Will. Her raised eyebrows registered surprise. He had to answer her immediately, before she even started to doubt.
“I know you said you had your mind made up. But with the strength of the sunshine coming in that front window, I thought you really might want to reconsider.” He leaned the panels against the cabinets they were about to tear out, planting them squarely in the bright splash of sun.
“I don’t see—”
He had to talk fast. Had to convince her. “Hold that thought. Look at them there. But now look at them over here. In the darkest corner of the room.” He picked up the two boards and moved them to the far corner, to the deepest shadows in the space. “See?” he asked, as if his point was clear as the stitches on a brand new baseball. “You’ve got to find the right balance, for the sun and the shade.”
Will was nodding now, helping him out, even though the guy didn’t know it. The handyman took a step to the side, tilting his head to an angle that made him look like a hunting dog homing in on a fresh scent.
“I looked at them earlier,” Emily insisted. “Today and yesterday. In morning light, and in the afternoon. Last night, too, with just the overhead on.”
Tyler made himself shrug. After all, he didn’t really care which color she chose. He’d just needed an excuse to bring both of the boards into the front room. “Whatever you say.” But he let the words trail off, turned them almost into a question.
“I say Cappuccino Creme. The Caramel Cone is too dark.”
Ouch. She was pissed. She thought he was challenging her authority, refusing to help out. Like he really gave a damn what color she chose. Let her paint the entire goddamn house black, for all he cared.
She turned to Will, obviously shutting down any more discussion on the matter. “Can you pick up the paint today?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the guy said, managing to sound one hundred percent respectful. “But we won’t be ready to paint for a few weeks, at the earliest.”
Emily didn’t like that at all. She sighed in exasperation and said, “I need to show some progress when I meet with Ethan Samson on July 15. That’s only eight days away.”
Tyler finally understood what was really going on here. His daddy had told him homeowners were always like this—they focused on the paint, on the finishing. Not on all the steps between here and there. It would only be worse, with her worrying about meeting the requirements of her aunt’s will.
The handyman nodded. “You’ll be able to show him progress.”
If you get out of here and let us get back to work. That’s what the guy didn’t say. Tyler watched Emily hear the message, though. She turned on her heel and stormed down the hallway toward her office.
* * *
Why was she so upset about the color of paint? She knew Will was right. It was too early to pick up the Cappuccino Creme.
But choosing a color was something she could do. She didn’t have the brute strength to rip out cabinets. She didn’t know how to run electrical wires, how to install plumbing. She didn’t have the skills to fix the sagging window sills.
And with five weeks left until her deadline, she was terrified to think of all the other things on her plate—lining up the specialists to speak, figuring out the resources to include online and in the library, coordinating classes with the university…
Why hadn’t she pushed things with Mr. Samson months earlier? How had she let herself get backed into this corner?
Seven weeks to complete a year-long project. And if she didn’t succeed, she’d be totally lost.
She’d be out of a job—back to clicking on want ads for social workers, vague pleas for positions that would bore her in less than a month, if they didn’t bankrupt her first with their lousy pay.
She’d be out of a home, too. She’d settled in the upstairs rooms here in Aunt Minnie’s house, moved in all her belongings and stopped paying rent on her crappy little studio apartment.
It had been one thing to lose the job at the hospital. Their funding had been cut. They hadn’t wanted to let her go, but there was nothing they could do.
If she screwed this up? Failed to meet the terms of Aunt Minnie’s will? Then she’d be falling flat on her face, entirely by her own incompetence. She’d be shouting to the world that four years at Michigan had been a waste of time and Minnie’s hard-earned money, that she was unable to support herself, unable to contribute anything of value to the city she’d always called home. And all of Aunt Minnie’s fortune would go to a flock of freaking cockatiels.
She jumped at a knock on her door, and then she called wearily, “Come in.”
She was expecting Will to apologize for his part in leading Tyler astray. Instead, she found herself looking up at Tyler himself, at his cocky grin, and his unshaved jaw, with its seductive line of scruff barely disguising his bar-room bruise.
“Have dinner with me,” he said.
“What?” She was so surprised by the words, she couldn’t think of a proper response.
His very presence cut through the vicious cycle of her self-condemnation. His question dissolved the doubt that grabbed onto her when she least expected it, that kept her from sleeping until the early morning hours, most nights.
And, if she were going to be completely honest with herself, that was the other reason she’d been so upset out there in the living room. She didn’t like the feeling that Tyler Brock made her lose her focus on Minerva House. She didn’t like the fact that she was imagining leading him to the staircase, guiding him down the hall to her bedroom.
This was a business arrangement between them. He was a ballplayer, a guy with a criminal record. She was an idiot to imagine any of the things that had kept her tossing and turning in her king-size bed for the better part of the night before.
“Have dinner with me,” he repeated. “We started off on the wrong foot here. I was late, and I spent too much time talking to Will, and I should have just brought you the panel you asked for. Three strikes. But you’re the ump here. You can give me another chance. You don’t have to call me out.”
Dinner was a bad idea. She had to monitor this guy for the court, for God’s sake. But despite her best intentions, she heard herself asking, “When?”
“Tomorrow night,” he said immediately. “We have an afternoon game, so I’ll be free.”
She should say no. She should keep everything absolutely above board. But she couldn’t help but see the hopefulness in his eyes. He wanted her to agree. He needed her to forgive him. And she couldn’t forget those images that had drifted through her torn and ragged dreams the night before.
“All right,” she said. “Tomorrow night.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
And she wondered if her smile was as broad as his when she nodded yes.
CHAPTER 3
The next day, Tyler pulled his car into the player’s parking lot and hustled through the ballpark, determined to get to batting practice on time. He’d spent two hours over at Emily’s, finishing the demolition of the cabinets. It had felt good to pry the rotten wood from the walls. Better to chuck the shattered pieces into the Dumpster Will had rented. The guy hadn’t even complained when Tyler ducked out to get to practice, leaving him with a lot of sweeping to do.
Five hours down. Ninety-five to go. This community service thing wasn’t so bad.
&
nbsp; Especially when Emily was running behind, as she had been that morning. When he’d arrived, she’d been hunched over some how-to book in the kitchen, clutching a coffee mug between two hands, like she was praying to the god of home repair. She’d been pre-occupied enough that she hadn’t realized her bulky terrycloth robe had slipped open at her waist. Hadn’t realized, that was, until she caught his less-than-benign gaze down the front of the pink T-shirt she’d worn to bed the night before.
He grinned, recalling the challenge in her eyes as she set down her coffee and very methodically knotted her bathrobe closed. A double knot. Cinched tight, to prove she meant business.
She’d been upstairs when he left. Taking a shower—not that he needed that image to distract him as he drove across town.
He shook his head. Time to suit up. Get to batting practice. Win the game. Then take Emily to dinner. Maybe he’d even find out how far her blush could spread…
That pleasant speculation ground to a halt as Tyler turned the corner into the locker room. A bulletin board occupied prime real estate on the wall. There were the usual government publications stuck to the cork—things that Tyler had seen in every locker room he’d ever visited, from the minor leagues on up. But centered on the board, pinned by a bright silver thumbtack that gleamed like a spotlight, was a new announcement, one that hadn’t been there the day before.
Shit.
Well, no one else was around. He could take his time studying the damn thing. Maybe figure out a word or two. Decide if he needed to worry.
Taking another quick look over his shoulder, Tyler forced himself to draw a deep breath. That’s what they’d taught him to do, back in first grade, when he got all flustered for not being able to make out the words. He squinted his left eye closed. Sometimes that made the letters stop jumping. He thought about raising his hands, curving his fingers into a frame so he could study each individual word. That used to help. Back when he still tried to read.