“Ten.”
She opened the unlocked door and stepped inside. “Do you want to come in?”
“I did promise to get you home safely. And you always leave your door unlocked. I should maybe check under the sofa and in the closet for unexpected visitors.”
“Or you could just come in because I invited you. No pretenses.”
He stepped through the door. Brooks dropped her bag on the little table by the door and slid her feet from the strappy, white sandals. Barefoot, her head reached to his shoulder. Funny, he’d never noticed her height before. She reached up on tiptoe and brushed her lips over his cheek.
“Hi.”
“It’s been a long time,” he said, only teasing a little. They’d had lunch together just a few hours ago, but the time between when he left to work out and she left to run to the station seemed to take forever.
“I think I annoyed Trisha a little over dinner because I never stopped talking about you.” She brushed her lips closer to his mouth. “I barely know you and I probably shouldn’t say things like that. I should play harder to get.” Her eyes burned emerald-green, her pupils dilated and the scent of vanilla seemed to grow stronger.
“Hard to get can be fun.” Don’t play hard to get, he thought, not now. Jonas slid his arms around her waist, playing with the soft skin above the thin fabric at her waist. Her muscles quivered in his hands.
“The problem is that I’ve never been very good at not being direct.” She walked her hands up his chest. “Maybe if I’d played more hard to get, instead of calling you daily during the winter, you’d have been intrigued enough to try to track me down.”
“And if I’d found you?” He pulled her closer to his body, wanting to feel her heat surround him.
“We’d have been doing this a lot longer.” She kissed him again, this time just grazing the corner of his mouth. “Jonas, that first night? When you said asking me to dinner wasn’t about business?” She raised her gaze to his and the brilliant green of her eyes sent a jolt of awareness through his body.
“I asked you out because I wanted to spend time with you.”
“I said yes because I wanted to spend time with you. Not for the injury story or because of my job. It was just about you.”
This time he kissed her, lightly, his mouth moving slowly over hers until he heard that little catch in the back of her throat.
“I know,” he said as he broke off the kiss.
Brooks reached her hands behind her neck and pulled on the ends, loosening the white ties. “Then I think we should go upstairs,” she said and turned to start up the steps.
* * *
BROOKS WOKE THE next morning and stretched. She turned onto her side to look out the window. Rolling green hills and a light fog greeted her, along with the sound of robins singing in the trees outside the window.
If she’d known all the things Kentucky had to offer, she’d have come home a lot sooner.
Maybe.
She reached across the bed to the pillow that still held the indentation of Jonas’s head.
Probably.
She stretched again, and her tummy growled. She pulled an old T-shirt over her head and jogging shorts over her hips before making her way downstairs. Jonas stood at the stove, whistling as he flipped something in the frying pan. Brooks sniffed.
Too buttery for still-cooking pancakes. She crossed to the kitchen and sniffed again. Not sugary enough for French toast. She slid her arms around Jonas’s bare abdomen, put her head against his strong back and squeezed.
“I didn’t know you cooked.”
He put one hand over hers. “Only a few very special things. Sit, they’ll be ready in a second.”
Brooks poured two glasses of milk then sat at the tiny island that divided the kitchen from the rest of the living area, admiring Jonas’s backside in the faded Levis he’d worn the night before. He was barefoot and his tee hung over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. A block-numbered two marked one shoulder and the Kentuckians’ mascot marked the other. On his ribcage lay a block-lettered E=MC2 inside a football. A nod to the game he loved, and the academia he’d been created to master. He flipped whatever was in the pan again and her attention was drawn to the words tattooed down the center of his back.
“I firmly believe that any man’s finest hour, the greatest fulfillment of all he holds dear, is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle—victorious.”
It was one of her father’s favorite Vince Lombardi quotes, one he used at the start of every season to remind his players to give their all to the team. Not just during the game, but after.
“I didn’t realize you were a Lombardi guy,” she said.
“Isn’t every football player?”
“Probably.” She sipped her milk. “Most of them probably go for the ‘winning is a habit’ quote, though.”
Jonas flicked off the stove burners and slid the food onto two plates. Presented them to her. “The victorious quote has more layers,” he said.
“You made grilled cheese for breakfast?” Her stomach turned at the sight of the sandwiches he’d made at—she checked the clock—eight o’clock in the morning.
“Breakfast of champions. Protein, some carbs, a little fat from the butter. All your basic necessities.”
“But grilled cheese is a lunch food.”
Jonas bit into his sandwich and chewed. “So you don’t eat scrambled eggs and pancakes for dinner? Not ever?”
“Breakfast for dinner is an institution that is not to be messed with.” She pushed her plate away, determined not to be taken in by the seductive aromas of melted cheese, white bread and butter. “Lunch for breakfast is flat-out weird.”
Jonas chewed and swallowed another bite. “More for me, then. He pulled her plate across the black granite countertop. Something reddish inside his sandwich caught her eye and the other scent, the one she’d been trying to place, hit her.
Her tummy growled again, this time loudly.
“There’s bacon in that grilled cheese?”
“Don’t all good grilled cheese chefs add bacon at breakfast?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met a good chef who made grilled cheese before 11 a.m.,” she said as she reached for her plate.
Jonas playfully slapped at her hand. “Ah-ah-ah. Jonas doesn’t share his food.”
“It’s on my plate. The plate you handed to me not two minutes ago.” She pulled on the plate again, but he held it firmly in his grasp.
“You pooh-poohed my breakfast-making skills, and after I slaved over this hot stove all morning.”
“It takes ten minutes to make a grilled cheese.”
“I had to precook the bacon to get the textures right.” His brown eyes danced with laughter, and then he took another bite and a slow grin slid across his face. “Perfect.”
Brooks’s tummy growled again. Loudly. “I take it back. Grilled cheese and bacon for breakfast is the best gourmet offering I’ve ever experienced. The smells inside this house would make Curtis Stone weep,” she said, desperate. Jonas didn’t loosen his grip. “Please?”
He let go. “All you had to do was ask nicely.”
Brooks dove into her sandwich. It was the best thing she’d tasted in months. Maybe years. She devoured it, savoring the play of crisp bacon and grilled bread against smooth, melted cheese.
After finishing her sandwich, Brooks sat back in the chair and patted her tummy. “You’re a great cook.”
“Before you call all your friends and invite them for dinner, I should warn you that I can make grilled cheese. Many different varieties, but the extent of my kitchen prowess is grilled cheese.”
“How many varieties?”
“Eight, maybe ten. Your grocery shopping skills
stymied me a bit.”
“I’m a great grocery shopper,” she insisted, sitting up straighter in her chair, and pointed to a bowl on the counter. “Fresh veggies and grapes. I always buy organic.”
“You only have plastic-wrapped cheese slices.”
“They’re the best.”
Jonas clucked. “Oh, baby, do you have things to learn about cheese. Gruyere? That’s a great cheese. Baby Swiss, provolone. I’m not a fan of Muenster, but even Colby-Jack is a better choice than orangey slices kept fresh by sealed plastic.”
“It’s made with real milk.” She added starch to her voice.
“Also mold inhibitors and whey protein from concentrate.”
“I didn’t realize my grocery shopping skills were so uncivilized,” she said as she gathered the plates. Jonas slipped his strong arms around her waist and squeezed. He nuzzled her neck, making her giggle.
“I’ll make grilled cheese for you any time. Fancy cheese or not.”
She sank back in his arms, enjoying the moment that she knew wouldn’t last long enough. Finally, she tapped his arm.
“Not to ruin the mood,” she said, turning in his arms, “but do you want company today? No cameras, no reporter notebooks. Just company?”
He didn’t. Scratch that. He did. And that was a huge problem. This couldn’t last. As good as these weeks had been, she had a job to do. He didn’t doubt that she would be fair in her reporting, but then, her reporting wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was him.
She had a solid future mapped out, had plans. He had a messed up shoulder and an uncertain future. What could he possibly have to offer a woman like Brooks?
He should go to the clinic alone. Like he had done so many things in his life. But he didn’t want to.
“Sure.”
CHAPTER TEN
“ALL RIGHT, JONAS,” Dr. Phillips said as the technician put the cold end of the ultrasound machine against Jonas’s shoulder, “I’ll look from another angle, but what I see so far is promising.”
“Scarring?”
“Of course.” The doctor put his hands in the front pockets of his lab coat. “With any surgical procedure you’re going to have scarring, but what I see is minimal. I’m seeing reattachment in the right places and no further damage to the rest of the shoulder.” He rocked back on his heels. “I’d say by the time training camp opens you’ll be free from our care. Of course, there are still risks to you going back on the field.”
Jonas sat up and the technician put the ultrasound equipment away. He pulled his T-shirt back over his head. “We talked about that. The joint is healing, but it will never be as strong as it was pre-injury.”
“And the repetitive throwing motions you use will wear it down. You’ll be at risk for future dislocations, and as you age there will be greater arthritis risks in that joint.”
“But those would happen whether I’m on the field or off.”
“Correct.”
The technician left the room and he was alone with the doctor. Brooks had to wait in the lobby area, but she had offered to come. No one outside of his coaches had ever offered to keep him company during a doctor visit. It was an odd feeling.
Odd, but nice.
“You’ll report your findings to the team?”
“Everything will go into your physical file, yes. Jonas—” Dr. Phillips sat on the tiny swivel stool and crossed his arms over his chest “—thirty is young. You could do other things within football even if you’re not playing quarterback every Sunday during the fall months.”
He knew that. How many times had the doctor offered the speech about transitioning to coaching or even the broadcast booth? At least three times now. While the man was encouraging about the injury, he was brutal about the what-ifs of playing again.
“The booth isn’t for me, and I’m not ready to turn in my cleats for a clipboard.”
“Even if the final exam shows something we haven’t seen yet?”
The cold hand of fear twisted his stomach. “You think something could still go wrong?”
“Something can always go wrong, Jonas. Have you tried throwing?” He made a notation on Jonas’s chart.
“Not really,” he lied. No one needed to know about that duck he’d thrown during the camp. “I work out with Tom every morning; I’m running in the evenings. Working on grip strength.”
“You can start.” Dr. Phillips led Jonas from the exam room to the desk area. “No more than twenty times per session, no more than one session per day and not for distance. I want you to focus on the motion of the arm, pay attention to any pain you have before, during or after and keep working with Tom on the strength training.” The doctor asked the receptionist to print Jonas’s next appointment. “Until then really think about what we talked about. You’ve got other options.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jonas said. He folded the appointment slip and put it in his pocket. Dr. Phillips waved and went back down the hallway.
“Could I get your autograph for my nephew?” The receptionist, a fortysomething woman with horn-rimmed glasses and pink-streaked hair, asked. “He’s going into seventh grade and his coach says he’ll play quarterback this year. He’s already talking about taking over from you when the time comes.”
Jonas signed the magazine she pushed across the receptionist desk. “Is he any good?”
The woman shrugged. “He looks cute in the uniform and the cheerleaders seem to like him. To be honest, I get a little lost once the referees blow their whistles, but he loves it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Brooks waited for him at the door to the reception area. “Everything go okay?”
“Looks good. I come back in three weeks, just before training camp begins.”
Once they were outside the doctor’s office Brooks said, “It was nice of you to sign that autograph for the receptionist’s nephew.”
“Part of the job,” he said dismissively. A part of the job he enjoyed, although he wished he’d been able to meet the kid. Maybe give him a few pointers or just talk about the game.
“Not all players are as nice.” She frowned as if remembering something unpleasant, but then turned a bright smile to him. “I was thinking. The mud run is during the second week of training camp. It could make a good Kentuckians story for the network if we could get a few more players involved.”
“I didn’t even say I’d be involved yet.”
“But you will,” she said, as if she could see into the future. “You sign autographs for kids you don’t know, you listened when the players at your camp needed you. You’re a good guy, Jonas Nash. Good guys always go for the charitable cause.”
The more he thought about it the more he liked the idea of getting sweaty and muddy with Brooks. Maybe not in the family-friendly mud run situation, but they could start there and see where things ended.
They got into the truck and he started to drive toward the camp. No one was expecting him this morning, but it would still be nice to see the guys, maybe throw a little with them.
“It will be good for your image,” she said, as if still trying to convince him to volunteer. Her voice was too chipper. Jonas drew his eyebrows together. Had she just said it would be good for his image?
Jonas pulled the truck into a parking lot and held up his hand. “In case I wasn’t clear earlier, I don’t need you as my image consultant or my personal press machine. I have an agent for that stuff. I’ll sign on for the mud run because, as you said, it’s a good cause, but that’s the end of it, okay? No favors. No more good press ideas. Your job is to report on the Kentuckians, not turn every nightly broadcast into The Jonas Nash Show.”
She turned her head away with a chagrined look on her face. “Too pushy?”
He nodded.
“I only wa
nt to help.”
“I know that, but I don’t want my girlfriend acting as my agent. It’s too messy.” His hands went clammy on the steering wheel.
“Did you just say?”
Jonas cleared his throat. “Girlfriend. Yep.” His voice sounded scratchy. Why was his voice scratchy? “So. You think the Racers will make it into the play-offs?” he asked, naming a local minor league baseball team.
“I can’t say that I’ve paid any attention to baseball this summer. And since the All-Star Game hasn’t even hit yet, it probably doesn’t matter all that much.” She was quiet for a moment. “If we name this thing between us, it’s going to get messy.”
“It’s going to be messy whether we name it or not. I’m a football player.” A player with a questionable future who should back off, but who couldn’t seem to let go of what was happening between them.
“And I’m a journalist who has a job to do. You could be completely cleared to play, but I’m assigned to the Kentuckians. Any news that breaks I have to cover. Are you certain you want to do this? We can keep things loose. Easy.” Her voice shivered over his spine, a little breathy, with that slow Kentucky drawl he’d become so used to hearing over the past week.
“I’ve done easy. Didn’t work.” He’d only ever been as sure of one thing in his life: that he wanted to play football. He didn’t know where this thing with Brooks was going, but he knew he wanted to be with her, reporter or not.
And things were going well. Dr. Phillips might not have given the all-clear, but this visit was as positive as he’d been since the surgery. A cynical voice in his head told Jonas he was a fool.
Despite the hope Dr. Phillips gave him, he might not be able to play again. If he could play, could he be the player he’d once been? The only thing he’d done right in his life was football, and even that he’d messed up.
“I’m in.”
“If you’re in, I’m in,” she said, her voice trembling a bit.
He could mess her up, too, if he wasn’t careful.
So he would be careful. More careful than he’d been of anything else in his thirty years.
* * *
Harlequin Superromance May 2016 Box Set Page 92