Stephen paused with his fist above Margaret’s door, but lowered it again. He wouldn’t bother her, not now. It was late—God, who knew teenage girls could yammer on for so long?—and she was probably asleep. Her lights were all off, and in the five minutes he’d been standing in the hallway like an idiot trying to decide, she hadn’t made a sound.
No . . . that didn’t sound creepy at all.
Walk away, Stephen. Deal with it on your own. You got yourself into this addiction, now get yourself out. Don’t burden her with your shit.
He did walk away, but as he closed his own bedroom door, he smiled at the list she’d given him. The hasty note scribbled on his grocery list paper had been exactly what he’d needed.
Don’t say things like “You’re better off without him. You’re too good for him. You don’t need a boyfriend right now. There are more fish in the sea.”
Which was exactly what he would have said, if he’d been left up to his own devices. It was all true stuff, wasn’t it?
Try “I know it hurts. I’m here for you. I love you. You’ll get through this.”
That part, at least, had made sense, though it hadn’t felt action-oriented to his way of thinking.
She doesn’t want you to fix it. She wants you to listen, make sympathetic noises, and give her a safe place to vent.
It started making sense after he’d read that bit.
Above all else: Do not try to fix it. You can’t. Just be supportive.
Although the “Don’t” column was exactly what he would have said, he couldn’t deny the “Do” column worked a hell of a lot better than the “Don’t” had in the past. She’d cried, she’d wailed, she’d sobbed, she’d made angry, violent threats, and she’d moved back to sobbing.
The angry, violent threats had been his favorite part.
But she’d finally calmed down enough to thank him for listening, to admit she knew life would go on, and that she’d call him later when she was in a better mood. She had hung up knowing he had her back and he loved her. That had seemed to calm the most ragged edges of her hysteria. And he had Margaret to thank for that.
So he would thank her by letting her sleep. And in the morning, he would address with her exactly what that kiss had been all about.
***
Margaret blinked until the bedside clock came into focus. Three in the morning. Why was she awake? She never woke up in the middle of the night, unless she was sick.
Thump.
What the . . . She paused, waiting for a moment, frozen in bed, until she heard it again, along with a muffled voice.
Had someone broken in? Were they about to be burgled?
No, that was stupid. Nobody would break into this place. It’s got security features everywhere. The alarm would have sounded by now.
Unless Stephen forgot to set it. The phone call with his sister had unnerved him, and she had no clue how long he’d spoken to her. What if he hadn’t set it, and someone just walked in? Big-time football player, probably has a lot of valuables to fence.
You’re winding yourself up over nothing, Margaret. Knock it off.
Yeah, that didn’t work.
Thump.
She had to do something. Slowly, so the bed didn’t creak, she slipped out from under the covers and into the closest pair of shoes she could find, which were her faux Uggs. If she had to make a break for it, she wanted to do it with shoes on. She tucked her cell phone in one hand, then realized that wouldn’t do her much good if she came face-to-face with the intruder. Feeling stupid, but doing it nonetheless, she grabbed the closest thing that looked like it could be used as a weapon—her curling iron from the attached bathroom—and held it in her hand like a club.
Yup. She was ready to curl the burglar to death. This could only end well.
She turned the knob so it rotated without catching, then eased the door open a few inches.
And saw Stephen, sprawled on the floor, his back against the wall across from her bedroom door. He let his head drop forward, then thump back against the wall, muttering to himself. His eyes were closed, his arms draped limply by his sides, and his legs were splayed out in front of him.
Was he drunk? No . . . please say she hadn’t failed so soon. Please say he hadn’t slid back. She couldn’t accept that.
“Stephen,” she whispered, walking carefully toward him. “Stephen? Are you okay?”
He cracked one eye open, glanced at her, then shut it again. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” she lied easily. “Just happened to wake up and heard . . . this. What’s wrong?” She knelt down beside him, dropping the curling iron, feeling his head. Not hot, or at least no hotter than usual. The man seemed to naturally run about five degrees warmer than any other human. “Are you hurt? Did you pull something from your workout earlier? Should I call Trey?”
“Don’t.” He reached out and grabbed her other wrist as she started to lift her phone. “Don’t. I wasn’t going to bother you, then I hated the idea of going back to my room. Then I couldn’t go down to the kitchen because I was afraid . . .” He sighed and let go, and it felt like defeat. She wanted him to grab hold again, to show some sign of life. “Sorry. Ignore me. Go back to bed. I’ll be gone in a minute.”
Gone? Like, back to his room? Or gone like, getting in the car and not coming back? He was distressed enough it didn’t seem like an illogical question.
“How about we talk for a minute instead?” She settled down on the wall beside him. When he didn’t move to give her room beside him, she knew he was in bad shape. He was a snuggler. A toucher, by nature as much as desire. If he could put an arm around you, he would. The fact that he didn’t attempt made her nervous. Taking a deep breath, she judged and found no smell of alcohol. Just the faint scent of detergent—he’d grabbed shorts from the clean laundry she’d done that afternoon. That made her feel a little better about things. If he hadn’t drank, then they could still make it to morning.
“Can I ask what you were doing with the curling iron?”
“Oh, right. At first I thought you were a burglar. It was my weapon of choice.”
He shook his head, eyes still closed. “Girls.”
“Tell me about your call with your sister. Caitlyn, right?”
When he didn’t speak, she took matters into her own hands and lifted his arm, scooted under it and against his side, and let it drop over her shoulders. When he glanced down, eyebrow raised, she shrugged. “I was cold.”
“Caitlyn and her boyfriend broke up. Or rather, he broke up with her . . . because he’s an idiot.” He snorted. “Can I say that now that I’m not on the phone with her?”
“You can say whatever you want,” she offered magnanimously. “Just not while you’re on the phone with her. I was a teenage girl. I know what people try to say to teen girls when they’re in an emotional upheaval, and it rarely works.”
“You were right. She didn’t want me to fix it. I started to stray once, and she heard it, and I could hear the hitch in her breath, so I changed courses and went back to the script and things smoothed out. So thanks.” He sighed and rested his chin on her hair. “Are we having this conversation in the hallway for any particular reason?”
“Because it’s not your bedroom and it’s not the kitchen.” As if that made any sense to her. “What’s wrong with your bedroom?”
“I used to keep beer in there.” His chest hitched, just a little, when he said that. “You probably saw the minifridge. It was where my nightstand is now. Trey and Josiah took it with them when they cleaned me out of alcohol.”
She’d noticed but hadn’t wanted to ask where it had gone. Into storage, she’d assumed. It didn’t occur to her he’d kept beer in there, though maybe it should have. “Just for a little nightcap?”
“Sometimes. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and want a drink. Most people, they’d head to the bathroom for a Dixie cup of water from the faucet. No, I’d want that cool glass.” His hand twitched against his thigh, as if cupping the
bottle now. “And that makes me feel like a fool, because how many people keep beer in their bedroom? Alcoholics, that’s who. How did I not see it sooner? So right now, my bedroom makes me feel stupid. I’m avoiding my bedroom.”
“Okay,” she said softly. “And the kitchen?”
“What if they forgot something? I had stashes everywhere. Sometimes, I’d buy in bulk for a party—or I’d tell myself it was for a party, knowing good and well I’d never invite anyone over and just drink it all myself—and I wouldn’t have anywhere to put it. I’d start stashing the bottles and six-packs in odd spots just to get it all put away. I was looking for a Christmas mug my sister—Jessica, this time—made me about a year ago, and found three bottles hanging out with the never-used mugs on the top cabinet shelf all the way in the back. No clue how long they’d been there. Didn’t mean to hide them on purpose, exactly.” He rubbed a shaky hand over his face, as if embarrassed, or tired. Maybe both. In a soft voice, a little wavering, he asked, “What if they missed some? What if I go down there feeling like this, and tear the kitchen apart looking for something that shouldn’t be there?”
“And so you came to me.” It made sense now. All of it. “Except you didn’t, exactly. What stopped you from knocking on my door, Stephen?”
“Pride, maybe. That sort of innate sense of, don’t bother others with your problems.”
“You hired me to be your accountability partner. So let me hold you accountable.” She shifted out from under his arm and sat beside. “Have you called your sponsor?”
“It’s three in the morning, Mags.”
“Isn’t this exactly what a sponsor does? Take calls at odd hours, because you’re not an alcoholic from nine a.m. to nine p.m.?” When he said nothing, just stared at her with weary eyes, she repeated, “Call your sponsor.”
“Phone’s in my room,” he said, huffing out a laugh. “This is stupid. I’ll go make the call. Sorry to bug you.”
When he stood, he reached down a hand and pulled her up. “Uggs?”
“Fuggs,” she corrected. When he made a face, she added, “Faux Uggs. Cheaper off brand. You go sit in there,” she said, pointing to her room, “and I’ll get your phone.”
“Why in your room?”
“Because you don’t want to go into yours. I’ll get your phone. Go,” she added as an order while he just stared at her.
***
Stephen finished up the call to his sponsor—who had assured him this was exactly the right time to call and admonished him for not calling sooner—and set the phone down on his thigh. Mags had fallen asleep nearly ten minutes earlier. She’d sat up, waiting for him to finish, then had finally lost the battle for sleep and passed out sideways on her bed.
He pushed out of the armchair and walked over to tug her boots off. She grumbled in her sleep and shifted to her stomach, but didn’t put up much of a fight.
Once he had her boots off, he debated what to do with her, then decided to just cover her up with a blanket. He grabbed one from the back of the armchair he’d been sitting in, draped it over her, then just watched her for a moment.
She was so beautiful. He wanted nothing more than to pick her up, carry her back to his bedroom, where his king-sized bed was, and tuck them both in tightly together. But it wasn’t time for that yet. And he wasn’t sure his shaky legs could even carry him, let alone her, that far.
As he opened her door, her eyes blinked. She watched him with a sleepy, hooded gaze. “Where are you going?”
He hesitated, not sure what to say. “I don’t know.”
“You’re not going to bed?”
That much he knew. “Can’t.”
She watched him another moment, then crawled to one side of the queen-sized guest bed, the blanket draped around her shoulders and back like a cape. “Come here.”
He froze, unsure if she was asking what he thought she was asking. “I . . . What?”
“You won’t go downstairs, and you don’t want to go into your room tonight. I can hear it in your voice.” She settled her pillows up high against the headboard, then patted the space beside her. “So come here.”
When he said nothing, she gave him a chilling glare. “The hallway isn’t comfortable. Just relax. I don’t bite.”
It wasn’t how he’d envisioned crawling into bed the first time with Mags, but he supposed it would have to do. He walked over, then remembered he wasn’t wearing a shirt. But she simply tugged the covers back and pointed, and he lay down. They were arm to arm, his wide frame not giving her an ounce of room. He started to turn his back toward her, facing the door, to give her a few extra inches of space, when she surprised him and just molded herself to him. Her breasts, not confined with a bra, pressed into him. Her thighs were perfectly aligned with his hip and thigh. And she sighed when he cautiously folded his arm around her back, pulling her in tighter.
“You’re such a good guy,” she said in a sleepy, dreamy tone. “Whatever else happens, please remember that.”
Good guy . . . did that mean Love ya like a friend? No, that’s not how friends kissed. She had to feel more for him than that.
“Stop thinking,” she said on a yawn. “Start sleeping.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled when she pinched him. When no expected yelp came, she blew a raspberry and snuggled closer. He kissed her forehead and was out in under a minute.
Chapter Thirteen
“Good morning, can I help you?”
Margaret eased up to the front desk of the Bobcat front office. The assistant there, probably in her late thirties or early forties, looked competent, capable, and the embodiment of everything she wanted to be. That thought only served to remind herself she was nothing but a housekeeper . . . and a currently nonworking one at that.
Stop. Just answer the lady’s question.
“Hi, I’m here to see Cassie Wainwright?” When the woman glanced away at her screen, she added, “Cassandra, I guess. Or does she go by Cassie Jordan here?”
The woman blinked, a little confused. “I’m sorry, is Ms. Wainwright expecting you?”
“No, but I—” The woman’s gaze frosted over until Mags felt the flesh on her arms goose-bump up in response. “I just wanted to see if I could catch her. Maybe she has a break soon, or something. If not, I—”
“Unauthorized personnel and media are not allowed back unless expressly invited.”
“I’m not media . . .”
Standing, the woman waved a hand at the security guard. “I’ll have Jonathan help you to your car.”
It was the polite, businesslike way of saying Here’s your hat; don’t let the door hit ya on the way out. She blinked at the sting of accusation and nodded. “Right. Sorry. Okay, I’ll just . . . Sorry. I should have called her. Bye.”
The man in the simple navy suit with coordinating matte gold tie approached but stayed a healthy distance to her left. She had a feeling if she made a break for it to the back offices, he’d flatten her in a second, but he seemed content to let her walk out under her own power.
“Mags?”
She turned at that and felt the enforcer’s presence close in. “Cassie?”
“Hey, girl!” Cassie hurried to her, dressed in simple khakis and a casual blazer over a graphic T-shirt that had a bobcat on it, with the words Nerd Herd above. She wore flats and her hair flew in waves behind her as she hustled up to give Mags a hug. “What are you doing here? Did you come with Stephen?”
“No, I was here to see you, actually. I didn’t have the secret password or whatever, I guess.” She tried to laugh it off, but when Cassie’s brows furrowed, Mags explained, “I didn’t have an appointment, so I wasn’t allowed back.”
“Cassie.” The blonde assistant approached, and Mags had to work overtime to not feel inadequate all over again. The woman’s suit was flawless, and her heels were at least three inches of perfection. “I’m so sorry. She didn’t have an appointment and wasn’t on your list, and with the way things were going, I—”
“It’s
okay, Kristen.” Cassie threw an arm around Margaret’s shoulders and squeezed. “I’ll add her to the list.” To Margaret, she added, “Are you free for lunch? I was about to give Kristen my order for the tech crew; we can add yours on.”
She debated a moment, then nodded. “Sure, thank you. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“None at all,” Kristen assured her as they wandered back to her desk. “I really do apologize about that. I’ve been having media try to get through all day. Several bloggers have tried to sneak in under fake IDs pretending to have appointments. I just assumed, which was wrong.”
Feeling a little better about the whole thing, Mags smiled. “I get it. No big deal.”
“We’re getting food delivered from the deli down the street. Typical sandwich fare, but good. Write down an order and Kristen will phone it in.” Cassie waited for her to finish and then pulled at her arm. “Come with me while we wait. I can show you the setup.”
Mags forced herself to keep up with Cassie’s long-legged gait and not stop to gawk at some of the photos and trophies displayed along the hallway. Her friend pointed out the media team, the various coaches’ offices, then waved a hand down another hallway. “That’s where the main coaches are located. They’re guarded by a fire-breathing dragon named Frank. We won’t go down there . . . stuff’s going on,” she added in a low voice. “Come this way to see all things happiness and light.”
Mags followed Cassie into an open room, with computers and other machinery along every wall, with men sitting at chairs. There was a conference table set up in the middle, with nothing on it and nobody seated at it. And the room was a bit dark, though not so much that she had trouble seeing. “It’s . . . uh, happy and light?”
Cassie laughed. “Hardly. That was a joke. We’re the redheaded stepkids of the organization . . . and yet without us, the show could not go on. Let’s sit for a bit while the food’s coming. They’re fast, but it’ll still take a few.” Cassie waited while she took a seat, then plopped down in her own chair. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
Takes Two to Tackle Page 12