But Landry rudely ignores him. "Bobbie Jo, am I on speaker?"
When Luke's face goes white, I attempt to laugh it off. "Well…yeah."
"Take me off, please."
And that's when I start to get worried because this isn't the Mike Landry I know. I can't even look at Luke as I lift the phone to my ear. "What is it?"
"Bobbie Jo, just what do you think you're up to?" Landry starts in on me.
"What? Nothing!"
"He was supposed to be goin' out with the auction winner tonight. So what's he doing there with you?"
Luke's face is turning from white to green, and I place my hand over my beating heart. "Relax, Landry. He did go on the date with her. I can personally vouch for him."
"And do I even wanna know how you're able to do that?"
"Because he hired me to take care of his mom," I blurt out. "That's what we were calling to tell you about."
Landry sighs heavily on the other end, and all I can do is shrug at Luke as he buries his head in his hands.
The steaks are sizzling on the grill, and I wait for Landry to turn them over one by one, before he responds, "I thought we had a pact, Bobbie Jo."
I sit up straight, like I just got caught doing something wrong. "We do."
"Then why are you there with one of my players?" he asks, point-blank.
"It's not like that."
His phone dings and he doesn't answer me right away. Instead all I hear is a chair scraping over the cement as he drags it closer to the kids yelling in the pool. I wait, growing increasingly anxious, until he finally retorts, "It's not? 'Cause right now I'm readin' an email that's just been forwarded to me. You wanna know who it's from?" He pauses briefly only to groan in my ear. "The young lady who won him in the auction…Heidi Foster. She's complaining about how disappointed she was in the whole evening—and I haven't even gotten past the subject line yet. So I wanna know, Bobbie Jo: why would Luke end his date early and come a runnin' to you?"
I groan, and Luke looks up, clutching his forehead. "He didn't come a runnin' to me. He came a runnin' to his mom, Landry. I can't help it if the three of us happen to be living in the same house together."
Landry goes through the roof. "What?!"
"You heard me," I reply calmly.
"Bobbie Jo, what can possibly be wrong with Carla Singleton that you had to go and move in with them?"
Luke chews on his lip, watching me. This is it, moment of truth. I can't screw this up for him.
"She had an accident in the kitchen and burned her hands. So she can't do much of anything. That's why I'm here."
All right, I didn't flat-out lie to him. I wouldn't do that. But will the little I told him be enough?
"So it's only a temporary arrangement, then?" he prods.
"I really can't give you a time frame, Landry," I dodge. "Every client is different."
"But that doesn't explain why I'm the last person to know about this," he huffs.
"You're not," I respond more gently in order to smooth his ruffled feathers. "Luke just didn't want to bother you about it. He offered me the job the night you had me deliver the tickets to his house, and not having any other immediate employment opportunities, I decided to take him up on it."
"You're tellin' me that you'd swear on a stack of Bibles that's all it is? That it's nuthin' more than a job to you?"
I cross my fingers behind my back as I glance over at Luke. "I swear."
"'Cause I don't need any more drama when it comes to Single, Bobbie Jo. What I need is for him to start firing on all cylinders so I can get the front office off my back about him," he mutters. "They don't like how he's scared of his own shadow, especially when there's been no noticeable spike in ticket sales for bringin' him back."
Wow, Landry's even more frazzled working for the Heimlichs than he was playing for them. But at least now his irritable behavior's starting to make sense. He didn't want Luke on the line because he's been facing a lot of heat for sticking by him, and he wasn't about to let one of his players see him sweat.
"Landry, I get it, and so does Luke. That's why he hired me. To give him the peace of mind he needs so he can go out and play every day."
"Bottom line, Single has to start hittin' the ball the way he did last year," Landry replies. "So if you're able to take some of the pressure off of him at home and keep him focused at the ballpark, then I guess you being there is a good thing."
"Really?" I squeak, and Luke shifts his head to the side, like he's trying to decipher my reaction.
"Yeah, just remember, no funny business, Bobbie Jo," Landry taunts me. "Single's comin' around, but he's not there yet. His confidence is still extremely shaky. So don't go tying the poor guy up in knots with your feminine wiles, all right?"
"Landry, you make me sound like… I'm not even going to say it."
And I'm finally greeted by that big, booming laugh of his. "What kinda big brother would I be if I didn't watch out for my little sis?"
"A good big brother," I chide him. "Oh, and…enjoy your date with Ruby."
"It's not a date—"
"Uh-huh… Bye, Landry," I mutter, hanging up on him, bratty kid sister that I am.
But it's clear Luke's still on edge because, before I can even put down the phone, he asks, "What did he say?"
"Well, he's not thrilled about the whole situation, but he'll get over it," I reply as diplomatically as I can. "The big thing is that I was able to avoid the subject. For better or worse, he still has no clue about your mom's Alzheimer's."
In the midst of his excitement, Luke stands, pulling me up with him, and his arms immediately go around my waist. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispers into my hair. "Thank you sooooo much."
He envelops me in a big hug, and I rock back and forth for a bit on my toes. It feels nice and safe, and my knees buckle as I melt into him like there's no other place in the world I'd rather be. It's only when he leans back a little that I'm aware of how tightly I'm gripping his sleeve that I'm actually tugging the collar of his shirt down over his shoulder. Unable to look away, my eyes hungrily follow the path of skin I've exposed on his body, running from his chiseled bicep across his collarbone and up to his neck. My heart tightens when the night-light shines on something I hadn't noticed before—a tiny scar left over from his injury—and all I want to do is run my lips over it, ready and willing to do whatever it takes to make it disappear forever.
Seeing the way I'm eyeing him, he glides his thumb along my cheek and whispers, "Landry's right, you know. I did leave my date and come a runnin' to you."
And I swoon like I've never swooned before. This is crazy. He's not my type. I'm not into short guys, sensitive guys, guys who wear their heart on their sleeve. But being eye to eye with him as we stand here, he sees me and I see him. I don't have to look up. He's not dominating me. We're equals. And I've never felt that with a man before, ever.
He moves in, and I blink, knowing this isn't a good idea. In the end, I'm only going to break his heart. I can't let this happen. I can't… But, oh…
I moan against his mouth as he presses his full lips to mine. They're so warm, so tender, I can't get enough of them. Reaching up, I do what I wanted to do and stroke the scar on the side of his neck, and he gasps, opening his mouth to me even more. When I feel his hot breath on my face, I don't hesitate. I deepen the kiss, groaning against him as I taste the sugary sweetness of his tongue, not stopping until my hands are buried in his hair, loving that it's even softer than I thought it'd be.
"Lukey! Where are you? Lukey!"
And just as suddenly as we came together, we break apart.
Pulling his shirt back into place, he gasps for breath, somewhat comically hanging his head. "Good night, Roberta."
I roll back on my heels, my chest heaving. "Not again…"
"But think about it. Isn't that what made this so good? The anticipation?" He smiles at me. "Just wait until next time."
"Oh, yeah?" I smirk back at him. "Who said there's g
oing to be a next time?"
"Your lips."
His reply is so matter-of-fact that I start to giggle, and as he moves down the hall toward his mom's room, I'm rewarded with the low, sexy rumble of his laughter.
Every man I've ever been involved with has made me cry. I lean against the wall and savor the lingering heat of Luke's body on mine. I never thought I'd find one who'd make me laugh. But the question is: with so many things working against us, can I allow myself to believe he really can be mine?
Chapter Twenty
Luke
I plunge my hands into the basin of the sink and splash cold water on my face. Letting it drip from my goatee, I try to cool down a bit. For the past hour, I've had to sit on the couch with Roberta, watching TV with Mom in between us. She's so tantalizingly close, and yet I can't touch her, can't ask her where we stand, because I can't seem to snag any alone time with her.
I shake the water from my face. It's been a week since I kissed her, and every time I try to steal a private moment with her, all these obstacles keep popping up. Either I'm home and she's out, or I'm free and she's busy. The few times we've actually been in the same room together, Mom always seems to be there too. Is life really getting in the way, or is she purposely avoiding me? Either way, I'm going out of my mind. After that kiss, living in the same house is turning out to be a lot harder than I thought it would be. It's killing me knowing when she's in the shower, or worse yet, hearing her roll around in bed while I lie wide awake on the other side of the wall.
Let's be honest. I didn't expect one kiss to change everything, but I never imagined we'd go on just the same as before. And I don't know how to go about moving forward. Don't women usually take care of this kind of stuff? They're the ones who put labels on everything, indicating which boundaries need to be crossed and when. But Roberta's not doing any of that. It's like she's leaving it up to me to define what we are.
"Luke, are you all right in there?"
I grip the sides of the sink, thinking back to when I said those exact same words to her after I inadvertently gave her a cold shower—something I could really use right about now. I have half a mind to open the door and pull her in here with me only to ravage that soft, sweet mouth of hers. That's what a strong, confident man would do.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
But I'm not a strong, confident man. Right now, I feel more like a scared little boy. For one very big reason—David Nichols is pitching against the Beavers this weekend.
"Are you sure?" she asks again.
God, why would she ever be interested in having a wuss like me for a boyfriend? I should be fired up, gunning to put a guy like Nichols in his place—but I'm not.
"I'm sure," I reply.
I hold my breath, but all's quiet. And I'm glad she's gone because where do I even begin to explain what I went through to her? The debilitating pain I suffered at Nichols's hands is seared into my senses. Tipping my head to the side, I finger the scar on my neck, remembering what it felt like to have to gasp for my next breath and not knowing if it was going to come before I blacked out. But I can't exactly stay in the downstairs bathroom all night either. With a frustrated groan, I step out.
And there she is, standing there, waiting for me. "You were in there long enough."
I scramble for a response. "Yeah, I'm not feeling that well. I think I'm just gonna call it a night."
She reaches for my arm. "What's wrong?"
There it is, that electricity. I feel it the second she touches me, and there's no denying the intensity of the feelings I have for her. I take a deep breath and try to keep it together.
"Nothing, just a headache."
I make a move to walk past her, but she doesn't let go of my arm. "Why don't you take something for it?"
Raising my eyes to hers, I give her the faintest hint of a smile. "I don't think aspirin will help."
"You're nervous, aren't you?"
"About what?"
"About this weekend."
I sigh, and she knows she has me.
"Luke, it's okay." Her hand travels up my arm to my shoulder, and my muscles ripple in response. Her hand stops, and I exhale loudly, shuffling my feet. But still, she doesn't say anything, not giving me the least sign of encouragement. I drop my eyes, skimming them over her body, and based on the beautiful blush rising up her neck, I'm certain I'm not the only one who's feeling the heat simmering between us.
I give it a moment, waiting for her to tell me what she wants. But she remains quiet. In fact, she doesn't even move.
"I'm going to bed," I whisper.
And I swear I hear her whimper, but it's so soft, I can't be sure. Oh God, if it was the sweet sound of submission falling from her lips, there's nothing I'd like more than to scoop her up in my arms and carry her upstairs with me. Right now, she's the only thing that can make me forget about Nichols coming to town. All I want to do is drown in those clear, blue eyes of hers. I'm ready to lose myself inside them.
She takes a step back. "Good night, Luke."
And it guts me to hear her take the promise that's been building between us and just walk away.
"Roberta…" I moan.
She starts ambling backward, giving me a weak smile. "It's okay. Get some rest."
But more alone time's not what I need right now. What I really need is her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Luke
Like Landry told me, all I can do is take it day by day. And after the night I've had, hitting a home run in my first at-bat, I splash through the puddles that are popping up all over the infield, feeling like a kid again. After being away from the game, I've come to appreciate the little things even more. But my teammates aren't too happy about it, even with Landry's opening day lecture still fresh in their minds.
"Isn't it a little late for this?" our hulking behemoth of a shortstop, Rob Reardon, grouses next to me. He's the number one prospect in the organization, 6'5" and 235 pounds of sheer muscle. And apparently, he's not too keen on indulging in a little Beaver Field tradition, the one that requires the position players to help the grounds crew drag the tarp onto the field. So maybe it's up to me to set a good example and do what Dad would've done.
"Yeah, it probably is." I grin up at him. "But it's one of the things I love about being in the minors. You get to pitch in. Feel like you're a part of things."
"You really think this is fun, don't you?" He reaches for a piece of the tarp that's billowing above my head and yanks it down for me to grab on to.
"It's better than having to play nine innings with you," I manage to say with a straight face.
As my double-play partner, Rob bungled an easy out right before the umpires called a rain delay. He couldn't get a good grip on the ball, no doubt because his fingers were as wet as mine. But committing a defensive error wasn't how he was hoping to end the day.
He glances back at me over his shoulder, rain streaming from his cap, down his nose, and off his chin. My bottom lip starts to quiver because he looks like he's bawling his eyes out. When he slips and nearly falls, I crack up, and goofball that Rob is, so does he.
"God, that must've looked ridiculous from the stands," Rob moans. "I hope nobody got that on video."
"Aww, R-squared doesn't want any embarrassing footage of himself out there when he blazes onto the New York scene," Hoff heckles him.
"Some of us know how to laugh at ourselves, Hoff," I'm quick to reply. "You should try it sometime."
It's a group effort as we struggle to unfurl the rain-laden plastic over the field. The monstrosity of a tarp is flapping in the breeze behind us, seemingly alive and refusing to be tamed. My cleats are sinking into the soggy dirt as I struggle to keep up with the pace Rob's setting as he leads us across the diamond.
"Laugh all you want, Single," Hoff counters, breathing hard. "'Cause you sure as heck won't be laughing tomorrow."
"So, what's the plan?" Rob asks, lowering his voice. "Is the first guy to face him gonna toss his bat and charge the mo
und?"
"Don't be an idiot, kid," Hoff sputters. "If anybody's challenging him, it's gonna be me."
"I don't think so, fellas," I scoff. "I don't need you fighting my battles for me."
Rob glances down. "Well, you're not taking him on yourself, Single. You can just forget about it."
"Although, he would try something stupid like that," Hoff mutters to Rob over my head. "Talk about a Napoleon complex."
"Yeah, well, he didn't hit you. Did he, Hoff?" I glare at him.
The head of the grounds crew is directing the team through the roar of the storm, rhythmically chanting, "Heave ho! Heave ho!" Not that it's going to make much of a difference, the field conditions are already so bad there's no way we'll be resuming this game. Which means the next time we take the field, it'll be tomorrow night against the New York Titans' Triple-A squad, the Clearwater Clash. And I have every intention of handling David Nichols myself. I don't care if I have to play the fool. I don't care if I get fined. Whatever the consequences, I'm ready to do what I have to do.
"Single, I get it. It's personal. But Nichols is insane. You can't just make a run at him. You need a plan," Rob exhorts.
Oh, I have a plan, Rob. You just don't know what it is yet.
"And I bet he's learned a thing or two while he was in prison," Hoff mumbles. "He's only added to his bag of dirty tricks."
"You gotta grab him by the front of the jersey and hold on," Rob advises, demonstrating what he means, strong enough to manage his share of the tarp with one hand. "It'll help you stay upright, so you can keep your balance for as long as possible. Whatever you do, don't let him get you down on the ground."
"'Cause then it'll be over," Hoff concurs.
"Guys, c'mon. Lay off," I groan as I struggle with the heavy, rain-soaked tarp.
"If it turns into a bloodbath, we're not gonna leave you out there for Nichols to pummel you to death," Hoff groans, his face turning red with exertion. "We'll come drag him off you if we have to."
I turn my head to glower at him. "Gee, thanks, but that's not gonna happen. I guarantee it."
Single (Stockton Beavers #1) Page 12