There was going to be no kissing, no naked fun…at least, she didn't think so.
Chapter Fifteen
As he and Keira settled in at the kitchen table, Dante couldn't help thinking about the last time they'd been there, sharing a meal, getting to know each other. It was weird, but this house was almost starting to feel like home, and it didn't belong to either of them. Maybe that was why it felt safe. It wasn't her life, and it wasn't his; it was a place to meet in the middle.
"Damn," Keira muttered, as she stared at her computer.
"Did you find something on Mandy?"
"No, I was actually checking my emails." She looked at him with disappointment in her gaze. "I think the fallout from Nikki's posts is just beginning."
"What happened?" He braced himself for another bad surprise.
"After Chelsea's red-carpet walk, I got some emails from stylists wanting me to design for their clients. They're all in the early stages of contact, but I just got a reply from one stating that her client won't be interested in pursuing a relationship with me now, because she's friends with Nikki."
His stomach twisted as he saw the distress in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Keira."
"Me, too."
He needed to fix this. "Look, Nikki isn't the only one with connections. I can pull some strings, too. I can connect you to stylists. I've got an agent, a publicist, and friends in the media."
She immediately shook her head. "No, I don't want your help."
"Why not? I'm the reason you're getting screwed."
"It's just one stylist. Hopefully, the others won't bail."
"They might. I didn't realize until just this second that you and Nikki intersect in the world of fashion."
"I wouldn't say we intersect. I'm a small-town designer, who has made a few dresses. She's an international supermodel. I'm not in her sphere."
"You could be, one day. I can spread the word about how good you are."
"I don't think you should be talking about me at all. It will just add fuel to the fire."
"I have to do something. I got you into this."
She surprised him with a faint smile. "I actually got myself into this. I'm the one who sat down at your table and thought you were Danny."
"But I bought you fish tacos and got you out of that restaurant and into a photo with me."
"That's true, but I don't blame you for this, Dante. I blame myself, and I blame Nikki for being a cold-hearted bitch. I hope that's not too harsh."
He grinned. "You're not offending me. I just wish I'd seen that side of her a lot earlier."
"I'm sure you were distracted by her perfect body and her incredibly captivating face."
"She is pretty. But she's a shell. There's not much substance to her."
"She probably never needed to develop substance, looking the way she looks. Her whole career is based on her looking good in a picture."
"That's true. When we were together, everything was a photo op. And there was an endless number of parties." He thought about that crazy time for a moment. "It's very possible that dating Nikki played a factor in my injury."
She quirked a brow at his comment. "How so?"
"I was slacking off. Instead of working out on my off days, I was drinking a lot. I was hanging out on boats and taking photos when I should have been in the gym. I let my focus slip, and this is where I ended up."
"Maybe it was just overuse of your arm. You must have put tremendous pressure on your shoulder over the years. What did the doctor say?"
"That it could have been that or an odd tweak of a motion I'd done a hundred thousand times, or it could have been lack of training. Anyway, it is what it is. I can only move on from here. As for Nikki's attack on your business, I hope you'll consider my offer to help."
"I'll consider it, but frankly, Dante, I don't even have time for more business right now, especially design work. I'm struggling so much with Hannah's wedding dress, I'm losing confidence in myself. I always felt good when I designed, like I was doing exactly what I knew how to do. I thought of myself as creative, inventive, imaginative, but for some reason, I've gotten completely blocked. The wedding is a week from Saturday. I'm running out of time."
"What does Hannah think? Is she getting nervous?"
"No, because she thinks the dress is fine the way it is, but I know it's not. And she should have the perfect dress. She's my best friend. If I can't make a gown that is spectacular for her, then maybe I'm not that good."
He thought about her disparaging words. He was a little surprised by her pessimistic statement. She'd seemed very optimistic until now.
"What's really going on?" he asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe the dress isn't what's bothering you. Perhaps you need to dig deeper."
"I don't know what you're getting at."
He thought about how best to express what he was thinking. "I was drafted out of community college. I'd been there two years, setting all kind of records, and I thought I was a superstar."
"It sounds like you were."
"Well, when I got to my first team in LA, they took one look at me and sent me down to the minors almost immediately. They said they wanted me to get experience. It was the right decision, but it wasn't what I wanted. I thought I was ready to be on the main stage, not playing games in a one-stoplight town in the middle of nowhere."
"So, what happened?"
"It turned out to be good for me. I got to pitch a lot and face different kinds of hitters, but it still felt like punishment. After a year, there was talk of bringing me up. I was very excited. But the more talk there was, the worse I started to pitch. It was like the closer I got to my dream, the more problems I encountered. My cockiness vanished. I was overthinking every move I made. I thought I had a hitch in my fastball. The sinker wasn't hitting its mark. I was annoyed with the mound, the dirt, my catcher, my infielders, even the weather. Oh, and the damn birds that would fly over during the late afternoon games, they really pissed me off."
She smiled. "How did you get out of it?"
"I got help from an unexpected person. The scorekeeper for our home games came up to me in the parking lot one night. He must have been close to eighty, but he'd been a player in his day, a pitcher, in fact. He told me to stop thinking about the next pitch, the next game, the next stage in my career. Just to focus on the ball and the batter in front of me. One hitter at a time. Put everything else out of my head. Don't look at the crowd. Don't look at the coach. Don't think about who's watching. I thought it was stupid advice. I barely let him finish before I took off. But the next game, I realized my mind kept sliding into the future. I was thinking about the next batter, the number four hitter, worrying about how I was going to get him out before he was even up. I was also scanning the crowd. I was watching for the scouts. I was measuring my success by the wrong things."
He took a breath, then continued. "When I finally just looked at the ball and the batter and pushed everything else out of my mind, the plate came into perfect focus. I pitched the ball, and the batter swung and missed. From that first strike, it just kept getting better. Concentration had always been the key to my success, but I'd gotten too far ahead of myself. I was so afraid of losing out on what I didn't have that I almost missed being able to get it—if that makes sense."
"It makes a lot of sense."
"Even though I didn't think I was afraid, I was."
"And you think I'm afraid."
He met her gaze. "It doesn't matter what I believe, only what you do."
She thought about his words. "I think I'm good, but I don't know how good. Am I talented enough to make it all the way? Or am I being overconfident? Living here in Whisper Lake, the world is very small. When I was in New York, I saw how cutthroat fashion was, how much power certain magazines or fashion houses or celebrities could wield over the industry. I think I'm talented enough to compete. But I don't know if I can make it. It's a big risk."
"How will you know unless you go for it?
"
"I probably won't know. But going for it involves giving up other things that have been sustaining my mom and me, like the real-estate business and the boutique."
"Can you delegate?"
"Yes, but will things work as well as they do now if I'm not overseeing them? And then there's my mom. She's getting better. But is she truly capable of living independently? It's been a long time since she didn't have me looking out for her. Plus, I have immediate commitments, like Hannah's dress. I can't think about the future right now. I don't think I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm too wrapped up in the mess of the moment."
"I disagree. I think we just got to the heart of your problem."
"We did?"
"Yes." He rested his arms on the table as he gazed at her. "When you finish Hannah's dress, you will have to think about the future. But that's the problem—by not wanting to think about the future, you're actually thinking about it."
Her brows drew together as she considered his words. "That's convoluted but makes some sense."
"Maybe you can't finish the dress, because it's the last barrier before having to deal with your future plans."
Her eyes widened. "Wow. You might have just saved me a lot of money in therapy."
"Just throwing out an idea."
"I wish I could say you were wrong, but maybe you're not."
"Since I'm on a roll…"
"What?" she asked warily.
"Maybe your obsession with Mark Langley is because you subconsciously don't want your mom to be independent. If she's dating, if she has a man in her life who can also take care of her, you've just lost another one of your reasons for staying exactly where you are."
He thought he'd nailed it, but he also thought he'd probably pushed it a little too far. There was a gleam of anger in her eyes now.
"That would be a terrible thing for me to—break up my mom and Mark, because I need a reason to stay here."
"I said subconsciously, not deliberately."
She frowned as she let out a long breath. "I know what you said, and to be honest, I have questioned my motives. I do have some self-awareness. That's why I stopped digging. But since you're the one who saw Mark fighting with some woman, I feel compelled to do a little more research."
"You're right. I got carried away with my brainstorm. I'm really not qualified to analyze anyone."
"You made some good points," she conceded. "I liked your baseball story, hearing how you got past your fear. Maybe I can do something with that. I guess it's always easier to see through someone else's problems."
"Definitely easier," he admitted, pausing as the doorbell rang. "That must be the pizza." He pulled out his wallet. "I'll get it."
"No. I don't want anyone to see you here. I'll get it, and I already paid online."
"At least, let me do the tip," he said, handing her a ten.
"That's too much."
He shrugged. "We'll make someone's night."
As she left, he blew out a breath, knowing he'd gotten too far into her personal business, but he hadn't been able to stop himself, which was so unusual. But then everything about Keira made him want to be more and do more than he usually did. He'd also needed conversation to distract himself from wanting to kiss her again. Unfortunately, every time they stopped talking, the urge came right back. He probably should leave right after they ate, but he really didn't want to. And he rarely did things he didn't want to do.
Keira checked the peephole before answering the door, relieved to see it was Deke, a nineteen-year-old kid, who had delivered more pizzas to her than she cared to count. Deke was the son of the owner, Marian Dillard, and was currently going to school in Denver.
"Hey, Deke, are you back for the summer?" she asked. "I heard you're loving Denver."
"It has more action than here. What are you doing at this house? Having a party?"
"Waiting for a delivery. It's going to go on the market soon."
"Looks cool. Hey, I saw your picture online. Are you seeing Dante DeAngelis?"
"He's in town rehabbing his shoulder." She gave a more roundabout answer than she wanted to, but it was hard to lie when Dante was sitting in the kitchen.
"I heard. His girlfriend says you broke 'em up."
"You can't believe everything you read online."
"But you know Dante, right? Is he going to be back this season? He's a fantastic pitcher."
"I'm not sure. Sorry." She took the pizza out of his hands and handed him the ten.
"Thanks," he said, his eyes widening when he saw the tip. "Glad I decided to bring this order out. The tourists have been stingy this week. If you see Dante, tell him I'm one of his biggest fans. I can't wait for him to be back on the mound."
"I will."
She took the pizza into the kitchen. Dante looked up from his phone. "That smells good."
"I hope you like it. By the way, our delivery boy said to tell you that he's your biggest fan, and he hopes you'll be back on the mound soon."
"He knew I was here?"
"No, but he saw our photos online, so he thought I might see you." She paused. "Maybe you should move your rental car into the garage. I'm sure the paparazzi know what it looks like, even if the pizza guy didn't."
"Good call."
"I'll open the garage door."
As Dante left the house, she walked into the garage and raised the door. While she was waiting for him, her mind went back to the conversation they'd had before the pizza arrived. She had to admit that Dante's analysis of her problems had struck a nerve. Maybe Hannah's wedding dress wasn't the real issue. Maybe it was about far more than that.
But since she couldn't do anything about the dress at this moment, she'd let that idea sit for a bit. Right now, she just wanted to eat and forget about the rest of the world and the future, even if that future was only an hour from now.
Keira couldn't believe how many times she smiled or laughed as she shared pizza with Dante. He seemed more relaxed than he had on any other occasion, and he was a really good storyteller. She liked that he told stories that didn't always show him doing something amazing.
There was no doubt he had a cocky confidence when it came to baseball, but he also had a self-deprecating charm that was pretty irresistible. In fact, she found her thoughts wandering throughout their meal, thinking about the curve of his mouth, the fullness of his lips, the light in his eyes when he smiled, the tenor of his voice when he talked about the things and the people that mattered to him.
She was a fool to think she could say goodbye to this guy and not hurt at least a little. But she was trying to stay in the present and not think about the future.
"Okay, that's enough stories from me," Dante said.
"You've had so many interesting experiences."
"It's been a ride."
"The ride is not over."
For the first time, a shadow moved through his gaze. "I hope not."
"I'm sorry. We weren't going to talk about tomorrow."
"It's never far from my mind, but we'll leave those thoughts for another day. Tell me what it was like to grow up here."
"It was wonderful. It was a carefree life. The town was a lot smaller. We rode our bikes everywhere. I had good friends. I knew everyone. Of course, when I was a teenager, I thought the town was way too small. I wanted more adventure and excitement. I wanted to see what was on the other side of the mountains."
"You must have found all that in New York."
"I did. It was amazing to go to school there and get my first job. It was a completely different world. I was going to plays, comedy clubs, and bars. It was a lot of fun. But sometimes I missed the lake and the mountains, having people know me when I walked into a store. New York was like being in a race all the time. Everything was fast. It was invigorating, but it was also tiring. I was working long hours for very little money, living with roommates in a tiny one-bedroom apartment."
"You must have stories from those days."
"Some of the designers and
models I worked with were truly crazy. And I can't tell you how many times I had to run around town trying to track down someone's favorite food so they could make it through a photo shoot without being unhappy. There were a lot of divas."
"We have divas in baseball, too. Not me, of course."
"Of course not," she said with a laugh. "You've never made some poor intern try to find you a steak sandwich at six in the morning?"
"I am not an early riser. Did you really have to do that?"
"Yes, and this designer had to have the steak from a particular restaurant. I had to wake up the chef to get him to make it."
"Why would the chef agree?"
"The designer had a lot of parties in his restaurant."
"So, the designer got what they wanted, and the chef got something in return. What did you get?"
"A stress headache."
He smiled. "But you were willing to do whatever it took to get to where you wanted to go."
"I was. The longer I was there, the more opportunities I had. I was seeing a brighter light at the end of the tunnel. Then my mom got in the accident, and I dropped everything and came home. In the beginning, I thought it would just be for a few weeks or months, but it became clear very quickly that it would be a year or more. So, I quit my job and sold what I'd left behind. I never went back."
"Do you want to go back?"
"I don't know. That's a question for another day, too."
As they exchanged a long look, both very aware of the precariousness of their futures, the doorbell rang once more. "That must be the stove."
"I'll get out of the way."
"You can go back to the inn if you want," she said, as she got to her feet.
"No way. We still have to research Mandy and Langley. I'll go to the living room. I can get started while you deal with the stove."
"Okay." She grabbed her computer off the counter and handed it to him. "You can use this if you want. I bookmarked the article about the fire, too, if you're interested." She related her password as they headed toward the front door. She was happy Dante was staying. It didn't even matter if they found out anything; she just didn't want to say goodbye to him yet.
If We Never Met Page 14