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Overview
Paul Dudley, president of the Plainview Thrashers, is spinning out of control. Preserving his family's baseball legacy in these tough times takes everything he's got, and constant clashes with his father have left him struggling for authority over the team and even his own future. So when sports reporter Willow Bourne, a one-night-stand from a year ago, walks back into his life, he knows he can’t give into his feelings for her—no matter how strong they are.
Willow never expected to see Paul again, and she’s got her reasons for keeping her distance. Except the more time she spends around Paul, the harder it is to hide her secrets—or stop herself from falling head over heels.
As the sparks between them fly, Paul discovers what Willow has been concealing from him, leaving him with a difficult choice—keep the team his top priority or make his own legacy by following his heart...
Praise for High Heat
“A fantastic mix of life on the pitcher's mound, family loyalty, and being true to one's own heart. Readers will cheer for Tom and Sarah as they fight for what's right without losing themselves, or each other.”—Jeanette Murray, author of One Night with a Quarterback
Includes an excerpt from the first Hard Hitters novel, High Heat.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780698194731 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 09/15/2015 |
| Series: | A Hard Hitters Novel , #2 |
| Sold by: | Penguin Group |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 231 |
| Sales rank: | 1,051,352 |
| File size: | 530 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Prologue
When had St. Petersburg nightclubs gotten so decadent? Willow Bourne hadn’t gotten out enough lately to know. Since The Breakup, she hadn’t felt much like doing anything.
“Where did you find out about this place?” She leaned in, nearly yelling to her friend Kendra.
A goateed hipster DJ in a fedora spun turntables in a booth suspended over the packed dance floor, nodding in rhythm to the music. Lasers pulsed, illuminating the bodies on the dance floor.
“Isn’t it awesome?” Kendra had to shout to be heard over the music. “My boss brings sponsors here all the time.”
Kendra Phillips worked in public relations for the local pro football team, the St. Petersburg Invaders. The two of them had become good friends over the years, as Willow covered the Invaders for the local TV station.
“Come on. My treat.” Kendra squeezed her hand. “You need a pick-me-up.”
“Not sure a twelve-dollar cocktail is going to solve my problems, but thanks for the thought.”
“Come on, hon. Give yourself a chance to cheer up.” Kendra led the way through the crowd.
The two women got plenty of looks as they moved through the nightclub. Usually, leers from guys she didn’t know creeped Willow out, but not tonight. Tonight, they were a boost to her badly battered ego.
They entered a long hallway with large leather-lined booths separated by wispy white curtains. Crimson velvet wallpaper lit with colored lights made for a trippy effect.
“We’re in the booth at the end,” Kendra said.
The two slid into the booth and Willow scanned the drink menu. “Ten bucks for something called a Sazerac?” She couldn’t afford this place. Not that she could afford any place, considering that she had lost her job and was living on savings, unemployment checks, and an occasional assist from her parents. Whee! She was twenty-five and on top of the world.
“Don’t get it. It tastes like lighter fluid with sugar in it.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Duly noted.”
A loud yell from the booth across the hall caught her attention. A raucous group of guys, young and mostly good-looking, was flirting with their waitress. Without meaning to, Willow caught the gaze of one of the guys: Quiet. A little older than the rest. An island of intensity amid the liquored-up party people.
He has nice eyes.
She didn’t want to notice anything about a guy right now, but his eyes asked to be admired. They were equal parts gray and blue, bearing an expression she recognized because her face had worn it so often recently. The stranger wore the look of someone trying to hide something—but what? Sadness? No, more like discontent. He wasn’t doing a very good job of it.
She ordered a beer and drank half of it before she had the courage to let her eyes wander in the man’s direction again.
He was still watching her.
Her stomach tightened, but she couldn’t have said whether from excitement or unease. She raised a brow, determined not to look away this time. His lips curved, and the sight took her breath away. He didn’t smile easily, she could tell. It looked like a reluctant one at best, but it lightened the shadow in his eyes.
The easy feeling lasted until he rose and walked toward her. Her pulse erupted.
Get ahold of yourself. He’s a guy in a bar. What’s he going to do to you?
He walked right up, never glancing at Kendra, only at her.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” Her voice came out calmer than she felt, thank God.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
A standard line she’d heard a hundred times. So why did it send a shiver of anticipation down the back of her neck when he said it?
She gestured to her beer. “Got one already.”
“I see.” He nodded, not letting that half-quirk of a smile disappear. “Then, in that case, I have no choice but to ask you to dance.”
She shot an apologetic glance at Kendra, who beamed and shooed her off. Willow slipped her hand into his and followed his broad shoulders through the VIP area and back to the dance floor.
“My name’s Paul.”
“Willow.”
“Willow,” he repeated.
She liked the way her name sounded on his lips.
“It’s a pretty name for a pretty girl.”
Another phrase she’d heard before, but he made it sound new.
“Thanks.” She’d barely spoken to him, only exchanged a few words, but already she felt connected to him in a way that scared her a little. She’d only recently ended a train wreck of a relationship. The last thing she wanted to do was embark on another.
This is not a relationship. It’s a dance.
On the dance floor, the DJ segued into a new track, and they started to sway. Paul moved with an athlete’s grace, quick and sure, his body falling into an easy rhythm. Strobe lights flickered across the white of his crisp Oxford, emphasizing the breadth of his wide shoulders. The music pounded a rhythm she couldn’t possibly miss, and she let her body move, not worrying about anything for once.
Their bodies brushed against each other, pushed together by other dancers or perhaps pulled together by their natural attraction. She didn’t mind.
Hell, she loved the contact. The strength of his biceps under his sleeves or the brush of his leg against hers made her skin heat. The man and the moment were putting her in a trance, and she liked it. A week ago, she’d thought her interest in men was gone, but suddenly it had come roaring back to life, and it felt good. The sensation made her giddy, eager to embrace this man and every good feeling he could bring her. It was such a relief from the endless worry and recrimination her life had become since her relationship with Tony had fallen apart and taken her job down with it. Not just my job, Willow told herself. My career. Her self-confidence. Her future.
She pushed it out of her mind and let her eyes wander down Paul’s body, noting the way his jeans fit his slim hips and muscled thighs. He caught her gaze and smiled slightly, that reluctant little grin that he seemed to give without really wanting to.
The song ended and he leaned in, his lips warm against her ear. “Want to find somewhere quiet where we can talk?”
“I don’t want to leave my friend alone.”
“Something tells me she wouldn’t mind. She seemed pleased you were dancing with me.”
True. “Let me text her and tell her where I’m going.” She pulled out her cell phone and fired off a quick text to Kendra. “I let her know we won’t be long.”
In a few seconds, her phone buzzed. “Take your time, girl. He’s a hottie. Don’t worry. I found one for me too.”
Of course she had. Kendra’s combination of looks and an easy smile drew guys like honey. And she was so sweet, Willow couldn’t even hate her for it.
“I’ll be right back,” Willow texted to her friend, who didn’t respond. She had obviously found someone to keep her entertained.
“Ready.” She smiled and slipped her phone back into her purse.
Paul gave her a half smile and took her by the hand, leading her through the packed floor and down a narrow hallway in the back to an exit.
Outside, the fresh, salt-scented air swept away the scents of alcohol and perfume that dominated the club. The stars punched holes in the midnight-black sky, and boats on the horizon flickered with red and white lights.
“Want to walk on the beach?”
“Okay.” A small gate on the other side of the patio led directly to the sand. Paul opened the gate and stepped aside to let her pass, a nice gesture—the kind she wasn’t used to getting from men very often.
The sand shifted under her heels, twisting and turning her ankles with every step. Slipping off her shoes to go barefoot in her dress seemed like the most natural thing in the world, as did sliding her free hand into the strong warmth of Paul’s.
“Want me to carry those?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He took her strappy heels in hand and pulled her a little closer, until her shoulder brushed against his. She let her cheek rest briefly against the upper part of his arm, savoring his clean scent. In the distance, the lights of a dozen bars and condos shone bright, enabling them to see well enough to avoid the occasional piece of driftwood or a child’s forgotten sand bucket. Well ahead, a wood and concrete fishing pier stretched into the ocean like a black gash, dotted with lights illuminating a few late-night stargazers.
“Walk to the pier? We can look out over the water.”
“Sure.” They headed off at a slow ramble, by mutual yet unspoken agreement. “So, Paul. What do you do?” Willow asked. “No, wait! Let me guess. Let me see. You’re in pretty good shape, and you were with a bunch of guys who were too. You a jock?”
His brows shot up.
Bingo.
“Lucky guess,” he scoffed.
She smirked. “No such thing as luck. I’m good.”
They passed under a light, and his face was illuminated. He was beautiful, with high cheekbones and a chiseled mouth. Only the messy swirl of his short, dark blond hair and a day’s worth of stubble—and those storm-dark eyes—saved him from being pretty.
“If you’re so good—and I’m not confirming I am a jock, by the way—what sport do I play?”
She rolled her eyes. He’d as good as confirmed her guess, so no going back now.
“Hmmm. Definitely not football. You don’t have the bulk, and you’re too smart.”
“You can tell my intelligence from one dance and a little conversation?”
Her grin widened. “You used several multi-syllable words, as I recall, so that rules out football player.”
He shook his head. “What a stereotype. So tell me. What I do play, Madame Willow?”
She let her gaze run down his taut arm. “Not basketball, because you don’t have that spent-the-whole-year-in-the-gym pallor that basketball players have. I’m guessing either baseball or soccer.”
“I played some baseball in college,” he admitted. “How about you?”
“I never played baseball in college,” she said with a smirk.
“Very funny. No, I mean what do you do?”
“You think my guesses are luck, huh? Why don’t you try it? Tell me what I do for a living.”
He shook his head. “I never claimed to have psychic powers.”
“Neither did I. Just used my powers of observation.” The tingle of half alarm, half attraction she’d experienced when she first noticed him watching her had vanished, replaced by full-throttle desire. She wasn’t alone. She could tell with every gaze, every gesture, every line of his body language that he wanted her too.
His eyes narrowed. “This is the kind of thing that can get me in trouble. I can envision this going wrong in all kinds of horrible ways.”
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “Chicken. I was a sports reporter for WROV. I cohosted the local weekly show about the Invaders.” She’d seen it as the chance of a lifetime when she’d gotten the job after finishing up her internship, but now, older and wiser, she knew the truth. Nobody had cared about her sports knowledge. If she hadn’t been able to tell a football from a golf ball, she’d still probably have gotten the job.
She’d been hired as eye candy, plain and simple. Tony, a retired player, was supposed to be the football guy on the program. She’d hated the assumption she brought nothing to the table besides her looks.
“You said you were a sports reporter. What do you do now?”
“Ah, I’m kind of between jobs right now.” She couldn’t keep the grim edge from her voice.
He raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”
“It’s not important.” She waved her hand dismissively but couldn’t quite suppress a frown.
He noticed, of course. “TV sports wasn’t what you thought it would be?”
“No, my boyfriend wasn’t what I thought he’d be.” She immediately wished she could take the flippant words back. Too late. Better now to spill the whole story. “I got involved with a work colleague. Big mistake, which I’ll never make again. He was the color guy on the football show. Tony Raffi.” She waited for him to react to the name, but he didn’t. Odd. He wasn’t exactly a superstar, but Tony had been a backup quarterback for the Invaders for years, and most locals knew him.
“You got fired for dating a coworker?”
“Not exactly. Turns out, he had a rich socialite fiancée who found out he was seeing me and raised a stink. They didn’t want a scene, so one of us had to go. He was famous, I wasn’t. Plus, I hadn’t exactly earned a lot of goodwill from my boss. I had a tendency to tell him to forget it when he asked me to dress sexier to appeal to the eighteen–to–thirty-four male demo. Firing me was a lot easier than firing Tony, so that’s what they did.”
She’d lost her boyfriend, her illusions, and her job in one week.
“Did you know he had a fiancée?”
She shook her head. Like she’d ever let herself in for that kind of hot mess on purpose. “No idea. We traveled for the games a lot, so it was easy for him to do, looking back. Back in St. Pete, he was often too ‘busy’ to see me, but that didn’t strike me as odd. He was a local celeb from his playing days, and he said he had a lot of commitments.” Her laugh came out hollow. “I should have known nobody could play in that many celebrity fund-raising golf tournaments.”
“Don’t blame yourself. He was a liar. Liars fool people all the time. I suggest you work on forgetting about him.”
“Work on forgetting?” She tipped her head to look at him.
“Yes. Forget the past, at least for one night. Live in the moment.” His lips curved slightly. Every time a smile lit his eyes, chasing away the shadows, her heart turned over. “You have to admit, the moment is pretty nice.” He gestured at their surroundings: the starry sky above, and the sandy beach sloping down to the dark, white-capped ocean. Moonlight illuminated the white breakers against a black sea. The scent of sea and salt hung in the humid air.
“It is pretty nice.”
“A week ago, I never could have imagined feeling this good,” Paul said.
The words warmed her, but she only squeezed his hand. He had troubles too, just like she did. “Remember? Forget the past. Don’t think about the future. Only tonight,” she said.
He stopped without warning and turned to her. “If we’re living in the moment, there’s something I want to do.” He cupped her chin gently, tilting it up.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“This.” He bent slightly to take her mouth in a soft, sensual kiss.
She leaned in, letting her lips soften and her body melt against his. Her shoes fell into the sand, and his arms moved to hold her, pulling her in so tight she had to shift a bit to breathe.
“Sorry.” His forehead pressed against hers, his breath warm on her cheek.
Her hand rose and fell with the motions of his chest and, beneath her palm, his heart kept pace with her own racing beat.
“Maybe I want this a little too badly.”
His honesty stripped her bare, removing any doubt she had about him.
“No more than I do,” she said, and she meant it.
His hand slipped into her hair, which was blowing gently in the breeze, and she took a moment to be grateful she’d left her reddish locks hanging loose instead of sweeping them up and back.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
“Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Shhh,” he whispered, and leaned in again to take her mouth in a demanding kiss that robbed her breath.
She put her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, desperate for the heat and comfort only he could provide. His hand moved down to cup her breast through the halter top of her dress, and heat streaked through her body as her nipple hardened.
The kiss seemed to last forever. He pulled away finally, short of breath, those cool blue eyes now hot and focused. “Come on.” He gave her hand a tug.
Maybe she shouldn’t be out here with him. He was a stranger. It didn’t make sense and it wasn’t reasonable. But she’d had a “reasonable” relationship with a man she loved, and whom she thought had loved her. Her family had liked Tony. Her friends thought she was cool for dating an ex–football star. Everybody had approved of that relationship, and it had wrecked her life. She couldn’t do another relationship. The price was too high. But one night . . .
Paul wouldn’t take her anywhere she didn’t want to go. She knew that instinctively.
He led her to the pier. A few late-night wanderers were leaning over the rail to watch the waves crest on the shore. On the beach, the pier was a boardwalk over sandy dunes. He pulled her under the pier and back into his arms for another kiss. This time, he slid the straps of her dress down her shoulders and eased the cups of her strapless bra down. Bending, he took her nipple into his mouth, drawing a shocked gasp from her.
“Shhh.” He looked above them, where moonlight shone through the cracks in the boardwalk and an occasional step shuffled overhead. “They can’t see us, but they can hear us,” he whispered.
He lowered his head again. Just like that, knowing she couldn’t moan, couldn’t cry out, she suddenly wanted more than anything to shout her excitement to the skies. Being unable to made it worse. Or better. She couldn’t decide.
Desperate for contact with his skin, she slid her hands to his neck, unfastening the top couple of buttons of his shirt to expose the skin of his throat and upper chest. He dropped to his knees, moved his hands behind her to cup her buttocks, and pressed a row of hot kisses down the soft skin between her ribs, all the way to her navel. Her dress hung on her hips, preserving at least a shred of modesty for now.
She unfastened her bra and tossed it aside. He cupped her breasts as he let his tongue slide into her navel, sending shivers up her spine. Her hands slid into his hair, holding him close. She never wanted to let him go . . .
No. She wouldn’t let herself think that way. This was for one night. She didn’t even know his last name, and she wanted to keep it that way. She could be ruthless and take pleasure for pleasure’s sake. It was the only way to keep from getting hurt again.
He lifted his mouth from her abdomen and looked at her, his face inscrutable in the darkness. “Are we going to do this? If you don’t want to, stop me now.”
“Yes.” She didn’t need to think about it. She needed this every bit as much as he did. Maybe they could heal each other, just a little bit.
After that, everything moved quickly. He pulled her down to the sand, bare from the waist up, kissing her, touching her, exploring her body. His hands covered her breasts. She stopped him long enough to unbutton his shirt and throw it aside, alive with the need to have his bare skin pressed against hers.
He lifted her skirt and slid his hand between her legs, moving the narrow strip of her thong to one side to touch the wetness he found there. The feeling startled another gasp from her, and he shook his head. “Quiet now,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t want to be overheard.”
The smug jerk. He was loving her inability to keep quiet. Oh, he so deserved payback for that one. She cupped the hardness at the front of his pants, wringing a soft groan from him.
“Hush now,” she returned with the best kind of sexual malice tinging her voice. “You wouldn’t want to be overheard.” She slid down his zipper and reached in to pull out his erection. He couldn’t quite muffle his sigh, much to her amusement.
A buzz-killing thought struck. “Please tell me you have a condom.” She’d gone off the pill after the debacle with Tony, thinking it would be a long time before she needed to worry about birth control again.
He fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet and withdrew a condom. He held it up, eyes alight. “I do.”
“Thank God.” Enough preliminaries. She was ready to move on. In moments, he’d shoved his pants off and donned the condom, kneeling above her, his face all sexy purpose and intent. She slid off her dress and spread it out to give them protection from the sand and then lay atop it.
He pulled her thong off, kissing the bare skin he revealed, letting his tongue come out to taste her, teasing and tempting as he went.
After what seemed like ages, he slid inside of her, giving relief to the sweet ache inside her, yet paradoxically making it worse. His strong shoulders hovered above her, blocking out the moonlight as the steady rhythm he set drove every thought out of her mind.
Yes. This was what she needed. Oblivion. Tears sprang into her eyes and she couldn’t explain them. He began to move aggressively, hammering her body with the strength of his thrusts, but she didn’t complain. His forcefulness made it easier not to think, and if she didn’t think, she wouldn’t have to wonder about how hard it would be to let him go.
* * *
“How’s it going in there?” Kendra called through the bathroom door, the concern in her voice obvious.
Hands shaking, Willow managed to pee all over her hand before finally getting some on the little strip that poked out the end of the pregnancy test.
“Fine.” She washed up and opened the door, holding the little pink test carefully between two fingers. “It says you have to wait three minutes.”
Kendra pulled out her phone. “I’ll set a timer.”
Willow sat at the foot of the bed next to her friend, watching the results window on the test. She fumbled for Kendra’s hand and settled in to wait.
Willow had thrown up again that morning. That made five days in a row. The smell of coffee, normally her favorite aroma, had sent her racing for the bathroom every time. She’d known she had to take a pregnancy test, but she couldn’t face it alone. Like a true friend, Kendra had dropped everything to come when she’d called, and had stopped at a Walgreens on the way to pick up the test for her.
Her friend squeezed her hand hard. “Whatever it is, I’ll be there for you. We’ll get through this together, I promise. It’ll be all right.”
Willow nodded through the tears rising in her eyes. They were blurring her vision and she couldn’t see the window. She wiped them away. A line was starting to appear on the test—no, wait, was that two lines?
Willow couldn’t breathe. Slowly, two blue lines grew darker and darker.
“It’s two lines,” Kendra said. “What does that mean?”
“Uh, I’m not sure.” The instructions had said two lines meant pregnant. Surely that wasn’t right. She must have misread them.
She retrieved the test box from the bathroom and handed it to her friend, her hand shaking so hard she could hardly do it. “You read the directions and tell me what it says.”
Kendra read for a moment and then looked up, eyes wide. “Two lines means pregnant. Oh, honey.” She stood and slipped an arm around her friend’s shoulders.
Willow burst into tears. “I don’t even know his last name!” She sobbed onto Kendra’s shirt for what seemed like an hour. Shit. Shit. What was she going to do? Oh, God. Did she even want kids? Someday, maybe, but she didn’t want them now. She was young, with her whole life ahead of her, and more importantly, she was all alone. She didn’t have a job. She’d never imagined having this moment be like this. Getting pregnant was supposed to be a joyous thing. Not this disaster. Eventually, the emotion seemed to have drained away from her, leaving her with aching eyes, a runny nose and an empty feeling.
Kendra brought her a tissue, and she blew her nose, then retreated to the bathroom to discard the test and wash her face. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror looked every bit as awful as she felt. Her fair skin hid nothing. It was covered with splotches, and her nose was red from crying.
She wiped her face and went back to the bedroom.
“What are you going to do?” Kendra’s eyes were wide and solemn.
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, are you going to have it, or—” Kendra broke off, biting her lip.
“I know what you mean. I don’t know.”
“Are you going to track down Paul to tell him?”
“I don’t know!” she shouted. She buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know anything, okay?” she said more softly.
God. Pregnant. With no job and not even a boyfriend, much less a husband.
“I’m sorry.”
Willow took a deep breath and sat next to her friend. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” She put her arm around Kendra’s shoulder and forced a weak smile.
God, was she ever sorry.
Chapter 1
Thirteen months later
“Do I have your permission to fly her in?”
Paul Dudley looked over his desk to his marketing rep, Tracy Rice. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think more publicity is the last thing this family needs.” He swiveled his chair to look out the window to the half-empty parking lot. In the distance sat Dudley Field, squat and dark. He’d ordered the grounds crew to cut the lights totally whenever they weren’t playing a game.
Yet another cost-saving measure that hadn’t seemed to have made a difference. The Plainview Thrashers bled money faster than he could staunch the flow.
Tracy sat on the edge of the desk. “This blog, Screwball. They want to send someone to shadow us and do a series of profiles on the way a small-town minor league baseball team really runs. It will get a national audience, far more than the Thrashers budget could afford if we were paying for it.”
“Is this ‘national audience’ going to come to Plainview, Indiana, to buy tickets to Thrashers games?” One eyebrow rose. “This won’t put asses in the seats, which is what we need.”
He rubbed the ridge of his nose, fighting the headache that always seemed to threaten these days. The Thrashers legacy mattered more than anything to him—it had mattered to generations of Dudleys—but, God, lately, he felt like the captain of a sinking ship.
Ticket sales had declined from last year, and from the year before that. At least when his sister, Sarah, had been VP of marketing, he’d had someone to share the burden, at least a little. But she’d run off with star pitcher Tom Cord, the big leaguer who’d done time in Plainview rehabbing an injury. Together, they’d established a pitching academy, in no small part because their stubborn old man, Walter Dudley, had old-fashioned notions about women in baseball and wouldn’t let his daughter take on a job that made the most of her abilities.
Their dad had driven Sarah away with his stubbornness. Paul supported his sister’s decision, but he missed her every day. Her old assistant, Tracy, did a great job filling in for her old boss, but it wasn’t the same.
He looked at Tracy. True to form, Walter Dudley wouldn’t let Paul give her the title of VP. “I’ve learned my lesson there,” the old man had grumbled. “No women in the front office. I knew it would be a mistake, but you talked me into giving Sarah a chance. You see how that turned out.”
Yeah, with an overqualified employee who happened to be your daughter quitting because you wouldn’t stop busting her chops.
He wouldn’t voice the words aloud. He’d done it plenty of times before, to no effect. The best way to manage his father, as well as he could be managed, was to work around him. It had taken him years to learn that lesson.
“Tracy’s already in the front office, Dad. She’s doing all the PR work as an assistant, and not getting the money or title.”
“No, you’re doing the PR work, and she’s your assistant,” his father insisted.
“Dad, you know I can’t handle that and run the team too. Calling me ‘acting marketing VP’ is a polite fiction to keep from giving Tracy the promotion she deserves.”
His father hadn’t budged, however, as Paul had known he wouldn’t, and he couldn’t hire executives without his dad’s sign-off. He’d given her a hefty raise, however, which he did control.
“We can’t afford it,” Walter Dudley had complained.
“We can’t afford to lose her. She’s doing Sarah’s old job and her own. We’re saving enough money by paying one person to do two jobs. The least we can do is pay her a decent salary.”
His father had sniped at him for days about it, and that ever-present half headache had only gotten worse.
Tracy had every right to be furious over the way she was being treated, so he could only hope the raise mollified her. The last thing he could afford to do was replace another disgruntled employee.
Tracy had been a trooper. He owed her this one, even if it meant he’d be pestered by an annoying blogger who would no doubt cause more trouble than good.
“You think this is a good idea?”
Tracy’s eyes lit. She knew he was more than halfway to giving in, dammit.
“What’s the name of this blog again?”
“Screwball. Willow Bourne is the reporter-slash-blogger who wants to profile us.”
“Willow?” The name sent a surge of heat through his body, to a place of remembered happiness that short-circuited his brain. It had been more than a year ago, that one night on the beach in Florida, but he’d never forgotten it. Smooth skin, long reddish hair spread across the sand and brown eyes that seemed to soothe his troubles with a glance. That way she bit her bottom lip when she was aroused.
His stupidity in insisting they live in the moment.
Living in the moment was all well and good, but why hadn’t he at least gotten her last name or her number? He’d never heard from her again. Until the end of spring training, he’d gone back to the Crimson Lounge nearly every night, drinking alone at the bar like a lonesome cowboy, hoping to catch another glimpse of the woman who’d made him, at least for one night, more alive than he’d been in years.
He’d come up empty and, after a couple of weeks, it had been time to pack up the team and return to Indiana for the start of the minor league season.
He’d done it with a heavy heart, knowing he’d left behind any chance of ever seeing her again.
“Where did you say this blog is based?” The Willow he’d met in Florida had been a TV reporter, not a sports blogger, but still. The name was unusual enough. Maybe it was her.
“Um, Atlanta, I think. Does that matter? She’s willing to fly here for all the interviews, of course.”
His heart sank. Atlanta. Not St. Petersburg. Doubtless it was another Willow.
It wasn’t a common name, but not unique either.
“Sure, go ahead and set up the interview. Don’t promise she can shadow me for the whole season. Tell her the interview is a tryout, to see how it goes. I’ll make the decision after I meet her.”
“Great.” Tracy beamed and slid off of his desk, running off, no doubt to make the phone call. “You won’t regret it.”
He wished he could share her optimism, but looking on the bright side didn’t come easily to him these days. This blogger thing might turn out to be a PR debacle, but what did it matter? Working for his old man, debacles came with the territory.
Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.
No way.
* * *
Willow sat in the waiting area of the Plainview Thrashers executive offices and tried not to feel guilty. It was the first time she’d been away from Jack since his birth four months ago.
She pulled out her cell phone and texted her mom. “Everything OK?”
“Fine,” came the response moments later. “He just had a bottle. Your dad is putting him down for a nap. Concentrate on your interview.”
Willow checked the time. Three thirty. It was a little late for his nap.
“He usually naps at two. You might have to put him to bed a little later tonight since you gave him a late nap.”
She winced, hoping that didn’t sound too blaming. This time, it took two or three minutes for the response to come. Willow could practically see her mother’s bitten tongue.
“I’ve raised children, you know.”
She smiled slightly. “Yes, Mom, but look out how I turned out.”
This time, the response was immediate. “You turned out perfectly. Except your son needs a father.”
She rolled her eyes, fingers gripping the phone a little tighter. It had taken her mom months to accept she really had no way of contacting the child’s father. Now her mom seemed to think she ought to grab the first guy she met and marry him. They’d had this argument a thousand times. They weren’t going to settle it today. “Thanks for watching Jack. Give him a kiss for me when he wakes up.”
She put the phone away, feeling a sharp stab of longing for her son. The decision to leave him to come to Plainview hadn’t come easy, but it was the right thing to do. After she’d written a few short pieces about teams in Florida, her editor at Screwball, Nate Collins, had asked her to do this profile of the Thrashers.
Her young boss had pushed his dark-framed glasses up higher on his nose, his eyes flashing. “SportsNet is bankrolling us—very generously, I might add—to write the big think-pieces that the other sports blogs can’t. This is going to be a big one for us. Minor league small-town ball is a relic in today’s world. With so many entertainment options, it’s fading fast. A piece of Americana is dying. I want you to write the obituary.”
Nate tended to talk like that: full of grand ideas about the culture and even grander ideas about the future of Screwball. She didn’t always like it, but this was her first big chance to prove herself, and she was in no position to refuse anything he requested. He’d given her a chance when she had no blogging experience and was the single mother of a newborn to boot. Most blogs didn’t pay well, but Screwball was owned by SportsNet, second only to ESPN in sports coverage. Her salary had enabled her to start digging out of the debt she’d accrued by being unemployed for so long, not to mention giving birth without health insurance. She’d needed this job desperately, and God, had she been glad to get it.
She wouldn’t forget what he’d done for her anytime soon.
If this interview went well, this would be the first day of a long separation from her son, but she couldn’t think about that. She had to focus on nailing this. Chances like this didn’t come along every day.
“Willow?” She shook off the gloom and looked up. A slim, young blonde woman in skinny jeans and a blue Thrashers polo was coming down the hall, hand extended. “I’m Tracy Rice.”
She rose and shook the woman’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” She hadn’t imagined her contact would be so young. The girl scarcely looked old enough to be out of high school. She was ancient by comparison, even though she was only twenty-six. The last year had put her girlhood behind her forever.
“I spoke to Paul Dudley, the Thrashers team president. He’s ready to meet you now. Shall we?”
“Sure.” She swallowed to calm the fluttering rising in her stomach and tried not to think about how much was riding on this. Tracy had warned her that neither Paul Dudley nor his father, Walter, was completely on board with the idea of a long-term profile. She had to persuade them of the wisdom of the idea. Nate was counting on it, and counting on her.
Tracy led her down the hall and rapped on a half-open door. “Paul, Willow Bourne from Screwball is here.”
“Come in,” a masculine voice said from within.
Tracy pushed the door wide and stood back to let Willow pass. She entered and had a quick impression of a modest office decorated with photos and memorabilia before her eyes found the man behind the desk.
Her legs stopped working and her heart went cold.
Paul.
She stopped dead, a jerky movement with no grace. His eyes were focused on his laptop screen. She remembered those blue eyes well. She saw them staring back at her from her son’s face every day.
His eyes flickered up to hers, froze and then looked back. “Willow?” The same shock and disbelief that had to be on her face was stark on his.
She had to make a split-second decision, and she did it from instinct. Keep cool and admit nothing. Yet.
Aware of Tracy watching them, she forced her legs to move her forward, extending her hand. “I’m Willow Bourne, from Screwball.”
Paul rose and took her hand, his own warm and strong, like she remembered from the night on the beach.
“I know. We’ve met. I mean, how have you been?”
She pulled her hand free and sat in one of the empty chairs in front of his desk, before realizing he hadn’t actually asked her to take a seat.
“Do you two know each other?” Tracy asked, her eyes flickering back and forth between the two of them.
“Yes,” Paul said, as Willow said, “Not really.”
Other than biblically, of course.
“I had no idea that was you. I mean, I never got your last name.” She shut her mouth, hard.
Tracy was giving them the oddest look now, as if she couldn’t quite believe was she was hearing.
God, Willow, don’t be stupid. She might as well have blurted out they’d once had a one-night stand together.
That they’d made a child together.
The back of her neck tensed as her scattered brain put the realization together. She’d been so startled to find out Paul Dudley was Paul from the beach that she hadn’t even made the most important connection of all: He didn’t know about his son.
She’d tried to find him when she realized she was pregnant, but her search had been focused in St. Pete, and with no last name to go on, she hadn’t gotten very far.
“We met down in St. Pete. I was with the Thrashers for spring training last year. You were between jobs at the time, though, Willow. I had no idea you were blogging now. Tracy, have a seat.”
He sat again behind his desk. Thank God he seemed to be calmer than she was. She could barely form coherent thoughts in a sequence, but he seemed to be cool and collected.
Well, why wouldn’t he be? For him, you were a one-night stand he’s probably never thought of since.
For you, he is the father of your child.
She couldn’t let herself think about that. If she did, her fear would show on her face. She’d have to tell him, but not right now. She had to be calm, gather her thoughts, decide how best to proceed. Nate was counting on her, and he never lost an opportunity to remind her that he’d taken a chance on her. She couldn’t screw up this profile.
Too much was riding on this job.
“You envision shadowing us for the season? Writing a profile about what it’s really like to run a small-town minor league team, right? How long do you expect to be with us?”
She exchanged a look with Tracy, whose eyes were wide. She still looked freaked out. Willow could relate. She was pretty freaked out herself. “I didn’t think we’d come to any agreement. I mean, this is an interview and—” What was she trying to do, talk him out of the profile? He was talking like he considered it a done deal. Why the hell was she quibbling?
Thinking on her feet had always been her strong suit. As a reporter, she’d nabbed plenty of great sound bites from athletes who were off their guard. She needed to take a deep breath, collect herself, and get with it.
“I think six weeks should be enough to write the profile.” Six long weeks away from Jack. Six weeks that her mom would be babysitting him. She pushed down the guilt. Her mom was over the moon at the prospect of spending so much time alone with her grandson.
If it had made Willow feel like a loser to be moving back home at twenty-five, unemployed and pregnant, well, she hadn’t had a lot of choice. It had been best for the baby at the time. Now, taking these strides toward independence was best for both Jack and her. This job would enable her to move out after it was over and get her own place for Jack and herself. To chip away faster at the mountain of debt she’d incurred from her pregnancy and the birth.
The separation would last only six weeks, a blink of an eye compared to the long future she had ahead of her as a parent. Jack would be fine with her mom. Much better for him to stay in a familiar situation than for him to be schlepped off to a motel, cared for by a strange babysitter while she worked on the piece. Her mom had been caring for Jack while she worked, so he was comfortable with her. A little too comfortable, said the green-eyed, jealous side of her. Another reason why she and Jack needed their own place. She didn’t want him to grow up confused about who his mother was.
It’s only six weeks.
Focus. If I think about being away from Jack, I’ll never get through this without losing it.