Back in the Game: A Stardust, Texas Novel (28 page)

just keep fouling them off . . . the right pitch will come,

but when it does, be prepared to run the bases.

—
R
ICK
M
AKSIAN

Rowdy spent a restless night in the guest bedroom. He lay with her cuddled in his arms until she fell asleep, but unable to trust himself not to take things further than she was ready to handle, he abandoned her in his bed.

It could be said that he was hiding out from her, and there was truth to it. While making love to her with his mouth had been fun, the light of day was sobering. He couldn’t believe how responsive she’d been. A few flicks of his tongue had sent her sprinting around the bases for her first home run. He couldn’t remember any woman he’d been with who had come so quickly. It gratified his ego, but worried his mind.

Breeanne was ripe for the picking, and if he didn’t fulfill her needs for her, he feared she’d get someone else to step up to the plate. She’d said as much when she made that crack about going down to the local bar.

Just thinking about that scenario made his blood churn.

He flopped over in bed, the rich scent of her femininity rising up from his chest, and making him have an erection. Dammit. He was as hard up as she was. It had been six months since he’d had sex, and if she kept throwing herself at him, he didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to hold out.

His plan to make her quit the book had well and truly backfired, because now, no matter what happened, he couldn’t quit her.

What in the hell was he going to do?

The headache
knifed her right between the eyes. Breeanne groaned against the sunlight flooding in through the half-opened blinds and pulled the pillow over her head. Whose big idea was it to make daytime so damn bright? She burrowed deeper under the covers, determined to go back to sleep, when it hit her.

She wasn’t at home.

Where was she? She pulled away the pillow. Sat up. Groaned. Cradled her head. Looked around. Remembered.

She was in Rowdy’s bedroom. Alone. She’d slept here alone, despite her intentions to the contrary. Where had he slept?

Memories of last night bombarded her. Drinking too much wine, her failed seduction, Rowdy’s refusal to have sex with her and then the surprising turnaround where he’d done delightful things to her with his mouth.

Then he’d untied her, kissed her forehead, told her to go to sleep, and walked away. Leaving her sated, curious, frustrated, and eager for more.

Big question. What did he think of the whole thing? Was he amused? Smug? Pitying? Indifferent? If she had been dizzy on wine and the intoxicating effects of his mouth, she would have driven home not knowing if she’d succeeded or been defeated. Did this mean they were going to have a sexual relationship? Or had he been trying to show her that she couldn’t handle a casual fling with him?

Color her confused.

She couldn’t face him. Not yet. Not until she had time to regroup, assess, and put this into perspective. If that was even possible. Either way, she had to get out of here.

She slipped from the bed, still in her bustier smeared with melted chocolate. She searched for her clothes and shoes, found them—thank you, God—thrown off on the other side of the room. She couldn’t remember how they’d gotten over there. Instead of putting on the stilettos, she carried them in one hand and cracked open the bedroom door.

Canting her head, she paused, listening for the sounds of someone stirring, heard nothing, and eased out into the hallway.

Coast clear. Go.

The floorboard groaned beneath her feet. She paused, cringed. Shh. Please, please, please don’t let Rowdy catch her sneaking out.

This would be her first walk of shame. It felt kind of thrilling. Too bad it couldn’t have been an official walk of shame where she could strut the loss of her virginity.

But it was a start, right?

Or not. What if this was all she got from him?

Her bottom lip trembled, and she blinked hard, surprised by the inexplicable urge to bawl. Out. She had to get out of here. Her mind and her feelings were a ball of badly tangled yarn.

Tiptoeing down the stairs, she caught the scent of frying bacon. Her mouth watered and her stomach growled. Ages since she’d eaten. Someone was in there cooking breakfast.

Nut bunnies
.

She had to slip past the kitchen on her way to the front door. What if it was Rowdy? What if he was cooking her breakfast? How awkward would that be?

Face it. Everything between you is going to be awkward from now on.

She had no idea where she stood, and they still had months of working together ahead of them. She should have thought about that before she started this. But how was she to know? She was a virgin, for crying out loud.

Still.

But she had had her first orgasm. That was something to cheer about. Yay.

Except she didn’t feel cheery, in fact, she felt frustrated.

Not ready to face him.

Wait, she could slip out the back way. She stopped, changed directions, but dog tags jangled against a collar buckle, and there was Nolan Ryan. He plopped down on her feet, stared up at her with soulful eyes.

“At least someone around here wants me,” she muttered under her breath, and leaned over to pet him.

“Might as well stay for breakfast,” Warwick called from the kitchen.

Busted. Double nut bunnies.

Warwick whistled and Nolan Ryan got up to lead the way into the kitchen.

For once, the bodyguard wasn’t wearing his sunshades. He had on a black Tom Waits T-shirt stretched over biceps the size of a honey ham, black jeans, and cowboy boots.

“Sit.” He motioned at the bar stool with a spatula. “You need to eat.”

She might be working on overcoming people-pleasing tendencies, but when a man the size of Warwick told you to do something, it was a good idea to comply. She edged over to the bar, hitched her butt up on the edge of a stool. The movement intensified the pounding in her head and she massaged her brow with two fingers. No more Prosecco for her. Ever.

Warwick put a glass of water and a bottle of aspirins in front of her.

“Thanks.” She palmed three tablets.

“How do you like your eggs?”

“Don’t go to any trouble for me—”

“Eggs,” he commanded. “How do you like them?”

“Over easy.”

He put a nonstick skillet on the stove, clicked the gas burner, and dropped a dollop of butter into the pan.

Breeanne tugged at the hem of her shirt, attempting to pull out the wrinkles. Didn’t work. But it was better than sitting there watching Warwick cook her breakfast.

“Is he up yet?” she asked to break the silence. “I wanted to be out of here before he wakes up. Nothing against your cooking, but—”

“Relax. He’s not here.”

“Oh.” She should be relieved. Instead, she felt disappointed. “Where’d he go?”

“Don’t know, but he told me to feed you.” He cracked an egg, slid it into the melted butter, and tossed the shell over his shoulder without looking. It dropped neatly into the trash can behind him.

“Did Rowdy tell you—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“Don’t worry about it. You’re not the first woman to ambush him in his bed.” He dusted the egg with salt and pepper.

Jealous burned like hot coals in her belly. What had she expected? She had no illusions about the life he led. “Do women chase him wherever he goes?”

“He’s got a live-in bodyguard, doesn’t he?” Warwick fished bacon slices off the griddle, arranged them on a paper towel to absorb the grease. “He’s got a way with the ladies. They flock to him. Always have. Always will. The woman he settles down with, if he ever settles down, will need to know what she’s up against.”

She cringed, lifted her shoulders to her ears. She was no different from the other women who chased after him. Well, except he’d refused to have sex with
her
. “How long have you known him?”

“Most of my life. We grew up in the same neighborhood. Our buddy Price Richards did too. We were the Three Musketeers. What one did, we all did. Although Rowdy had tons of other friends and people followed him everywhere. He was the Pied Piper of Stardust. There was always one kid or another trying to be D’Artagnan, but the three of us were tight. No one else ever made the cut.”

“I didn’t realize that Rowdy’s friendship with Price reached back that far.”

“I’m a couple of years older than Rowdy and Price, but the three of us were in the same grade. My birthday is in September, so I started school a year later than everyone else, and then I got held back a year in second grade when I had the measles. I towered over the rest of the kids, but no one screwed with me.”

“I imagine not.” She leaned forward, rested her elbows on the bar, and propped her chin in her palm. “Rowdy didn’t mention that he’d known you in grade school. In fact, he skims over his childhood as if it’s a time he barely remembers. What was he like as a kid?”

Warwick raised his head, pierced her with black eyes. “You interviewing me for the book now?”

She gulped. “No, just curious. I won’t use anything you tell me in the book.”

He flipped the egg and she was certain they’d reached the end of the conversation, Warwick being the strong silent type and all, but he surprised her by answering the question. “Rowdy was the class clown. A prankster. He loved making people laugh. Still does.”

She nodded. “I see that.”

“As a kid, his pockets were always bulging with interesting things he found—rocks in unusual shapes and colors, bugs, flower buds, twine, pieces of colored glass, tree frogs. You never knew what was going to come of that kid’s pockets. He called ’em his treasures.”

In her mind’s eye she imagined Rowdy as a seven-year-old, gap-toothed and grinning, pulling endless items from his pockets, and she fell in love with that sweet boy.

“Neither of our families had much money.” Warwick fed wheat bread into the toaster. “We didn’t get toys except on our birthdays and Christmas, and even then it wasn’t much. But as long as we had a baseball we were happy. We didn’t need a bat. Broom handles worked in a pinch.”

“Rowdy took me to see the house he grew up in.”

Warwick gave a grunt. “The neighborhood is a pit, huh? But we didn’t know we were poor.” His tone was light as if he, Price, and Rowdy weren’t strong sprouts that had sprung from cement cracks.

“How could you not know?”

“When you’ve got baseball, and good friends to play it with, that makes you feel rich enough.” With an expert wrist, Warwick flipped the egg onto a plate, added two strips of bacon and buttered toast points, and set the plate in front of her.

“Thank you.” Breeanne tucked into the food. “What happened to your friendship when Rowdy got shipped off to Houston to live with his uncle?”

“Price and I grew closer, but we never forgot Rowdy. The minute he came home it was if he’d never been away.”

“He was lucky to have you.”

Warwick met her eyes. His expression was so intense that she couldn’t hold it. “I was lucky to have
him.
Wherever Rowdy is, good times follow, and I needed those good times. He’s got a talent for sidestepping pain, and replacing it with fun.”

“How did you two get to be friends?”

“Rowdy found an old baseball in the ditch. The schoolyard bully demanded Rowdy give it to him. Rowdy tried to make friends, but the bully was in a punching mood. Back in those days, Rowdy was about as skinny as you are, but he wasn’t scared. He was taking a pretty good whipping when I came upon the fight and made short work of the bully. Rowdy was lying on the ground, one eye swelling shut, lip busted, and says through the blood, ‘Do you play baseball?’ and that was that.”

“And you’ve been his bodyguard ever since?”

“The path was windier than that. Lots of road between then and now.”

“Price and Rowdy went into professional baseball. Did you try that career path?”

“The option wasn’t open to me.” His lips clamped shut and she could tell from the expression on his face that she was not going to get anything more out of him in that direction.

“I’m afraid I made a fool of myself last night,” she confessed.

Warwick started loading the dishwasher and didn’t meet her gaze. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Rowdy’s used to women flinging themselves at him. I imagine he’s forgotten about it already.”

If Warwick was trying to make her feel better, it was not working. The pounding in her head worsened. She’d told Rowdy that she could separate sex from her emotions, and while she’d done a pretty good job of convincing herself, the feelings knotted up inside her gut told her it was a lie.

Good thing they hadn’t had sex. Hadn’t slept in the same bed together.

Otherwise, no matter how much she swore she wouldn’t go there, she would start picturing the two of them together. Spooning together after sex, their legs intertwined, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. Breakfast in bed. Taking long, hot showers together, steaming up the mirrors. Going for long drives in the country. Holding hands. She would read her favorite books aloud to him, and he would teach her how to pitch a screwball.

Who was she kidding? She was already doing it—dreaming dreams, having hopes, making wishes. Believing in the silly prophecy on a silly hope chest, banking on the fact that their similar experience with the cheetah scarf’s softness meant something when it didn’t.

How she burned for him!

He was funny and charming and full of life. Like a prism, he dazzled the girl who’d spent her childhood in hospital beds or on the couch, watching the world go by. He was the color she’d always lacked. He was a glorious peacock and she a dull, drab peahen. He possessed the physical stamina she would never have. He was a man who was so far beyond her reach she had no business whispering to herself,
I want him.

Oh God help her. They hadn’t had sex and she was already in love with him.

She put a hand to her stomach. Warwick had gone to all this trouble to make breakfast for her, but if she took another bite, she would throw up.