Perfect Pitch (13 page)

She’d been an idiot to show up at his place the night before. Sure, they’d hit it off, that first night when they’d had dinner at Artie’s. And there’d been a magic to their phone conversations. All those talks about their childhoods, their favorite things, their hopes and dreams. Not to mention the
other
conversations, the secret thrills that had cut her to the quick. Waiting for him in his living room, feeling his body beneath hers on that couch, waking in his bed… All of that had seemed so natural, so
right
. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about anything else.

But she really had only known the guy for a few weeks. His immediately jumping to conclusions, immediately condemning her…

She’d been wrong. She’d let her body fool her into believing DJ was more than he seemed. Sure, the sex had been mind-blowing, but if there wasn’t anything beyond that, if there wasn’t any foundation…

She felt sick. She closed her eyes, and she was catapulted back to that moment on his sofa, the instant that he closed his fingers around the arch of his foot, that he worked his way up her calf, her thigh…
 

Last night, his softest touch had inflamed her. Now, the memory made her belly tighten with remorse. She’d let things go too far, too fast.

She should have paid more attention to the Summer Fair, to its strict rules and regulations. The beauty pageant might be antiquated, but it was designed to make things easy, to keep things simple for the Summer Queen. There were bright lines about what she could and couldn’t do, so that she never needed to feel queasy and uncertain and unsure.

She’d been an idiot to give in to her daydreams, to her belief that she and DJ shared something special, something unique. She blinked and was astonished to feel tears well over her lower lashes.
 

Running mascara was the
last
thing she needed. If Judith caught her looking like a circus clown, Sam would never hear the end of it. She dabbed her fingers beneath her eyes, taking care not to rub against her lashes. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she held it for a count of five.
 

As she exhaled, she let her lips curl into a professional smile. She could do what needed to be done. She could complete this public appearance, like the accomplished woman she knew she was. She could smile and laugh, and make all of Wake County love her.

All of Wake County except DJ Thomas.

Well, that was a loss she was just going to have to accept. Dwelling on her mistakes was only going to cost her more. And with seven weeks left before her reign expired, she didn’t have the luxury of wallowing in despair.

She squared her shoulders and moved back to the center of the dais with a practiced grace. Her smile was perfect as she waited to have her picture taken with every executive who’d ever had a hand in bringing the world’s finest organic grocery store to Wake County.

* * *

The event lasted well past sunset. The owners wanted some “atmospheric” pictures with Sam against the brightly-lit signs they’d paid so much to install. Sam had agreed, of course, because the alternative was slowing down, was thinking about the disastrous phone call from DJ.

When she finally staggered to her car, exhausted, Judith caught up with her. The pageant executive complimented her on the successful event, but then she launched into a lengthy review of new rules for the Summer Fair. This was the year when they were finally doing away with the swimsuit competition, replacing the outmoded tradition with a short-answer section where contestants would be asked to speak extemporaneously about issues facing North Carolina. Judith demanded Sam’s opinion on half a dozen questions, ranging from the greatest political challenges facing the community to ways that North Carolina history influenced the present.

Sam only escaped after she promised to spend all of Monday at the Fair offices, reviewing the questions and developing an “answer key” to help the judges evaluate responses. By the time she slipped behind the wheel of her beat-up Ford, her feet were throbbing. She kicked off her pumps and leaned her head back, trying to summon the energy to drive home.

Her stomach growled. Well, no wonder. It was after seven o’clock. She considered stopping for dinner on the way home, but the thought of waiting for food in a restaurant was overwhelming. She could hit the drive-through at any of the fast food places. No. Her stomach roiled, making the thought of that much grease disastrous.

Fine. She’d go home, eat a bowl of corn flakes, and make herself a cup of chamomile tea.

That was all she needed. Comfort food and a good night’s sleep. In her own bed. And when she woke up in the morning, she could get started on the hard work of sweeping up the shattered remnants of the time she’d wasted on DJ.

She hit every single red light on the way home, turning what should have been a fifteen-minute trip into a half-hour torture. By the time she pulled into her crumbling driveway, she was half-asleep on her feet. She collected her purse and stumbled up the walk toward her front door.

And she nearly screamed when two shadows detached themselves from the gloom. As it was she let out a short shriek, the same one she used when she found an unexpected spider in the bathtub.

“Sorry,” DJ said, his voice comfortingly familiar in the darkness. After all, she’d
heard
him more than she’d seen him in the scant time they’d known each other. “Trey and I were waiting for you. He has something he wants to say.”

She sighed. The last thing in the world she wanted that night was more drama with DJ and his recalcitrant son.
 

But the Summer Queen rarely got the last thing in the world she wanted. She turned to the boy, to his hunched-over shadow that was barely visible as a darker patch against her hedges.

“I made up the permission form for Musicall on Dad’s computer,” he said, in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper. “I told Isabel it was for Little League, and she signed it. I’m sorry.”

The last two words were swamped in something that sounded suspiciously like a sob. DJ nudged Daniel with his elbow, and the boy took a halting step forward. He extended his hand and looked up at her, moonlight capturing the grave expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Miss Samantha. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Sam looked from the boy to his father, feeling helpless. Not knowing what else to do, she took Daniel’s hand in hers and pumped twice. “I accept your apology,” she said.

As Daniel slipped back into the shadows, DJ ran a hand over his own face. “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “I was going to bring you flowers to try to make up for being an idiot, but I figured I tried that once before.”

Sam thought about the massive bouquet he’d brought to the Summer Fair offices. “Those roses got us into this mess in the first place.”

“Don’t blame the flowers,” he said. “They were innocent bystanders.”

She thought about smiling, but she still ached too much inside. “You should have trusted me more, DJ. I wouldn’t go behind your back on purpose.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I should have known that.”

“Especially after last—” She cut herself off. Daniel didn’t need to know what had happened the night before.
 

DJ nodded. “I think that’s why I got as angry as I did. I didn’t want to think you’d kept that secret from me. Not when you were, um, so honest about everything else.”

Honest
. Is that what they were calling it these days?

But his euphemism was scarily accurate. They
had
shared an essential honesty in his living room, in his bedroom, in the quiet hours in the middle of the night. Truth be told, that was why his accusation had stung so bitterly—she had thought there were no barriers left between them. Not after their bodies had shared so much.

“Do you want to come inside?” she asked.

He stared at her, the blue of his eyes turned to onyx beneath the night sky. “I don’t think that’s such a great idea,” he said, and his voice was husky with all the words he didn’t speak aloud. “Not with my escort here.” He jutted his chin toward Daniel.

“That’s the only reason I issued the invitation,” she said, and this time she did smile, just a little. “We need to talk. Just words. Nothing else. I promise you’ll be safe.”

He snorted, which she took as his acceptance. Swinging her shoes from her fingertips, she led the way up the three stairs to her front porch, working her key in the lock with the familiarity of years of practice. She snapped on lights as she moved through the house—the overhead in the foyer, the floor lamp in the living room, the under-the-cabinet fluorescents in the kitchen.

She filled the kettle and put it on the stove before turning to find her two Thomas men hovering in the doorway. “Come in,” she said. She focused on Daniel’s solemn face. “Is hot chocolate okay? I have marshmallows.”

“Yes, please,” he said, after a quick look at his father for permission.

She had the steaming drink prepared in short order. “There you go, kiddo. Why don’t you go into the living room? The TV remote is on the table.”

The boy trotted off, keeping a close eye on his mug so that he didn’t spill. She took her time turning back to DJ. “I was going to make myself some chamomile tea.”

He shrugged.
 

She poured boiling water over a teabag and passed him his mug. Only when she had her own cup safely curled between her palms did she lead the way to her kitchen table.

“Hey,” she said, as DJ hooked a chair with his foot and sat down uneasily. “Are we all right?”

He pushed aside his mug. “I am, if you are.”

“You need to tell me. You need to make me understand. Why does this matter so much? What if Daniel
doesn’t
have the skill to make the major leagues?”

“He does.”

She settled her hand over the fist he made. “What if he doesn’t?”

DJ swallowed hard. “I thought
I
couldn’t do it. All those years of practice, when I just wanted to ride my bike around the neighborhood. All those times I wanted to spend the night at a friend’s house, or go to a movie, or just hang out and play video games. My father wouldn’t let me do it. He never let me walk away from practice, and he was right. The season I’m having this year makes it all worthwhile.”

The season. Four weeks of glory, after years of hell.

She wanted to say she understood. She wanted to say she agreed with him, that she knew he was doing what was right for Daniel. After all, if his life had been different would they be sitting in her kitchen, even now? Would they be staring at each other with unspoken words, with a mutual hunger that stirred her girl parts and made her wish Daniel was an entire universe away?

DJ was thinking the same thing she was. She could see it in his eyes, in the lazy way he tracked her hand as she put her cup of tea on the table. She could measure it in the way he leaned forward, in the brush of his fingertips against her cheek.
 

She leaned into his hand as he said, “I have something to tell you, Sam. Something important.”

She turned her head, quickly kissed his palm before she whispered, “What?”

He paused, and she felt the quick beat of his pulse against her cheek. His eyes burned, dark and mysterious in the dim kitchen. He leaned closer, and she caught her breath. She could barely make out his whisper above the pounding of her heart. “I hate chamomile tea.”

She hiccuped as she laughed, throwing herself back in her chair. Fine. She’d let him end their serious conversation, let him guide them back from a cliff they had no chance of traversing here, now, with his son innocently watching television in the next room. But she wasn’t going to let the matter rest forever. Daniel, and the child’s happiness, were too important.

DJ told himself to stop glancing up at the stands, to stop looking for Sam. He wasn’t
supposed
to be able to find her. That was the only way he’d agreed to let her come to the game—they both had to be able to act surprised if anyone connected her presence to his pitching.
 

Right about now, that was sounding like the worst idea he’d had in years.

But how could DJ have known that Dan Thomas would choose that day to grace the park with his Hall of Fame presence? Old Man Benson had probably been thrilled to give up that primo seat in the owner’s box. Pop was presiding like a king, arms crossed over his chest, squinting down at the mound as if
he
were the person with the financial investment in the team. As if
he
lived or died by DJ’s getting the ball across the plate.

Telling himself to forget about the mighty Hall of Famer, DJ peered in at Ormond. The catcher flashed through an entire codebook of signs.
Curveball
.
 

No way in hell. He didn’t have control over the goddamn curveball. He could barely get his fastball over the plate. What was Ormond thinking, risking a curveball, with New York’s phenom batter at the plate and the bases loaded? One hit, and this nightmare would get out of hand.

He shook off Ormond. Repeated the gesture when the catcher flashed through the litany of signs again, ending with
curveball
. Ormond rocked back on his heels and shoved his mask to the top of his head before he trotted out to the mound. “You can beat him with the curve.”

DJ held his glove up to his mouth, hiding his words as if he were ashamed. “Not today.”

“Shake it off. We’re only down three runs.”

Which were about to become seven. And it was only the third inning. He’d already thrown fifty-three pitches.
DJ said, “Let’s catch him with a fastball, low and inside.”

“If you miss, he’ll knock it into South Carolina.”

“I won’t miss.”

But he did.

The ball hung over the plate, frozen in time and space as if DJ had set it on a T-ball stand. The kid walloped it with a perfect swing, a balanced sweep that would make a perfect photograph for every sports page in the nation.

DJ barely bothered to watch the ball sail out of the park. He knew from the sound that it was gone. His father knew, too. Even from the mound, DJ could see his old man’s shoulders tighten, could imagine the bulge of his biceps as he registered utter disappointment. Of course DJ recognized that. He’d seen it often enough in twenty-nine years.