Winner Takes All (12 page)

As though he'd never had an interaction with a woman before.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter and left the parking lot.

As he'd pulled into the hardware store, he'd seen her exiting with her cart. As usual, his attention was drawn to her and the way her hips moved in that sensual sway of theirs. She'd left her hair down, which was a change from the usual long ponytail, and it fell in thick layers past her shoulders. The response his body had was instantaneous and also troublesome. Because he didn't want to want her. She was meddlesome and too opinionated for his taste.

But as he'd exited his car, he'd seen her struggling with that ridiculous safe and something made him stop. Call him old-fashioned, but he hadn't been able to turn a blind eye to a woman in need. Even if that woman made him want to drop to his knees and howl like a wild animal. So he'd intervened.

And had a bitch of a time trying to hide the tenting action in his pants.

The woman was something else.

One minute allowing her authoritative nature to call the shots, and the next giving him a glimpse of her vulnerabilities.

He shook his head at his own stupidity. If he were a smart man, which he was, he'd stay away from her.

The trouble was he couldn't. Not only was she there every morning before practice, but she was also in his head.

Now who's under whose skin?

That had been a load of shit, if he'd ever heard it.

She was under his skin, no doubt about it. He'd only said that to deflect the fact that she'd been right. And he'd wanted to see her squirm as she made him squirm.

Why should he be the only one juggling feelings he didn't know how to handle?

From the cup holder of his truck, his cell vibrated. Blake picked it up and touched the screen.

Damn, but he hated texting. It was nothing but a lazy and drawn out way to have a conversation.

I just drove past the hardware store and saw you making out with Ms. Turner. What's that about?

Brandon.

Blake ignored the text and tossed his phone down.

A second later it vibrated again. With a heavy sigh, he picked it up.

No response? Is that because your tongue is still lodged down her throat?

“You son of a bitch,” Blake muttered to himself while one-handedly dialing Brandon's number.

His friend picked up on the first ring. “Nice of you to come up for air long enough to answer.”

Blake ignored the jab and made a left on Canyon Drive. “If you have something to say to me just call. You know I hate texting.”

Brandon snorted. “Because you're a dinosaur.”

Blake hung up on his friend and set the phone down again. Thankfully, Brandon left him alone.

“Asshole,” Blake growled, more about himself than Brandon. Brandon was just being Brandon.

He turned into his neighborhood and gripped the steering while tighter.

When had he turned into such a grumpy prick?

When you effed up your life.

His knee throbbed like a son of a bitch. It had been hours since he'd taken his pain pills. Leaning across the console, Blake dug around in his glove compartment and wrapped his hand around the prescription bottle. Only three pills left.

Shit.

He managed to get the top off and tossed back a pill, swallowing it in one gulp.

Soon the pain would edge away and he could think coherently again.

Maybe that's why he'd pushed Annabelle the way he had. Because the throbbing in his leg had muddled his brain.

Yeah, that was it.

Definitely.

Except when he made a right turn, he spotted her again.

Always there. Always haunting him.

How had he not known she lived in this neighborhood? Not the same street, but still close enough to be too much of a temptation.

Who are you kidding?

She didn't need to live in the same neighborhood to tempt him. Simply existing was enough.

Her house was a modest bungalow-style one story, similar to his. A large tree dominated the front yard with colorful flowers lining the front porch and a kerosene-style lamp mounted by the front door.

Quaint and charming. The house suited her. And maybe a couple of kids running around with a golden retriever.

The picture his imagination created only reminded him of why he needed to stay away from her. She was a forever kind of girl. Three kids. A couple of dogs. A husband who sat at a desk all day and didn't have a broken body that was dependent on pills.

But he stopped along the curb anyway and watched her.

Because he was creepy like that.

Then she attempted to lift the safe from her car. And failed.

She took a step back from the car, inhaled a deep breath, then tried lifting again. This time she managed a step back but quickly set the box back down.

He ought to help her. She couldn't get that thing inside her house by herself. At least not without breaking something.

But if he got out of his truck, there'd be no turning back, and their interaction would go beyond a senseless yet scorching touch.

So he rolled down his window and his mouth detached from his brain.

“Need another hand?” he called.

She spun around, hair flying all around her shoulders, making him wonder what it would feel like to tunnel his hands through the thick strands.

“I think I can get it this time,” she called back.

He rested his elbow on the open window. “How many more times are you going to try before you drop it on your foot?”

Her teeth stabbed into her lower lip.

She needed to not do that.

Because his willpower was only so strong.

With a sigh, after she'd only stared at him without answering, Blake climbed out of his truck and slammed the door shut.

“You really don't need to trouble yourself again,” she told him.

“I'd rather trouble myself with this than trouble myself with taking you to the emergency room after you've broken a toe.”

Her mouth kicked up. “Gee, thanks.”

He returned her grin. “No sweat.”

“That wasn't a real thanks, you know,” she told him.

“Really? It sounded so genuine,” he argued.

She stepped back while he hefted the safe from the back of her SUV. “You're just loving this, aren't you?”

“What, you needing me?” he countered, because she made him say weird things.

She sent him a mocking smile and led the way to her front door. “I meant your gloating.”

He ignored the statement and allowed his gaze to wander down her trim backside. The sleek indentation of her backbone. The subtle flare of her hips and the way her always-present yoga pants outlined the heart shape of her delectable rear end.

She glanced at him over her shoulder and lifted a brow when she caught him staring.

Just returning the favor, sweetheart.

He'd seen her checking him out more than once.

She opened the front door and stepped back for him to enter. He brushed past, a little too closely, so his arm just glanced off her breasts. The contact was instant and brief but enough to reaffirm his thoughts that she really was as soft and full as she seemed. Probably a nice handful. Just like he preferred.

“Just set it down here,” she told him, gesturing toward a small office shut off from the rest of the house by a set of double French doors.

The place smelled good. Fresh and clean and like wildflowers. Sort of like her. Bright light spilled in through wood-framed windows and the hardwood floors gleamed in the stream of sunlight as though she'd just cleaned them.

She probably spent her spare time cleaning. Annabelle struck Blake as the sort of person who grabbed a toilet wand when she was stressed. Or maybe even bored. He followed her down a short hallway, taking in the family photos strategically placed on the wall, creating a small photo gallery of family and nature scenes.

Blake stopped in front of one and took in the much younger picture of Annabelle, shorter hair nudging her narrow jawline but still beautiful and full of life.

“Is this your mom?” he asked, pointing to the older woman next to her in the picture.

Annabelle stopped and came back to where he stood. “Yeah.” A smile tipped her mouth. “That was the summer we took a road trip through the Midwest.”

“Sounds exciting,” he commented.

“Not many people would be into that sort of thing. But my mother could make anything exciting.”

He slanted her a look. “You look like her.”

Annabelle tilted her head to one side and studied the old photograph. “Yeah, I guess I do. My sister takes more after my father.”

Blake pointed to another picture of Annabelle with a woman younger than her. Both women had the same dark hair, but Annabelle was shorter with fuller lips and a pointier chin. “Is this her?” he asked.

“Yeah, that's Naomi.”

The tone in her voice was different, and Blake wasn't sure she even realized it. He turned and looked at the woman who had him tied up in knots. “You said she doesn't live in the area.”

Annabelle shook her head, turned, and continued walking down the hallway. “Right now she's in Peru.”

Blake followed her. “What do you mean right now?”

Annabelle pushed through a door that led to the kitchen. He followed her in and watched as she pulled a coffeepot out from a bottom cabinet and set it on the counter. “Naomi doesn't stay in one place for more than a year or so. She's been in Peru for a few months and just opened a hostel. Before that she was in Panama. I'm sure it won't be long before she picks up and goes somewhere else.”

The undercurrent of resentment wasn't hard to pick up. Blake leaned against the opposite counter and folded his arms over his chest. When she mentioned taking care of her mother, Blake had assumed Annabelle was doing what most other children of aging parents did. But after her comments about her sister, he realized it was more than that. It was more than an obligation.

She no doubt loved her mom and took pride in helping out, but there was also a necessity she'd assumed because there was no one else to do it. Hadn't she told him in the parking lot she was all her mother had?

In that moment, as Annabelle filled the coffee carafe with water, Blake saw her as more than the bossy woman who was interfering with this work. She was a woman with burdens, who'd willingly made room in her life to take care of an ailing parent. When a lot of children would have hired a day nurse or put them in a retirement community, Annabelle had assumed the responsibly.

Control freak.

She didn't trust anyone else to do the job. Her mother meant too much to her for that.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she wanted to know after she'd turned the coffeemaker on.

The machine gurgled to life, filling the kitchen with the scent of brewing coffee, something that made Blake's mouth water. “I was just thinking you're not really the person you put out there for people to see.”

She leaned against the counter and mimicked his stance. “How do you figure that?”

“How long has it been since you've seen your sister?” he asked instead of answering her question.

“Two years maybe,” she answered automatically.

He nodded. “International travel is no doubt expensive.”

She rolled one shoulder. “I wouldn't know.”

“You've never gone to visit her?”

“I don't have that kind of time.”

He waited a moment before answering. “Because you're so busy doing things for other people?”

“You must think I'm super-woman or something. I just have my job and my mother. That's all I do.”

The coffee gurgled a few more times, then stopped brewing. Instead of reaching for a mug or two, because he could really use a cup, she remained in her spot, staring at him.

He stared right back because he wasn't about to let her off the hook so easily. Finally realizing there was so much more than the woman who tried to tell him how to coach his players, Blake dug for more. “No, it's not. You volunteer your time to work with a bunch of high school football players—”

“Even though you tried to fire me,” she interrupted.

Blake didn't slow down. “You offered to help me with my knee. You shop for your mother and make her food. I'll bet you even clean for her too.”

“My mother's sixty-three and has bad hips. She can hardly get down on her hands and knees and scrub a bathtub.”

“So hire a maid service,” he offered.

Annabelle snorted and opened an upper cabinet, pulling down two mugs. “Do you take cream or sugar?”

“Black,” he told her.

She slanted him a look over her shoulder. “Somehow that doesn't surprise me.” She filled both mugs, handing over his while reaching for a canister of sugar. “Maid services cost money,” she finally responded to his suggestion.

He took the mug, allowing a slow grin when she sucked in a breath at the contact of their fingers. The skin on her hands was just as velvety as it was on her face. “Or you just don't trust them to do the job right,” he said.

“Or that,” she agreed while hefting spoon after spoon of sugar into her coffee.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You're going to give yourself a heart attack.” The coffee was good. Bold and strong and just how he liked it.

“I haven't had one yet,” she answered with a grin.

He matched her smile with one of her own. “
Yet
being the key word there.”

She finished with her coffee, then blew on the surface. “Worried about me?”

He just shrugged because, damn, he sort of did worry about her. Worried she was giving more of herself to others than she had time for. Human beings could only stretch themselves so far before they broke. “I'm just wondering who'll clean your mother's bathtub if you slip into a sugar coma.”

One of her thinly sculpted brows arched. “You're a funny guy.”