No Breaking My Heart (7 page)

In comparison, the opposite side of the street shouted fun in the sun. Team Captain Rylan Cates's family owned Barefoot William, and his relatives operated the northern shops. Here, tourists never wore a watch. Beach attire was permitted in shops, diners, and bars. Casual was the name of the game. Free and easy worked best for Landon.

He debated his late afternoon options. Carnival rides and arcade amusements appealed greatly. He liked the carefree moments of feeling like a kid again. There were as many adults as children indulging in activities.

A century-old carousel whirled within a waterproof enclosure. Its walls of windows overlooked the Gulf. The merry-go-round cranked “Roll out the Barrel” as the hand-carved purple-and-white wooden horses went up and down and all around. The Ferris wheel turned slowly, while the swing ride whipped out and over the water. Late afternoon laughter rose from the bumper cars. An occasional shriek came from the rollercoaster.

He stretched his arms over his head, cracked his back. Then decided to take a walk. He'd taken only a few steps when a pedicab slowed beside him. The drivers of the three-wheeled rickshaws gave beachside tours, relaying historical and fun facts as they pedaled.

“Can I give you a ride?” a girl in her early twenties inquired. Her smile was flirty. She wore a khaki uniform: short-sleeve button-down and shorts, and high-top tennis shoes. Her legs were tanned and toned from miles of pedaling.

He passed. “Thanks, but I'm good.”

She sighed heavily. Visibly disappointed. “Some other time, then.”

“Definitely.” That brought her grin back.

She pedaled off, and Landon sauntered the mile-long stretch. He people-watched and window browsed. He'd made a point to stop in Three Shirts to the Wind on his arrival in town. He liked T-shirts, and the shop had the best selection on the boardwalk. From plain cotton tees to brightly colored polos. Some had caricatures, while others had decorative designs. A few naughty slogans raised eyebrows. Most sayings were funny or silly. Overhead clotheslines stretched the width of the ceiling. Oversized clothes pins clipped beach hats, flip-flops, and towels to the rope. Window mannequins were dressed in the popular Beach Heat sportswear. Retired professional volleyball player Dune Cates kept his finger on the pulse of his designer line. Landon had purchased two Florida print shirts.

The Denim Dolphin catered to kids, offering toys and clothes.

The Jewelry Box offered costume jewelry. Collectible signature pieces. Rhinestones and precious metals. Gulf Coast glitz.

Waves sold ladies swimwear. There were a lot of women in the shop. A man could stand outside the window and enjoy the view all day. He moved on.

Toward the end of the boardwalk, a hot pink door stood out among the other shops. Old Tyme Portraits. The amateur photographer in him took a look in the window. He liked what he saw.

An arrangement of photographs showcased men and women standing behind life-size cardboard cutouts, their faces pictured above vintage swimwear, a flapper dress and zoot suit, a knight's armor and a medieval lady's gown. Interesting. He decided to go inside and look around. Perhaps have his picture taken as a 1920's gangster.

He pulled open the door, heard a commotion, and glanced over his shoulder. The Rogues were familiar faces on the boardwalk during spring training. He'd been recognized by a horde of fans and followed. He never minded shaking hands or signing autographs. It came with the territory. He took the crowd in stride. The guys craned their necks, curious, while the girls giggled nervously.

“Can I have my portrait taken with you?” a brunette in a Rogues jersey asked. She wore his number thirteen. “Care to be Adam to my Eve?”

Why not? He had the time. He held the door, and everyone filed in. He did a headcount. The shop was small; the crowd, fifty large. They pressed flesh. One woman leaned into his side. Another patted him on the ass.

The large cutouts were propped against the far wall, behind a raised platform. A woman stood off to the side, fooling with her camera. She had a nice backside, Land noticed. Slender in her white, oversized button-down shirt and black leggings. Her neon yellow flip-flops scuffed sand, tracked in off the beach.

She turned, scanned those gathered. Grinned. There was a small space between her two front teeth. Landon recognized her. Here was Eden Cates, his teammate Rylan's cousin, and one of the town's elite. She carried the ancestry, but there was little family resemblance. Her white-blond hair was short and frizzy. Crazy wild. Her eyes were a dark blue. Almost navy. Her cheekbones arced. Natural hollows beneath. Significant freckles. Her mouth tipped, full and pink. Her face had character.

They had been introduced the previous year at a boardwalk fundraiser, but had only spoken briefly. He'd felt extremely awkward around her. Nearly tongue-tied. Strange for him. Definitely a poor first impression.

She'd taken his silence as lack of interest, and had blown him off. They'd gone their separate ways. He hadn't thought much about her. Until now. Perhaps she'd be more into him this time around. Or maybe not. Her nod in his direction was indifferent. She did a great job of pretending not to notice him further. He could be invisible, if she had a ghost cutout.

She raised her voice to be heard over the excitement. “I'm Eden, your photographer. Look around. I have thirty monochrome cutouts. I'm happy to assist, then shoot you.”

Shoot you
drew light laughter. Even Land smiled. The lady had great energy and a sense of humor. She engaged the crowd. Won them over.

“How much?” a bearded young man with a ponytail called to Eden.

“Twenty-five for the singles, forty for the doubles.”

He gave her a thumbs-up. “Reasonable.”

The crush around Landon eased, as his fans moved to the back of the store. Each one selected his or her favorite cutout. Many called to him with requests that he take a photo with them in the double-faced frames. He was happy to do so.

The girl who'd asked him to be Adam to her Eve came toward him now. She carried the lightweight cutout with a foldout stand and base. She nodded toward the dais. “Ready?” she asked him.

“Sure,” he agreed. He took off his baseball cap, tossed it on a side table.

The cardboard cutouts were black, white, and shades of gray. Large-as-life and laminated. Landon went from Adam to a medieval highlander, paired with the lady of the manor. “Nice legs, Braveheart,” a woman called out. “What's under your kilt?” The shop erupted in laughter.

For photo after photo, Landon stuck his face through the cutouts. The cardboard scraped his forehead, cheeks, and chin. Eden Cates was a pro at organization. She directed the customers onto the platform, took their pictures, edited the images on Photoshop software, then produced a glossy print. A red plastic frame preserved the high-quality souvenirs, Land noted. Eden had the process down to a science. The line moved quickly.

He smiled when she told him to smile. Until his lips got tired and his mouth went dry. He continued with a wink. He couldn't help but stare at Eden. She was the eye behind the camera. She gestured with her hands. Gold nail polish tipped her fingers. Her hips gracefully rolled with each shift of her weight. She kicked off her flip-flops, went barefoot.

It was evident she enjoyed her work. She teased and talked with everyone but him. He may have been the center of attention, but he somehow felt ignored. That bothered him. A little.

An hour passed, and Land was patient. He stood as a cowboy to a dance hall girl. A caveman to a cavewoman. A pirate to his pretty captive. The Tin Man to Dorothy. The vintage swimwear was a favorite. He posed for eight photos. Once the crowd thinned, he planned to have his picture taken in the National Association old-fashioned baseball uniform with the bib shirt, button cuff full sleeve, and string tie knickers. Very nostalgic. The player held a bat at his shoulder, anticipating a pitch.

The session finally wound down. The customers paid for their portraits, then clustered around Land once again. He was asked to autograph each portrait, even the ones he hadn't taken part in. Eden found him a thin-tipped permanent marker. People patted him on the back, shook his hand, and gave him a hug. He was appreciated. It was time well spent.

“Best keepsake ever,” was repeated over and over as the shop emptied. “See you at the ballpark, Landon. Have a good season, dude.”

He closed the door after the last straggler. Public relations were all important. Fans liked memorabilia. The portraits were collectors' items. Better than key chains, bobble heads, and foam fingers.

He was proud of himself. He'd spread goodwill. Promoted himself and the team. The Rogues' community liaison would be pleased. Jillian liked when players mixed and mingled with ticketholders.

He glanced at Eden, and found her eyeing him across the room. They were the only two left in the store. He had an idea, and ran with it. Requesting, “Can you send copies of some of the double-faced portraits to Jillian Mac-Cates at the stadium? She could insert them in the Rogues' spring training newsletter.”

“Your preference?”

“Not Adam and Eve,” he was quick to say. “The pirate and cowboy would work.”

“Sure. Will do. I'll get them to her before I close for the day.”

“Appreciated.”

“So . . .” She glanced toward the door, and let the word trail off. “Are we done here? Or did you have a further portrait in mind?”

He wasn't ready to leave. “I have a personal favorite,” Landon told her. He retrieved the vintage ballplayer cutout, and approached the platform. He knew the history of the National Association of Professional Baseball Players. He thought to initiate Eden. “Eighteen-fifty-seven to eighteen-seventy, the NA governed early high-level but officially nonprofessional baseball in the United States. Teams were minor league.”

“Eighteen-seventy-one, and the National Association was replaced by the National League,” she added.

He blinked, unable to hide his surprise. The corners of her mouth twitched, but she didn't fully smile. “The majority of cutouts are period dated. I know the background behind the cardboard.” She motioned to him. “On the platform, Jim O'Rourke.”

His brow creased. “Why O'Rourke?”

“I have names for all my cutouts,” she explained. “The man was renowned. He worked his parents' farm before he began his baseball career.”

Land scratched his head. “He played for the Middletown Manfields, as I remember. An amateur ball club in Connecticut in 1872.”

She nodded. “The team was short-lived, as you may know. When it folded, O'Rourke signed with the Boston Red Stockings. He had the first base hit in National League history.”

“Orator Jim, as he was called, was quite a character,” Land said. “He got his nickname from his glibness on the field, his intellect, and law degree.”

She shared an additional fact. “One legend surrounding O'Rourke is that he would only sign with the Mansfields provided the team found someone to take over his chores on the farm.”

“He was quite a guy. His career lasted past the age of fifty.” Landon stepped onto the platform then, and awaited Eden's direction.

She studied him for a long moment before saying, “Angle the slugger left. Give me rough and rugged, Landon Kane. Narrow your eyes and stare down the pitcher.”

He could do that. He stabilized the cardboard, stuck his head through the cutout, and glared.

“Darker, meaner, more intimidating.”

What the hell?
This was a fun portrait. He shifted his stance. He wasn't positioned to slam the ball down the pitcher's throat.

“Turn it on.”

Turn what on?
he wanted to ask. The power he felt at the plate? His vision of a home run? His frustration over a strike?

“Concentrate,” she pushed him. “The score is tied. Bases loaded. The game rests on your shoulders.”

He sucked air. He knew that feeling. The gut-need to save the day. To be the hero. It was as scary as it was satisfying if he succeeded in bringing a runner home.

He gave in, played along, locking his jaw until his teeth ached. He gave her his darkest squint. In that moment, he heard the roar of the crowd chanting his name. Pennants waved and foam fingers poked the air. His neck muscles tightened as he shouldered the bat. He imagined the perfect pitch. He swung on a cutter, connected with the sweet spot. Long and gone, the ball cleared the center field fence.

He returned to the moment, and his entire body relaxed. He backed away from the cutout, and allowed himself to smile. He realized then that Eden continued to snap his picture. Several, in fact. Consecutive
click-clicks
capturing more than his cardboard at-bat. He ran his hand through his hair. Hopped off the platform.

She lowered her camera on his approach, her expression unreadable. “You did Jim O'Rourke proud,” she complimented him. She crossed to the computer. Processed his photos.

* * *

Landon Kane was the handsomest man Eden had ever seen. She could barely breathe around him. He had dark brown hair and light brown eyes and a face so sculpted, so fine looking, women hated to blink around him. They never wanted to look away.

She'd photographed many men in her shop. But Landon's wink alone sent female hearts to racing. Hers, too. Embarrassingly so. His slow smile was sexy, indecent, promising. Hinting at a possible date, giving a lady hope, even if he never asked her out. He kept women on edge. Waiting and wanting him. Badly. She was no exception. She'd taken a few extra shots of him as Landon the man. No reason. Just because.

He had everything going for him, she thought. Height, great body, charm. Athletic ability. His fans loved him. He treated them well, too. Genuine kindness went a long way.