Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) (23 page)

Admiration faded to suspicion. “Like what?”

“Expect groceries tomorrow morning.”

No problem there.

“And let me watch Terrell at my place while you work. I’m only good for a couple weeks until I start serious rehab, but you might as well use me while you can.”

She’d dreaded this next step. “I don’t know, Mike.”

“What’s not to know? I’m his dad, right? And no one takes care of your kid like yourself, no offense to Jill. I can pick him up and drop him off. He’ll keep me company while I ride the bike and do other self-imposed torture.”

“But I don’t know what your house is like.”

He stared at her. “It’s got four walls and a roof. I insisted.”

That wasn’t what she’d meant. Sending Terrell to be alone with Mike was a big step. What would he expose Terrell to? What might he do or watch that she wouldn’t like?

“Come over tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll pick you two up and make dinner.”

She looked at his cast, then at him. “Dinner?”

“I can grill ribs and—well, I’ll figure it out, but there’ll be plenty to eat. I’ll also give you a tour of my place, after which you may voice your concerns.”

“I’m not concerned—”

“Don’t lie in church, Meg. Even I know that’s got to be wrong.”

The drive to Mike’s home took twenty minutes, thanks to empty afternoon highways. Mike lived in a town known for its exclusive homes, but the grandeur of the neighborhood he drove through was more than she’d expected. Two- and three-story houses with multiple chimneys and garage doors dotted wide, manicured lawns with manmade ponds in the distance.

“Aren’t you a little far from the ballpark?” Meg asked, spotting another six-car garage. The house attached to it looked like a small castle behind its dramatic iron gate and fountain centered in the cobblestone drive.

“This is my off-season place. I’ve got a condo in Lincoln Park for the season. Since I’m not able to play for a few weeks, I decided to move back here for a while. It’s a little closer to you.”

He wanted to be closer to her? Why was she touched by that?

He pulled into an S-shaped drive in front of a sprawling mocha-colored brick house built in French Provincial style. Four chimneys rose above the multi-pitched roof, and a massive two-story entryway sat in the home’s center, an elaborate chandelier filling the curved window above the double front doors.

Mike parked in front of the four-car garage.

Meg stepped from the Range Rover, imagining what the inside of this amazing house must look like—ornate hardwood floors, marble countertops, vaulted ceilings, at least five bathrooms and bedrooms, and fifteen or more rooms with custom everything. She followed Mike and Terrell, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open, up the landscaped front walk.

She understood Terrell’s reaction completely. The house dwarfed even the Layton’s McMansion.

He unlocked the double front doors and pushed one open.

Terrell darted inside, halting almost immediately. “Whoa. You could fit ten houses in here.”

“I don’t know about ten.” Mike flashed her a grin and motioned for her to enter.

She did, stepping onto a polished marble floor. Before her, a grand staircase curved up to a second-floor landing supported by matching marble pillars. The opposite wall, other than an ornate carved door which she assumed hid a coat closet, stood bare and empty. Beyond the foyer lay a wide living room.

Mike passed her and tossed his keys onto a side table. “Want a tour?”

“Sure.”

He stood beside her and held out his good arm. “This is the living room.”

She eyed its sparse décor, a black leather couch and matching chairs surrounding a glass coffee table that disappeared into the expensive but bland winter-white carpet. Even the fireplace faded into the white wall.

“Back here’s the kitchen.”

Meg followed Terrell and Mike past a staircase tucked behind the living room’s fireplace and into another white room, saved by dark-stained cabinets. More marble countertops blended into the walls and tile floor, but the deck doors at the far end of the room let the view of the pond and green outdoors invade the stark interior.

Mike led them through a barrel-ceilinged butler’s pantry that connected the kitchen to the formal dining room and from there to the two-story family room with more views of the pond in the distance. French doors on the other side of the living room led to a library with polished oak bookshelves lining the walls. Most of the shelves were bare, but the lack of white walls made her label this room the most welcoming so far, despite the room giving the impression that Mike was about to move.

No wonder he spent so much time at her house.

She followed him downstairs to a walk-out basement, one wall filled with paned windows and French doors. But the room lacked appeal with the massive television screen and white built-ins, filled as they were with Mike’s baseball awards, framed photos, and memorabilia. Mike’s exercise equipment at the other end of the room did nothing to warm the space.

The second floor was more of the same. Meg had seen many well-designed houses buried beneath furnishings. But this one—anorexic described it best.

And, surprisingly, she’d seen none of the furnishings they’d fought over in the divorce. Maybe all of that was at his Lincoln Park condo?

“Is this the first single-family home you’ve owned?” she asked as they returned to the first floor.

“Yeah. After the townhouse, I lived in a high rise, but I decided I wanted something where I could walk in and out without having to say hi to anyone if I didn’t want to.” He stopped at the edge of the living room and looked around.

Did he see the same white-out she did?

Mike turned. “Let me get the grill going.”

Meg followed him and Terrell through the kitchen to the deck. Jewel-green grass spread before her, the backs of other massive homes dotting it, the sky above a brilliant blue with little lamb clouds floating past.

Mike opened the door to a storage space built into the house and, with one hand, lifted a large, unopened charcoal bag as if it were nothing, his T-shirt stretching across his chest.

Meg caught her breath. Looked away.

He’d been strong back when they’d been newlyweds. But he’d still been a kid, basically. An eighteen, nineteen, twenty-year-old kid.

Not anymore. Not even close.

She peeked at him.

He frowned, concentrating as, with one hand, he tugged the opening strip off the top of the charcoal bag. His dark hair was getting long across his forehead, the stubble he’d returned from Kansas City with thickening into a rather appealing beard he kept short.

What would that feel like beneath her hand?

Stop it, Meg.

Swallowing, she focused on Terrell, running the length of the deck. “You use a charcoal grill?”

“Not usually.” He dumped briquettes into the grill. “But I like ribs best over charcoal.”

“What else are we eating?” There. She was fine. Back in control of herself again. “Or should I fill up on ribs?”

He grinned, piling the briquettes. “No need. I picked up a broccoli salad, Jell-O for Terrell—”

She stuck out her lower lip, mimicking Terrell. “I like Jell-O too.”

“I’ll let you have some if you’re nice to me.”

“Forget it.”

Mike jerked his gaze up from the grill. “What?”

She laughed, waving a hand at him. “I’m kidding. Continue.”

“Oh.” He lit the mound of charcoal. “So the Jell-O is still just for Terrell, and I also bought corn on the cob and cornbread.”

“No dessert?”

“I’m getting there.” He stepped back as flames leaped from the grill. “How’s strawberry pie sound?”

“Perfect. You know, for having one arm”—
one very strong arm
—“you throw together a pretty good meal.”

“Thank you.” He raised his eyebrows at her, his smile bringing back a dimple and carving those attractive lines around his mouth. “Maybe we should do this again sometime. Just you and me.”

The idea appealed.
He
appealed. Meg shrugged, then smiled at him, ready to stop fighting his pull. “Maybe.”

When Mike came in after the fire died down, he found Terrell spinning in circles and Meg standing before one of the family room windows.

Terrell staggered toward him. “Dad, can I watch something on that big TV downstairs?”

Mmm, alone with Meg. “Go ahead, but don’t touch anything else down there.”

“I won’t.” He tripped off in the general direction of the stairs.

“What are you going to watch?” Meg called.

“There’s a ballgame on MLB Network,” Mike said.

Terrell nodded, still stumbling over his feet.

“Are you sure he’ll be all right?” she asked.

He seated himself on the blue sectional where he could see the grill through a window. “Baseball on a TV that big? He’ll be entertained for hours.”

She stood silently until Terrell’s footsteps faded. “You have a beautiful view.”

“You should see it with a layer of snow.”

“You really live here during the off season? No home in Arizona where you can golf every day?”

“I don’t want to go to Arizona until I have to.”

“Why not?”

That’s right—she didn’t know. He swallowed and made a play at nonchalance. “I guess the northern boy in me needed seasons. I grew up here—before we moved to Dixon, you know? The suburbs, the winter, the snow… I missed it.”

She sat on the other end of the couch, giving him a view of her profile.

Mike rested his ankle on his knee and sat back, content to watch her for as long as she let him. She seemed different somehow. Softer, gentler.

“How long have you lived here, then?”

“Bought it the November after I was traded.”

“You must have paid a fortune.”

He was still paying a fortune. “Let’s just say I have a mortgage.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. It’s a custom build I bought from a guy who got transferred to New York partway through construction. That’s why it’s all white—that, and I’ve been too busy to get it decorated.”

“It’s an impressive house. My home must look paltry to you.”

Was that what she thought? “Meg, your house is beautiful. My place looks great on the outside, but the inside—I don’t have a clue what to do.” But she would. If he asked, would she decorate this beast for him? This, and the one downtown?

“Mike, I have to ask.” She studied him, curiosity and apprehension mixing in her eyes. “I haven’t seen a single thing I recognize.”

“Like what?”

“Everything you took in the divorce—none of our things are here.”

No.
Panic raced through his chest.
Oh, no, no, no
. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Of course she’d look for items she’d chosen for her home.

“Mike?”

His foot slid from his knee. He leaned forward, rubbing his forehead. He’d treated her terribly. And now, when she seemed more receptive, he would ruin it.

He clenched his jaw. He did
not
want to talk about this. She’d be mad. Worse, she’d be hurt. The truth would destroy them.

Again.

“Mike.” Tension pinched her voice. “Tell me.”

“You won’t understand.”

“Give me a chance.”

What chance did he have? If he refused, she’d be angry. If he told her, she’d be angry. He’d lose every bit of momentum, no matter what he did.

He ground his teeth together. This was unfair—to both of them. His hand formed into a fist, and he knocked it against his cast. “They’re… I don’t have them anymore.”

Her eyes showed surprise.

She had to be remembering the way he’d fought her over every table, chair, lamp, and rug. And then she’d agreed to a money settlement and left. He should have known something wasn’t right, but he’d been too busy laughing her out of the state.

“Where are they?”

“Meg, this was so long ago—”

“What did you do with
our
things
?”

He stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling. Hard to believe that a month ago he’d wanted to rehash all this with her. He knew now nothing good could come of it. “After the divorce—” He cleared his throat. “Brooke wanted to get rid of it, said we needed a fresh start. So we bought all this ridiculously expensive stuff that never looked half as good as what you picked out.”

She stared at him, her face as hard as a boulder. “You got rid of it.”

His neck muscles tightened. “I sold some of it.” He’d never tell her he’d curbed a portion, watching from the window as rain ruined her chaise lounge.

“You fought me for things that meant nothing to you? You took them just to hurt me?”

“Meg, we’re not the same people anymore.”

She sniffed as if that were up for debate and leaned back on the couch, arms and legs crossed. Her toes tapped the tufted ottoman, then stilled. She pulled her foot back from the ottoman as if it were contaminated.

He read her thoughts. “None of this is from Brooke.”

Her green eyes sparked. “You get rid of her things too?”

“No.”

She raised an eyebrow, her head cocked.

“She wanted everything, and I wanted to be done with her so—” He shrugged. “I let her take it. Good riddance.”