Making a Comeback (13 page)

A soft moan escaped her lips, encouraging him to deepen the kiss. She moved her hands down his shoulders, feeling his biceps, his forearms, then guiding his hands to her hips.

“Annabelle,” he groaned as he cupped her ass, pulling the soft cotton of her nightgown up.

She arched into his touch, wanting more. Wanting everything.

He inched his hand closer to her sweet spot.

Yes. Please. Now
.

He withdrew his hand and took a step back.

“I can’t.” His voice was shaky, desperate. “I’m sorry, Annabelle, I just can’t.”

“Because I’m not divorced.” She smoothed her nightgown down over her trembling thighs. “Or is it because I’m ugly?”

“No. That’s not…” With the gentlest touch, he brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. “I want you, Annabelle. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. Or anything. But I don’t have any protection.”

“Protection?” At first she didn’t know what he was talking about. “Oh. Like a condom?”

“I don’t keep them around. I haven’t in quite a while.”

“I see.” She searched his face for some clue as to why a healthy, sexy, single man wouldn’t keep condoms handy. “Why not?”

“It’s complicated.” Again, the mysterious secret loomed between them. She backed away, wondering if maybe there was something dangerous he was hiding from her.

“You weren’t in prison were you?”

“No.” He laughed. “Not prison.”

“You’re not married yourself are you?”

“No. Never been married. And I’m not gay.”

“I didn’t think you were.” The night felt colder now, and she wrapped her sweater tighter around herself. “I should go. I’ll let you get back to your guitar.”

“Annabelle… I’m sorry.”

She held up her hands. “Go ahead and sing anything you want. I’ll just close my windows from now on.”

“Wait.” He looked like he wanted to tell her something else. Something important, but then he shook his head. “Goodnight, Annabelle.”

“It could have been.” She turned and walked toward her house.

* * * *

He needed to tell Annabelle the truth. Tomorrow. If he followed her tonight, he would just end up even more frustrated than he was right now. They both would.

Why hadn’t he bought a box of condoms when he was at the store? Maybe because he was in denial about being able to stay away from her. Or maybe he thought she’d believed him when he said he couldn’t be with a married woman.

Either way, he was an idiot.

She wanted him. That would change when she found out who he was and what he’d done.

Cooper picked up his guitar. No more would he sit on his porch and play. Not as long as Annabelle lived next door.

Damn. Shaking his head, he walked into his house. He couldn’t find a comfortable spot to play, even though lyrics were swirling through his mind. About Annabelle. Her sweetness, her softness, her sauciness. She was beautiful and sexy and strong, even though she didn’t always realize it. The way she’d marched over there, begging him not to sing about her. It would be like him begging her not to be so beautiful.

His music was his way of dealing with the powerful emotions going on inside him. The lust. The longing. And something more. Something that scared him. Scared him even more than the thought of not playing baseball anymore.

He could see himself settling down with Annabelle and her daughters. Making a family. Possibly even making another baby.

No. He couldn’t bring a child into this world. Because one day he’d have to look that child in the eye and tell him or her, “Yes, your father did steroids.”

Annabelle’s agent was right on time. She’d carefully applied her makeup, done her hair, and put on one of her most confidence-inspiring outfits. She wore black cropped tuxedo pants, a blue silk wrap top, and silver platform sandals. A chunky necklace and chandelier earrings completed the look.

“Victor, it’s so good to see you.” She blew air kisses across both cheeks and pretended not to notice when he winced at seeing the large K carved into the left side of her face.

“Annabelle, you’re lovely as always.” Victor kissed her back on the right cheek only.

He was shocked by her appearance. He tried to hide it, but it was there.

“Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

“I brought your favorite, nonfat chai tea latte.” He probably had a list of all his models’ favorites. It was his job to make each of them feel like they were his most important client. He was good. But no agent would be good enough to get her a job now.

“Thank you. I’ll grab my purse and we’ll be on our way.” She faked a smile. “I really do appreciate you driving me to this appointment. I hope I’ll be cleared to drive again. I hate having to rely on my friends to get around.”

She was babbling, she knew it, but couldn’t help it.

Annabelle followed Victor to his black BMW. It was a convertible, and she had a brief moment of panic just thinking about how exposed she’d be in the open vehicle. She slid into the passenger seat, clicked her seat belt, and reached for her latte. If the worst happened, then she would have matching scars on the right side of her face.

She and Victor made small talk on the way to her doctor’s appointment. Gossip about people they knew in common, the business, superficial stuff. They didn’t talk about the accident. They didn’t talk about her disfigurement. And they certainly didn’t talk about how her career was over.

Once they got to the waiting room, Annabelle felt a little self-conscious looking at the glossy magazines on display.
People, Glamour,
and of course,
Sports Illustrated.
Nothing more than reminders of the life she used to lead. The life she’d hoped to recreate, but now had to let go of. She wondered if it would have been easier if she’d been back at work for more than one day. If she hadn’t felt the hope and excitement of starting a new job, it wouldn’t be so deflating to lose that job. Maybe once she’d gotten back into the routine—the long hours, hot lights, and the arrogant photographers who believed they could bring out emotions that she’d long ago stopped feeling—she would have been able to let it go more easily.

Her agent kept himself busy on his smart phone. Good, he was at least getting some work done while she waited to have her stitches removed and get the all clear for getting back behind the wheel. For getting her life back.

She had a hard time focusing on anything. She’d picked up a magazine, one geared more towards home and family than the glamorous life she used to lead. But she wasn’t really interested in organizing her closet, repurposing her clutter, or finding new ways to get her children to eat their vegetables.

She’d already discovered the secret to that last one. Have her hunky neighbor, Prince Charming in disguise, whip up a fabulous soup.

God, she needed to get the man out of her system. But the more she tried, the more she found herself unable to put space between them. And every time she tried to rationalize all the reasons she needed to keep her distance, the more she found herself drawn to him.

He was hiding something. About his past. Something important enough that he, too, tried to keep them from getting too close to each other.

They were both failing. His secrets, her scars, were no match for the chemistry between them.

Before she could overthink too much, her name was called. Victor glanced up from his smart phone just long enough to acknowledge that she was leaving the room.

The first stop was at the scale. Annabelle kicked off her sandals and stepped onto the torture device. She held her breath, and was surprised to find she’d lost five pounds. A lot of good it was going to do her now.

She followed the nurse into the exam room, sat down, and pushed up her sleeve so she could have her blood pressure read. She tried to relax as the cuff tightened around her upper arm.

“Looks good.” The nurse flashed an encouraging smile before entering the numbers in her tablet. “The doctor will be in shortly.”

Annabelle was left alone in the room. At least she didn’t have to disrobe. Most of the damage was visible. She might have to lift her shirt so the doctor could examine her ribs, but they seemed to be healing quite well.

She didn’t bother picking up a magazine. It wouldn’t hold her attention, not when her thoughts flitted from the end of her career to the start of something with her hot neighbor. Her musical, mysterious, and magnificent neighbor.

She’d flat out asked him if he’d been in prison and he’d denied it. He wasn’t married either. She believed him on both accounts.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

“How are you feeling today?” The doctor, a young, fairly attractive man, stepped into the room.

“Much better, thanks.” Annabelle was grateful to be in street clothes and not some flimsy gown.

He glanced at the chart, nodding to give the impression he was studying her case carefully.

“Are you still suffering headaches? Confusion?”

“The headaches are mostly gone.” As for the confusion, she knew that had more to do with her neighbor and less to do with the accident. “And I’m feeling much more myself lately.”

“Good, that’s good.” The doctor set the chart aside and approached her. He examined her face, or rather her stitches. “The incision looks good. No sign of infection.”

“But there will be a scar.” It wasn’t a question. She already knew the answer.

“It will fade over time, but yes, you can expect significant scarring from lacerations of this severity. Down the road, you may be able to have plastic surgery to lessen the appearance of the scars, but it’s too early to tell how well they’ll heal.”

The doctor reached for his tray of instruments, and selected the necessary tools to remove the stitches, one tiny thread at a time. It seemed to take forever. She imagined her agent growing restless in the waiting room. But it wasn’t as if she could take them out herself.

Finally, he was finished.

“What about driving?” Annabelle asked, resisting the urge to feel her skin where he’d been working. “I’m hoping to get back out on the road soon. Before my friends stop taking my calls.”

The joke fell flat. She was a model, not a comedic actress.

“We have a series of cognitive tests to run through before we can clear you.” He made it all sound so routine. “It’s done on computer, so we’ll get immediate results. I’ll let them know you’re ready.”

“How long will this take?” She was getting antsy. “So I can let my ride know when we’ll be finished.”

“It should take from thirty to forty minutes. Depending on how you do.”

“Thank you.”

The doctor left and she pulled out her phone to text Victor and let him know they’d be here at least another hour.

Victor assured her that he was fine, he could catch up from anywhere thanks to modern technology.

Twenty minutes went by before another knock on the door was followed by the entrance of another person in a white coat.

“I’m Dr. Sherman.” The young woman smiled and offered a hand. “I’m the psychologist who will be administering your test.”

Annabelle shook hands with the new doctor and readied herself for whatever was coming next.

“There are several questions that will test your memory, cognitive processing, and reaction times,” the psychologist explained. “It was originally designed for athletes, but we’ve found it helpful in assessing patients’ ability to resume driving.”

“I’ll feel better knowing I can get back on the road safely.” Annabelle hoped she was ready. She had been dependent on others for too long. She was ready to resume her independence.

* * * *

Cooper had finished another throwing session with Brandon. He felt pretty good even after throwing about a hundred tosses. Still not ready to get on the mound, but he was starting to believe it would be possible.

Progress.

“Looking good out there, guy.” Sanders gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder. His right shoulder, not his pitching arm.

“Feeling good out there.” And he meant it.

“You want to grab a burger and a beer?” his friend asked. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“I’ll take you up on the burger.” Cooper tossed his glove in his bag. “And the catching up. But I’ll pass on the beer.”

His friend raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Good. Cooper didn’t want to rehash why he felt like he had to go above and beyond being a good citizen. Avoiding drugs, alcohol, and driving over the speed limit. He paid his taxes early, made anonymous charitable contributions, and he always remembered to bring his reusable grocery sacks to the market.

But it wouldn’t matter how “good” he was from here on out. He’d always be remembered as a cheater. There would always be that one guy in the crowd who’d call him out, heckling him, harassing him, and making sure he would never forget what he’d done to disgrace himself, his team, and the game.

“Suit yourself.” Sanders shrugged, grabbing his worn cap from when they were Titans, the Goliaths’ double-A affiliate. “You can drive, then.”

“Sure, why not.” Cooper shouldered his duffle bag and waited while his friend left instructions with his receptionist.

They drove to an out-of-the-way burger joint. It was old school. No sweet potato fries or low-carb options. Just meat, cheese, bun. Greasy shoestring fries came with the burgers and a variety of condiments were kept on the table. Four different mustards, relish, and of course ketchup and mayo.

Sanders ordered a beer and Cooper stuck with the sun tea brewed right there on the back porch, next to where the cook took his cigarette breaks. He’d been coming here long before he started worrying about every single thing he put into his body. And a little cholesterol was probably much healthier than the crap he’d ingested or injected a year ago.

“So the arm’s good?” Sanders asked once they settled in with their drinks.

“As far as I can tell.” Cooper took a sip of his tea, almost wishing he’d joined his friend in having a beer. “But I haven’t really challenged it yet.”

“Holding out until you get to spring training?”

“Just getting to the point where I feel like I can answer my agent’s phone calls.” If Stan ever had reason to call.