My Foolish Heart (20 page)

She'd nearly written that, nearly flirted with him, nearly tried to get him to forget about this Girl and perhaps stay on the forum and talk to her . . . and then . . .

What if she's the prize?

Issy buried her face in her knees. See, that was what made the BoyNextDoor so . . . devastating.

He was the perfect catch.

But she'd never be the prize. Not for BoyNextDoor, not for Caleb, not for anyone.

11

All these years, Seb had believed that Lucy's family rolled in the dough.

He smirked at his own pun, but really, looking at her chart of accounts, he shouldn't be laughing.

Lucy hung on to World's Best Donuts by a thin . . . well, scrap. And with his very meager business skills, he couldn't figure a way to get her out of her financial mess.

It didn't help that she leaned over the Formica table, watching him scratch out numbers, her eyes on his work as if he might do magic. “Okay, Seb. Give it to me straight.”

Outside, gulls dive-bombed the shore, searching for leftovers from the Saturday picnickers. A toddler in a saggy diaper stood at the edge of the water, letting the waves run over her sandals. She jumped back, then scampered up to her parents. A larger man with cropped curly hair swung her over his head.

“Just so I get this right, your parents didn't actually own the building.”

“No, they rented it. Our family had a fifty-year lease, and it ran out four years ago. So I bought the building.”

“Which is why you're having trouble making payments.”

“Yeah. The building alone I could handle. The taxes on the shoreline property . . .” She shook her head. “That's why I need to move more donuts.”

He hid another smile. Everything she said over the past three days had elicited a sort of crazy smile. Even at practice, he found himself grinning.

It made for ineffective drills. Good thing Bam and the gang showed up to whip his boys into shape.

Sort of. They certainly weren't the championship team. Michaels could hardly keep the ball out of the snap, let alone hand it off. And Samson never ended up in the right place, let alone grabbing his sophomore quarterback's end-over-ends.

Seb banked on Coach's magic plays to save the day. If they could get two, even three down . . .

“Seb?”

Oops. He did that too, with her. Drifted off to a happier time, when he could still hear the cheers. “I was thinking about football practice.”

“How's it going?”

“Okay. Bam and DJ are out there every day after work. And the guys like hearing about Coach Presley.”

“You should go up and see him sometime.”

Seb blinked at her. “Go . . . Oh, I don't think so.”

“Why not? He needs visitors. I try and visit a couple times a month. I'm sort of a physical link for him and Issy. I know he'd love to see you.”

“No, I don't think he would.” He looked away from the confusion on her face. “I didn't live up to his hopes for me.”

“Oh, Seb, c'mon. You blew out your shoulder. That was hardly your fault.”

“I quit, Lucy.” He let the words simply burst out, fast and hard.

She grew still across from him. “What?”

“I . . . walked away. After my injury, I sat the bench for half the year. Then at preseason practice, my coach told me that I wasn't going to start junior year, that the sophomore quarterback behind me had outplayed my position, jockeyed me out of starting. I lost my temper. I turned into my old man and just walked off the field.”

“You gave up your scholarship.”

“Yeah. Dumbest thing I ever did. And wouldn't you know it, Coach Presley got wind of it and called me.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that I could get back in the game if I wanted to. That the man with heart could accomplish anything. But I didn't have heart. I had anger. And fear, I guess.”

Lucy slid her hand over his, held it. He looked at her small hand and didn't know if he had the right to close his around it.

“What were you afraid of?” she said softly.

“I don't know. Maybe sitting the bench. Maybe working harder than I ever had and not playing another second of football. Maybe letting myself down.”

“So instead of failing, you quit.”

“I sat there during the first home game, in my dorm room, and just kept reliving all those jobs my dad lost or quit, all those times I listened to my mother and father fighting, how many times she threatened to leave, until she finally did.” He took a breath. “I kept remembering how many times he crawled home, so sloshed out of his head that he didn't even recognize me, and I knew that just like him, I had flushed my life. Knew that I had destroyed any hope of playing pro ball.”

He sighed, waited for her to let go. But she didn't. In fact, she squeezed his hand. “But you're back. You're not a quitter. You got your degree, and you're here.”

He was here. Yes.

She drew in a breath. “Seb . . . why did you come back?”

Why had he come back? He'd fought it for years, really, until he got his diploma. Until he'd heard about Coach's accident. Until he lost his job as a clerk in a sports store and read over the Internet about the math job opening. Then something clicked inside, something that tasted of redemption.

Something that he'd known he should have done all along.

“I thought that since it all started here, I might be able to go back to the beginning, to reset my life. Get it on the right track.”

She met his gaze, and for a second, he saw her wide eyes as he woke to her staring at him, his arms around Bree in the backseat of his Pontiac. Words escaped him—then and now.

But she rescued him like she always did.

“That's why you want to coach.”

She was smiling, and it felt like forgiveness.

“Yes. I guess a part of me thinks that if I can get the team back on track, maybe get them to a championship, then . . .”

“You'll be the town hero again.” Her words emerged gentle, almost . . . kind.

“Is that terrible?”

“I think it's honest. And maybe you wouldn't be a man if you didn't want victory again.”

Her kindness could truly stop his heart in his chest. He swallowed, tried to smile.

But he couldn't because the look she gave him had not a hint of pity or disgust. Not a twinge of regret or even pain. Just . . . a smile.

His mouth opened without his permission. “I thought of you all the time after I left Deep Haven.”

Her smile vanished. Biting her lip, she looked away. “Oh.”

He reached out to take her hand. “I . . . Did I ever say that I was sorry?”

She looked at his hand holding hers. “Probably. But thank you anyway.” She drew in a long breath. “It's no big deal.”

No big deal? It felt like a big deal. The hurt on her face had tunneled inside him, found him every time he took a girl back to his dorm room, reminded him that he was a jerk.

“I am sorry, Lucy, for hurting you. And I'm going to figure out a way to get your shop back in the black. I promise you, you're not going to lose it.”

“And you're going to land the coaching job, Seb. I believe in you.” She looked up then with that smile, and everything dropped away. There was just Lucy, the sunshine in her eyes, and he couldn't stop himself.

He leaned forward, now really holding her hand, and kissed her.

She didn't move at first, not at all, and he froze, stuck in that position, over the table.

Feeling like an idiot.

Then she wove her hand around his neck and kissed him back. Sweetly, with the taste of sugar and coffee on her lips.
Lucy.
How he remembered her touch, her taste. Nothing had ever been so right as when he'd been her guy.

Maybe this time he could do it right.

* * *

Caleb Knight stood in the yard, spraying his glorious white stallion with a garden hose.

The magnificent truck had endured an entire three days without a wash, and Issy definitely saw a smudge around a rear wheel panel. Oh
no.

Issy ran past Caleb, averting her eyes, but not quick enough to miss his long-sleeved black shirt outlining his football physique as he sprayed the truck's roof, then aimed the hose at Duncan. The dog veered away from tailing her on her run to lunge at and bite the water. She paused her iPod in time to hear Caleb laughing.

He had a solid, deep, and reverberating laugh, one that tremored her insides.

Next
time around, she'd say hello. She started her music again, turned at the end of the sidewalk, and ran up the block. Seven times around; she had one more to go. Eight times around the block equaled two miles—her father had clocked it back in high school. Eight times around, nineteen minutes of freedom. And if she didn't say hello this time around, she might go two more.

He couldn't have waited until after her run to wash his car?

She rounded the corner, ran along the next block, parallel to her house, passing Lucy's.

She could always make a quick escape through their backyards.

Say hello; say hello.

Lucy's front yard could use some cleaning up, the bed weeded, the roses cut back, the lawn mowed. But Lucy barely saw it in the light of day, poor girl.

Issy turned at the next street, headed south. Funny that she hadn't seen Lucy for two days—although she'd left donuts on the front porch like some sort of May Day basket and a scribbled note that said,
I'll call
.

But she hadn't. And Saturdays were always her most chaotic. Poor woman was probably working overtime; otherwise she would have stopped by long before this.

Coach Knight had the chamois out, rubbing down his gallant steed, as she turned back onto their street. He glanced up as she passed him and stopped to take her pulse while running in place at her walk.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move her direction.

Oh . . . no . . .

But she looked up at him, pulled out her earbuds.

“Hi, neighbor,” he said, wiping his hands on the chamois cloth. “Isadora, right?”

Oh, she didn't want to know how . . . She swallowed, found a smile, too much teeth. “Hello.”

“I met your father. Pastor Dan is helping me coach, and he introduced us.”

She glanced at the house. Caleb's words bit at her, just a little. What had her father told him?

“I thought maybe I could come by and fix the fence? You know, where Rog—I mean, Duncan busted through?”

Maybe her father
hadn't
said anything, because nothing in his eyes communicated a curiosity, a
so this is the hermit
kind of perusal.

He waited for a response. She dug deep for her voice. “I guess that would be okay.” Coach Knight, in her yard? She took a breath. Glanced again at her house. Duncan had sprawled in a spot of shadow on her porch.

“How about around dinnertime? I need to finish cleaning my car, and then . . . I could also fix your back door.”

“My door?” Her words seemed to just burp out. How did he know about the door?

He seemed to read her thoughts because he lowered his voice to something soft and even conspiratorial and said, those dangerous eyes in hers, “Lucy over at the donut shop ratted out our pal Duncan this morning.” Then he winked.

Maybe it was the combination of the voice, the wink, the way the wind blew his scent her direction—something rich and spicy—that nudged something familiar inside her. Something sweet and not at all terrifying.

Something she wanted to lean into.

She wanted to like him. Wanted to let him into her yard to fix the fence, fix the door. Wanted to be the kind of woman who might smile back, might invite him over for . . .

“And while I'm over, how about if I bring along a pizza? Or take-out Chinese?”

“We don't have take-out Chinese in Deep Haven.” Her voice emerged so small, she couldn't be sure she'd even spoken. She drew in a quick breath. Swallowed.

“That's okay,” he said quietly, his eyes still holding hers. “I love pizza; don't you?”

“Uh . . . well . . .” She swallowed again, found a boulder lodged in her throat. Took a step. “I'd rather have spaghetti,” she said—or thought she said.

“Spaghetti. Okay.” A smile curved up his face. “I'll see what I can cook up. How about five-ish?”

She tried a smile, but it felt like she might be catching flies, her lips drying. She took another step.

“Is that a yes?” Again that soft voice, and it sounded so . . . familiar. As if she might know it, as if he'd already spent time in her thoughts.

Was it a yes? She drew in a long breath and pressed her hand against her stomach. “Yes. Mmm-hmm.” She nodded too, in case she wasn't communicating, because in her state, who really knew?

But apparently something had emerged from her knotted chest because his smile returned. “I'll see you at five then, Isadora.”

“Issy. Call me Issy.” That, she heard.

He whistled to Duncan, who rose and trotted down the steps. Then he glanced at her, still wearing that warm smile. “See you later, Issy.”

She made it into the house before she realized . . .

She had a date. A real date.

Two giant steps forward in a single bound.

* * *

“Issy, you're not going to believe what happened!”

As Lucy closed the door behind her, she listened for Issy's reply in the quiet house. The radio chatted upstairs, a low hum of voices, but otherwise the house seemed still.

She headed down the hall, through the house to the back door, opened it. “Issy—!”

No one in the garden.

She turned, ran down the hall, checking in the parlor. No Issy.

“Where are you?”

She listened over the thunder of her heartbeat, then scrambled up the stairs.