The Lives Between Us (10 page)

She’d text him. Perfect. Skye picked up her cell, then stopped. If she texted Mark, he’d have her cell number. She wasn’t ready for him to have that yet. Skye liked to keep her cell private, reserved for her editor or family and close friends. Hmm. She could probably find his email addy on his company’s website, but then it would be obvious that she researched him and went out of her way to avoid talking to him, to which he’d either be really flattered or think her really weird.

Skye looked at her watch. Eleven fifty a.m. He’d be at work. Perfect. She picked up her desk phone and dialed his home phone. The line rang and rang four times before his deep voice came through the answering machine, instructing her to leave a message. “And if this is Skylar Kendall, the answer is yes. Anytime. Anywhere.”

Skye jerked the phone away from her face and stared at it as if Mark’s head had popped through the line. “W-hat?”

She punched the off button. Skye stared at the phone in her hand. She pushed talk and then redialed. The answering machine picked up on the fourth ring, as before, and the message ended the same, “And if this is Skylar Kendall, the answer is yes. Anytime. Anywhere.” Skye stared at her phone until the gray buttons blurred into shimmering liquid.

Who does that? Who leaves a personalized message on their answering machine on the off chance the person you’re hoping will call? And why?

A message like that made it seem like Mark was crazy about her, yet they’d only had one date. It was so...eager. So...public—right out there for anybody who called him to hear. Skye didn’t know if she should be incredibly flattered or creeped out.

At the prolonged beep, prompting her to leave a message, Skye jammed her phone into the dock. Mark probably thought he was really clever. Any girl would be flattered to discover such a message—how could she not? In fact...the message smacked of more than a little cockiness.

Well, Mr. Dutton needed to learn that she wasn’t about to swoon at a little flattery. Hmmm. How to show Mark Dutton that she was not that easily impressed.

Skye lifted the receiver from the phone on her desk and dialed his home number. After the beep she said, “Thank you for the flowers—they were beautiful.” And hung up. Skye smirked. Now the newspaper’s number would be the number he’d see on his phone—not her cell.

They’d call this one a draw.

* * *

One week later

Skye hustled back to work from taking a late lunch with Faith and knocked over a white cube box perched on the edge of her desk. She picked up the light package and stifled the smile threatening to break across her face. Mark Dutton could not buy his way into her heart. Yet what girl didn’t like presents?

She flipped open the gold foil card accompanying it.
Meet me in front of your apartment at four p.m.
—
MD

Skye tugged the royal blue bow loose and lifted the box top to reveal a fluffy, royal blue hat, mittens, and matching scarf.

The phone rang. Skye let it ring a few more times before picking it up.

“Hi,” Mark said.

“Hey.” Skye pulled the scarf from the box. What material was this soft and feather light? She flipped the tag over. Cashmere—of course. “Guess what I got in the mail.”

“What?”

“A beautiful hat and mitten set. Any idea who might have sent it?”

“Your mother? Moms are always trying to dress you up warm.”

“Not likely. Mine’s dead.”

“Sorry to hear that. A secret admirer?”

Skye turned her back to the cubby doorway and leaned her butt against the desk, knowing full well this only gave her the illusion of privacy. Unless one whispered, conversations could easily be overheard in nearby cubbies. Not that Mark’s repeated gifts wouldn’t already have people talking. First the flowers, now a hat and mitten set? And with that message to her on his answering phone, he certainly was putting on the full-court press.

Most women would be flattered. Skye felt a little unsettled. “Guess so.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Maybe. The guy has exquisite taste,” Skye said as she carefully folded the scarf and returned it to the box.

“Meet me at four o’clock?”

“Uh...” Skye reached over to her computer and brought up her calendar, just to make sure she didn’t have a meeting or appointment scheduled. When that was clear, she opened her email to make sure Karen was satisfied with today’s letters. Nothing new from her. There seemed no reason Skye couldn’t knock off work a little early. “Sure. Where are we going?”

“Someplace cold. Wear sexy long underwear.”

“They make sexy long underwear?”

“Anything would look sexy on you. See ya at four.”

That was sweet. And too smooth. What was he after? Other than the obvious.

Skye gave him her address, said goodbye, then hurried home. She changed into silky long underwear, jeans, a navy turtleneck and heavy emerald sweater. At three fifty-eight, Skye dug her favorite hat and mittens out of the closet and knotted the matching scarf around her neck. She grabbed the white gift box before walking out the door.

Mark’s Audi drew up alongside the curb. As he got out and rounded the car, his glance settled on the white box in her hand. He looked puzzled. “Wrong color?”

Skye shook her head and held out the gift box to him. “Wrong time. The thought was sweet, but I can’t accept this.”

Mark took the box from her. “It’s not a big deal—just a scarf set.”

Skye shrugged. “It’s too soon. I don’t know...it feels weird. A guy I barely know buying me clothing. But thanks for the thought.”

“It’s not exactly a negligee,” Mark muttered as he opened her door and tossed the box in the backseat.

“What color? Now
that
I could use—just kidding.” Skye balanced on one leg while holding a booted foot out to Mark. “I wore my Caribou boots with thermo plus liners—good to forty below zero.”

“Impressive, but we’re not going to the North Pole.” Mark shut the door behind her and got in the driver’s side. “We’re going to watch my godson’s hockey game.” They drove north along Lakeshore drive. “His parents are swamped today, so I told them we’d watch Jeff and get him home. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No.” A kid’s hockey game? Skye never would have guessed that.

“Really?” Mark shot her a quick look. “I know it’s not much of a second date, but I’ll take you to a great place for dinner afterwards.”

Skye laughed. “Not necessary. I’m happy to help out.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to help me out a week from Saturday?” He brightened. “I have this thing I have to attend, and it’d be a lot more fun if you came with me.”

“And what ‘thing’ would that be?”

“An award presentation. My company sponsors this dinner to honor girls who excel in math and science.”

“I...” Skye hedged. She didn’t want to sit at a table with a bunch of strangers, making small talk and enduring an evening of long, boring speeches, but she did enjoy Mark’s company.

“Please? I don’t want to go alone. If the food’s bad, I’ll take you out to eat later,” he cajoled.

“What’s the dress?”

Mark hesitated, as if weighing if the answer would help or hurt his cause. “Black tie. But—”

“Forget it.” The last time Skye had worn any formal wear had been a college prom, and she doubted that dress would be appropriate for this event. And she hated high heels. They were hard to walk in, and they hurt.

“O—kay. I’ll take that as a maybe.”

Skye burst out laughing. What about her refusal was wishy-washy? But she had to admire his optimism.

A few minutes later, they pulled into the McCann Arena parking lot. As Skye rounded the car, Mark held his hand out to her. Skye stuffed her hands deep in her ski jacket pockets and breezed by, hurrying down the long walkway beside the brick building as if she hadn’t seen it. Skye loved holding hands. It made her feel secure—a part of a couple. But it was too soon.

Inside the building at the open window, Mark pulled out his wallet and paid the admission fee. He led Skye across the lobby and held open the rink door. She stepped into the bright arena—like walking into an enormous, noisy refrigerator.

Just a few feet away, boys dressed in bulky pads covered by large jerseys zipped around the ice, slapping hockey sticks and crunching, creaking, and scraping the ice as they warmed up. Mark led her off to the right, up the ridged metal ramp.

They passed a group of huddled girls and then climbed the four steps to the top of the metal bleachers.

“What grade’s he in?” Skye asked.

“Ninth.”

Ninth grade—fourteen. Skye rested her back against the wall and wished she’d brought a cushion or blanket, some sort of barrier between the cold metal bleacher and her rear end. Her long underwear and jeans did little to disabuse her of the notion that she was sitting on a hard metal ice cube.

Skye’s gaze wandered to the group of five girls clumped together off to their left. Clothes, hair styles, body art and piercing, had all changed since she’d attended high school, but giggling girls going to the games and gawking at hot guys certainly had not. Three of the girls had a heavy hand with eye makeup; the other two sported more adventurous hairdos. All had multiple ear piercing. Safe enough rebellions. Rebellions Niki would never know.

Skye’s heart crushed painfully. Having only been in fifth grade when she died, Nik never got a chance to fight with her mom about makeup and wearing skimpy clothes. She never got the chance to do foolish things like freezing for vanity’s sake or wearing cute heels that made her legs look great and caused huge blisters—if not bloody heels. She never got the chance to experience that frightening jittery stomach that accompanied the obsession of puppy love. Niki had been robbed of so much. It wasn’t fair. Skye looped her arm through Mark’s and leaned into him for comfort.

Mark looked down at her, questioning.

Skye shuddered. “It’s cold in here.”

Mark smiled and gave her arm a little squeeze before returning his attention to the boys warming up on the ice.

At a sharp whistle, the boys lined up, facing off across the red line, and then the ref in the zebra-striped shirt dropped the puck. The boys exploded into action.

“Jeff’s number seven.” Mark pointed out the tall, lanky center.

“Why doesn’t he have his name across his shoulders like the others?”

“Borrowed jersey. He only plays occasionally for this team.” Skye cringed as the boys slammed into the boards with sickening thuds. She admired the smooth way they stroked down the ice with such concentration and graceful ease, passing the puck back and forth as if neatly choreographed.

The first period passed fairly uneventfully, with both teams feeling each other out. The second, they came out fighting. The pace visibly picked up, as did the tension. The boys eyed the opponents with steady determination, and sweat darkened their hair around reddened faces. Grunts and curses punctuated calls to teammates. The final period was intense.

Finding it increasingly difficult to block out the girls’ gum snapping and chatter about who was crushing on whom, and where the coming weekend’s parties were to be held, Skye turned around to glare at them, but quickly brought her gaze back to the rink.

A loud, rapid
thump, thump, thump
pounded the boards in front of them. Skye jerked back as three boys shoved and pushed each other until one of the guy’s helmet and face smeared against the Plexiglas.

The puck squirted out of the pack, and Jeff scooped it up. He gracefully moved the stick from side to side to keep the puck protected as he wove and darted around the defenders. With a quick flick of his wrist, he passed the puck to a teammate. The closest defender hooked his skate, and Jeff fell hard to the ice. He slid several yards toward the net, before rolling up and getting back into the action.

Skye smacked Mark’s arm. “He tripped him. Did you see that? He tripped him.” She sputtered. “Why aren’t they calling a foul?”

Mark nodded, yet kept his gaze on the ice, following the play at the far end of the rink. “The ref didn’t see it.”

“What is he, blind?”

Mark looked at her, then grinned, seemingly amused by her indignation. “Could be.”

Number six on the other team had a breakaway. Jeff sprinted forward on his right side, and as the guy raised his stick to take the shot, Jeff flipped the puck to a teammate. Concentrating on the play down the ice, Jeff didn’t see the infuriated number six skid to a stop, pivot, and slam his body into Jeff’s. Jeff flew off his feet and landed flat on his back. Number six scowled down at him a second before rocketing to the other end.

“Did you see that?” Skye squeezed Mark’s arm.

Two of Jeff’s teammates crashed into number six for the unfair hit and others piled on. Boys threw themselves into the fight with more energy than effectiveness, intent on pounding someone on the other team. The refs hurried to break up the free-for-all.

Skye looked back to Jeff, where he rocked from side to side on his back, struggling to sit up. She slid her arm from Mark’s and slowly stood. Something’s wrong. He wasn’t bouncing back up like the other times.

The coach ran across the ice to the hurt boy. Stifling the impulse to race out onto the rink too, Skye prodded Mark’s shoulder. “He needs help.”

Mark stood and looked over her head. “Probably just got the breath knocked out of him.”

Jeff rolled back and forth then tried to sit up. He dropped back to the ice, wincing. The coach knelt next to him, talking.

Skye clutched Mark’s arm. “He’s hurt. Do something.” They had to call an ambulance. Skye patted her jacket, then remembered she’d left her phone in the car. “Where’s your phone?” She looked at Mark’s waist where he wore it clipped to his belt, but his jacket covered it. “Call 911.”

Mark spared her a glance and then patted her shoulder. “He’ll be okay.”

“He needs help.” Skye held out her shaking hand, palm up. “Give me your phone.”

“Skye, calm down, he’s fine. Look, he’s getting up.”

When she didn’t find the phone clipped to the hip nearest her, she lifted his jacket and moved impatient hands along his waistline. Chest burning, Skye struggled to draw in air past her panic-clogged throat.