The Reasons to Stay (Harlequin Superromance) (4 page)

The entire outfield, plus the shortstop and second baseman, swarmed for the ball, all yelling, “I got it!”

Despite all the waving gloves, the ball landed in the grass.

The coach stood at home plate, face florid, yelling the batter around the bases. The parents in the stands cheered loud enough to raise a flock of mourning doves from the power lines.

The little kid jumped onto home plate with both feet. The dugout emptied and the coach swung him high.

Carley Beauchamp walked up, hands cupped around her mouth, yelling, “Way to go, batter!” She rested her forearms on the fence and gave Adam a shoulder bump. “Better watch it. You’re looking at those kids like you want one.”

“Not me. Kids are like puppies—adorable, but also unsafe, uncontrollable and messy. When I have the urge, I’ll just come borrow yours. I’ll get my cute fix, and a solid reminder of why I’m never having any.” He leaned over and bumped her shoulder.

He and his best friend Daryl had double-dated back in high school. Adam brought whoever, but the other half had always been Daryl and Carley. Still was.

Her brown eyes held concern, and a few milligrams of pity. “You are a sad case, Preston.”

“What are you talking about? Life is good.”

“Oh, please. I’ve known you since second grade so I feel obligated to point out a few things.” She lifted her hand, and started ticking points on her fingers. “You live in your mother’s house, alone. You dispense corn plasters and Viagra to the over-sixty set during the day, then fill your off-hours running a softball league for potbellied wannabes.” She took a breath.

God, he hated when she counted on her fingers. She had so many.

“Your last girlfriend just came out of the closet, and you’re down to DatesRUs.com, or recommendations from Jesse, at the Café.”

He winced as the darts hit home. They were small but Carley always had dead aim. “Why don’t you just fillet me, and have it over with?”

Her fingers encircled his biceps. “Roger’s gone, Adam. But you’re still here.” He’d seen eyes like that behind chain-link fences at the pound. His jaw locked. “We are not discussing that.”

“Okay, okay.” Her fingers slid off his arm. “Only because I’m such a good friend, I’m here to save you from a long, lonely future.”

“Why am I afraid?”

“A big, strong guy like you, afraid of a date?”

“What date?”

“Well, working in the office at the school does have its advantages. The replacement for your—um—the teacher who left—”

“No.” The chain-link twists dug in his forearms when he pushed off and straightened.

“Adam, just listen. Her name is June Sellers, and she’s just your type.”

“And what, exactly, is my type?”

She rolled her eyes and unholstered those fingers. “Blonde and classy, quiet and ladylike. The type a guy could take home to his mother. You know, a good girl.”

The air quotes stung. “Why do you say that like it’s bad?”

“It’s not. If that’s what makes you happy.” She dug through her purse a moment and came up with a crumpled Post-it note in hot pink. “I told her about you and she gave me her phone number.” She handed it over. “She’s expecting your call.”

He avoided what looked like peanut butter on the edge and squinted at the smeared writing.

“I just think you deserve more than what you want.” She held up a hand to ward off his protest. “I’m only trying to wake your ass up. Life isn’t safe, or neat and tidy. I’d think you’d have figured that out after what you lived through.” The pity was back in her stare. “When are you going to take off the gloves and live life out loud, Preston?”

“I’m happy as is, thanks, Carley.”

* * *

T
HE
NEXT
DAY
, Adam unlocked the glass front door of Hollister Drugs, stepped in, locking it behind him. He followed the scent of freshly brewed coffee to the soda fountain, where Sin stood in her uniform, reading the
Widow’s Grove Telegraph,
and sipping coffee from a mug that suggested doing something to oneself that was physically impossible.

With effort, he pulled his eyes from the multi-colored tattoos that twined, full-sleeve, down both her slim arms. “You need to cover those tattoos, and I asked you to take that mug home.”

“Well, Happy Monday, Sin.” She put down the paper. “We’re not open yet. I’ll put on the arm warmers when we are, and I don’t drink coffee in front of customers, you know that.” She set a clean stoneware mug on the counter and poured him a cup. “Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine this morning?”

“Good morning, Sin.” He reached for the coffee, noticing again how badly her hot pink hair clashed with the uniform. “You sure I can’t talk you into a different hair color? Blue? A nice lavender?”

When she smiled, the crystal set in her tooth flashed. “Nah, but thanks, boss.”

He saluted her with his cup. “Thanks for the coffee.” He noticed his new tenant sat at one of the tables, reading the
Widow’s Grove Telegraph
. The paper rustled when she turned a page. He raised an eyebrow at Sin.

She shrugged. “If you trust her enough to live across the hall from your mother, I thought it was safe to invite her in for a cup of coffee before we opened.”

He nodded.
I should have thought to do that myself.

Priss wore a closely fitted pink button-down shirt and dress pants. Her short dark hair had that just-fell-out-of-bed look that had him imagining things he shouldn’t.

Her too-big green eyes held a warning that he’d been staring.

He slapped on his “trusted pharmacist” smile to cover his gaffe and carried his coffee to her table. “Morning. Mind if I join you?”

She put down the paper, pulled a phone from her large tapestry purse on the floor and checked the time. “Okay, but I only have a few minutes.”

He slid into the fancy wrought-iron chair. “I just wanted to officially welcome you to Widow’s Grove. I realized I hadn’t done that yet. Are you finding your way around?”

“So far, so good. I’m enjoying the apartment, but I wondered what passes for fun around here.”

“Well, the tourists go on wine tours, and there’s shopping—”

She waved a hand. “I mean the locals. What do
you
do for fun?”

“Baseball.”

A spark of interest flared in her eyes. “Tell me about that.”

“We have little league for the kids and a senior league for adults.”

“Women allowed on the teams?”

“They’re not banned. But only one team has a woman. It’s pretty competitive.” He leaned his elbows on the edge of the table. “Do you play?”

She nodded. “High school. And I played first base in a summer league in Boulder.”

Enchanting and she played baseball? Too good to be true. “Slow-pitch?”

She made a
pfft
sound of dismissal. “I said I
played
.” She leaned an arm over the back of her chair and flashed him a card shark’s smile. “Hard ball, baby.”

He could talk smack. He just never had, with a woman. He narrowed his eyes. “You any good?”

She held her hand up and blew on her nails. “Point nine two fielding percentage, no errors.”

“How many games?”

“Fifteen.”

“Nice.” A woman on the Winos? Why not? Pete Gilmour sucked at first base. Plus it would give Adam the opportunity to get to know Priss better.

On the other hand... He studied her stand-up hair and the stubborn line of her chin. She was hardly his type. And about as far from safe as it was possible to be.

Still, he’d sure love to see this little dynamo run bases. “You interested in playing?”

“Maybe. Who would I talk to if I was?”

“I run the league, and pitch on one of the teams. I might have a slot.
If
you can hit.”

“Two seven five average.”

“Not bad for a girl.” He didn’t let his lips quirk. But he wanted to. She stuck out her chin. “Pretty good for an infielder. Even a guy.”

Cute, competitive, and the stats to back it up.
This could be love.

She folded the paper and slipped it in her purse. “Well, thanks for the tips, and the conversation.”

He wanted to keep her here, talking. This lady tugged at his attention and he wanted to understand why. “You never said what brought you to Widow’s Grove.”

He couldn’t say exactly what changed. She didn’t move, but she changed, lightning-fast, from a pretty, young woman to a jungle cat—motionless, crouched, wary.

Her fingers tightened on her cup. “Does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.” He took a slow sip of coffee. “I would guess you’re not from a small town.”

“Nooo.” She said the word as if he’d pulled it from her. When she shrugged, her shoulders lost their firing-squad tension. “I got tired of the big city and decided to slow down for a while.”

“Well, you’ll find people here friendly. They’ll want to get to know you.” He raised a hand in a universal gesture of peace. “In a good way. We watch out for our own.”

“I’ve been watching out for myself for years.” She stared into her mug long enough to divine the future in the dregs. “I’m from Vegas, originally.”

“Not much small town there.”

“You’d be surprised. Off the strip, it’s a lot like a small town.” Her pert nose wrinkled. “People get way up in each other’s business. It’s part of why I got out of there as soon as I could.”

He wanted to keep her talking. “Um, before you go, could give me some advice? You know, as a woman?” He leaned in to whisper.

She backed up.

“What color uniform should I order for Sin?”

Her face went blank a microsecond, then she laughed. It wasn’t the delighted tinkle he’d expected from a tiny thing like her. It was an all-in belly laugh, and he glimpsed for the first time, what she’d look like unguarded. Her smile outshone the sun pouring in the window. But what hit harder was her...he fumbled for a word to describe it.

Life force.

A vibrant woman lived inside that wary jungle cat. Her laughter echoed in his bones, making him want to reach out and catch her hand where it lay on the table. He stopped himself in time. What kind of background made a woman that young so wary?

She leaned in, her lips quirking. “A different color is not going to fix that problem.”

“I was afraid you would say that.”

She chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I like her just the way she is and I’ll bet your customers would say the same.”

He broke eye contact before it could become another stare. “Yes, but she’s just so...out there.”

The twinkle in her eye winked out. The jungle cat was back. “Oh, and conformity tops honesty, efficiency and competence in your book?”

“No. But I can dream, can’t I?”

A shade of a smile crossed her lips. “Dream on, dude.” She lifted her phone, and snapped to attention. “I’ve got to go.”

“Where you off to?”

“I’ve got to go...to work.” She slipped her phone in her purse.

“Great, you found a job. Doing what?”

“Um. Customer service.” In one fluid movement, she was on her feet. “Nice talking to you.”

He stood. “You have a good day.”

She turned and waved to Sin, who came from behind the counter with the keys in her hand. Though he couldn’t hear their words, they talked all the way to the door. Sin unlocked it, let out Priss and let in Susie, his checkout girl.

He grabbed his cup to leave but his gaze followed Priss until she passed the edge of the window.

* * *

“I
GNACIO
H
ART
.
Report to the office.”

The voice on the dorm loudspeaker was soft but Nacho still jumped. He shot a look around to be sure no one saw. Nope. The prisoners were all at breakfast.

They’d told him his half sister would be here to take him today. He’d been shocked, since it was pretty clear that day at the apartment that she didn’t give a shit. Besides, she sure didn’t look like the motherly type. That was okay by him. He’d already had a mother—didn’t need another.

He crammed the last of his T-shirts into his backpack and looked around. The sun hit the floor, crosshatched by the wire in the glass. They said it was there to keep the kids safe.

Yeah, tell me another bedtime story.

Neatly made cots stretched the length of the high-ceilinged room. His was the only rumpled one. Screw ’em. He was so out of here.

He tossed the backpack over his shoulder, his hands fisted so they wouldn’t shake. He couldn’t wait to escape this kid warehouse, with their rules, bad food and the wimps sniffling after lights out. The only good thing about this place was that a bus picked him up so he could keep going to the same school. Not that he cared about learning, but all his homies were there.

He walked to the door, wondering if he was heading from a pile of dog crap into an over-his-head shit pile. His mom was dead, his dad was in prison. They were handing him off to a chick he didn’t even know, just because half her blood was his mom’s. What did that have to do with him?

But the county didn’t care. They were happy to have one less body in the warehouse. No one bothered asking the only guy who might care—and he
hated
that.

He used to feel empty inside when his mom went to work at night. Now he felt empty all the time. He wished he had a big family, like his friend Joe. They were loud and yelled a lot but you had to care if you yelled, right?

He took a last quick glance around to be sure he hadn’t left anything. The extra weight of the iron cross felt just right in the bottom of the backpack. His teacher talked about how knights in old days had a family coat of arms on their shields when they went into battle. The cross was his. Maybe his mom was full of shit. Maybe all those dead guys back in Spain weren’t royalty. But the weight felt right, just the same.

His stomach rumbled, empty, but full of ice. He practiced a badass superhero scowl.

His shoelaces slapped the floor, but he imagined a pair of Avenger’s boots, thumping down the stairs. He was tough. His skin was leather. Ice was in his veins, not in his stomach. He was—

His sister stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. She was little for a grown-up—only a couple inches taller than him. Trying to look cool with her spiked hair and hipster pants, but she was scared. He knew scared when he saw it.