Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) (2 page)

“We’re ready. The boys are with Clark, and we’re free women.”

She needed this night, more than Jill knew. As much as Meg loved her work, the schedule was killing her. She smoothed the front of her pants. “Lock my front door when you leave, Dana.”

“Then you better have someone else give the news about the foundation.”

Jill laughed.

Meg waved Dana’s words away.

Outside, Jill’s beige Camry sat in the driveway.

“Where are we headed?” Meg asked.

“Dinner and pedicures. I’m thinking Chinese sounds good.”

It did. Meg opened the passenger door and climbed into the car. The last week had been so busy, there’d been no time for anything but food that cooked fast. Or could be picked up fast. Vegetables themselves sounded heavenly.

“So I’ve got two clients set up for April already—”

“Stop.” Jill held up one hand as she backed out of the driveway. “No work talk, remember?”

Meg groaned. “But things are going so well. I might even hire another—”

“Nope. Not tonight. We’re just going to have fun.”

“Fine. What do you want to talk about?”

“Samuel started crawling today.”

“He did? He’s such a doll. Tell him not to grow up so fast. I loved that age.”

“And…” Jill held up a finger as she stopped at a four-way stop sign. “Clark brought home a surprise.”

“What’s that?”

“Someone at church had tickets to the Wind’s home opener. Right behind home plate. They can’t use them so they gave them to him.”

Meg’s stomach seized.

“Four tickets. Me, Clark, you, and—”

“No.” She shook her head, her hair swinging into her face. “No, Jill. We’re not going.”

“What do you mean you’re not going? Terrell loves the Wind.”

“It’s too risky. It’s too close.”

“Meg, come on. There’ll be forty thousand people there. Mike will never see you.”

“You said the seats were behind home plate.”

“Like twenty rows back.”

What was Clark thinking? She hadn’t been within eye sight of Mike in years. They couldn’t go. It was way too risky.

“Relax, Meg. You’ve been saying for a month that you’d contact Mike. Think of this as a chance to warm up to it. A baby step. It’ll be fine, I promise.”

Would it?

“And it’ll make Terrell’s day. Think about that. He can wear his new jersey, watch Mike play. He’ll love it.”

Meg hid her face with a shaky hand. He would.

“We thought you’d be okay with this. You’re still planning on talking to him, right?”

Eventually. From her death bed.

“No way.” Jill shook a finger at her, eyes still on the road. “You’re putting it off, aren’t you?”

Meg moaned. “Jill, I can’t.”

“Meg, you
have
to. Go to the game. See that he’s just a guy—”

“With a ton of money who can sue the daylights out of me.”

Jill sighed.

Meg watched a strip mall fly by.

“You know what I think?” Jill asked.

“I don’t want to know.”

“I think you’re working extra hard so you don’t have time to deal with him.”

Meg sank into her seat.

“You’ll wear yourself out. It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to Terrell.”

“Like life has been fair.”

“Meg, you’re the one who’s not being fair. Terrell needs more from you than just a few minutes a night. Call Mike. Get it over with. Everything will be better after that.”

Terrell
… Meg stared blindly out her window. Almost done with kindergarten. Growing so fast.

And starting to ask more frequently about his father.

The father she didn’t want to talk about.

Ever.

But that wasn’t realistic. While she could ignore Terrell’s questions now and shut them down, the day was coming when her little boy wouldn’t be so little—and would
not
take no for an answer.

The tickets were a reality check. Far better to contact Mike now than years from now. If she waited too long, waited until Terrell forced her hand, she might lose her son because of her
own
choices.

Not because Mike had taken him from her.

“So are you going to the game?” Jill asked again.

Yes. No. Maybe?
She closed her eyes in defeat. Baby steps, right? “We’ll go.”

Ben Reynolds parked his Honda Civic in his driveway. Letting the engine idle, he rested his forehead against the steering wheel, knots of muscle burning at the base of his neck.

A shudder ran across his shoulder blades and down his back. He was safe, he reminded himself. The cop hadn’t been following him after all.

Still, his heart beat faster than he liked. He hadn’t had such a close call in months.

He lifted his head and looked up the driveway. Dana’s Jeep Cherokee sat in front of the garage. She’d beat him home, all because of that annoying cop. He closed his eyes and exhaled a slow breath.

He hated not being in control.

When his heart rate returned to normal, Ben turned off the engine and pushed open the door. He checked the living room’s picture window, but the glare of the late afternoon sun made it impossible to see in. Dana was probably in the kitchen making dinner.

His stomach rumbled.

He opened the car’s back door and picked up the potted rosebush sitting on the floor, careful not to scratch himself on the thorns. With his other hand he grabbed the plastic Home Depot bag, then nudged the door shut with his knee.

There. He was ready.

Curly black hair fell across one of his eyes, and Ben tossed his head until the curl disappeared. Today their relationship moved forward. Or fell apart. He shook his head, that obnoxious curl falling again. He refused to imagine disaster. He wouldn’t be taking this step if he wasn’t sure of Dana’s response. After a year together, he knew her as completely as he ever could.

He liked that feeling.

Ben walked up the driveway, between her Cherokee and the dining room’s bay window and into the backyard where, as he’d expected, the kitchen door was propped open in honor of the day’s breezes.

He stopped beneath the kitchen window. “Dana?”

Her face appeared, shadowed behind the screen.

“Come on out,” he called.

Her forehead pushed the screen. “What is that?”

“Get out here and see.”

She disappeared, and Ben walked the length of the back of the house, searching for the perfect spot to plant the rose. The slap of her flip-flops followed the bang of the screen door as she neared, but he didn’t look up until her fingers settled on his shoulders.

Her smile warmed him. “Hey,” she said.

“Hi.” With one arm, he pulled her close and kissed her, refusing to stop when she drew back.

“Hello to you too,” she said when the kiss ended. “Good day?”

Time would tell. He held the plant between them, tucking the bag behind his back. “This is for you.”

Gold flickered in her hazel eyes. “What’s this? A rosebush?” She bent to read the tag.

Ben’s gaze traced the pale streaks in her short, blonde hair, her casual part, the strands tucked behind her little ears—and the sliver of green onion that clung to her cheek. He brushed it away. What was she was cooking?

“A climbing rose. How pretty.” Dana stretched on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. Where should we put it?”

The mild reaction wasn’t quite the one he wanted, but that didn’t matter. There was more to come, and if there was anything Ben excelled at, it was getting his desired reaction. He thought of the cop again, this time with a smile. That cop would never have caught him. “I thought it would look nice outside our bedroom window.” He set the plant in place and stepped back, draping his arm over her shoulders. “I can put some lattice around the window, and we’ll have roses peeking in all summer.”

“I like it.” She flashed him a smile. “Will your landlord care if you build a trellis?”

“Not if he doesn’t own the house.”

“You’re buying?”

“Don’t you think a real estate agent should own his own home?”

Dana grabbed his arm, eyes shining. “We can remodel the kitchen.”

Ben let out a laugh. Of course she’d say that, always the chef. As long as her incredible meals kept coming, he’d let her spend as much as she wanted building her dream kitchen. “Whatever you want, Dana.”

She squealed and clapped her hands, bouncing like a blonde cheerleader. “I’ll start designing tonight.”

Not if he had anything to say about it. He nodded at the rosebush. “Can we plant this first?”

“I guess my dream kitchen can wait until after dinner. Where do you think, Ben? This side?” She slid the plant across the ground. “Or this side?”

“Back this way. There’s more house for the flowers to cover.”

She dragged the rose back and toyed with it until she was happy with its position.

“Here.” He held out the Home Depot bag. “Put these gloves on while I get the shovel.”

He counted his steps toward the garage, heart pounding again.
One, two, three, four.
Did she have the gloves on? He looked over his shoulder.

She knelt on the ground beneath the window, one glove already on. She reached for the second.

Ben held his breath as she put her hand in.

A frown covered her face, and she tipped the glove. “Something’s in here—”

The ring spilled onto her gloved palm, the one carat solitaire sparkling in the sunlight.

She stared openmouthed, and Ben ran to her, falling to his knees beside her.
Say yes
, he begged silently.

Tears streamed down her cheeks.

His jaw locked, as tightly as when he’d seen the cop behind him. He’d been so sure this time. “Dana, listen—”

“Yes.” The word was half sob, half laugh.

Ben stared at her until her meaning dawned on him, filling him with relief, then confidence. Yes, this was right. Dana understood him like no one else ever had. They were made for each other, for always. Ben slipped the ring on her finger.

What a relief that cop hadn’t ruined the day.

He’d lost the stupid card.

Mike froze on the top step of the Chicago Wind’s dugout, ignored the fans yelling his name, and dug through his back pocket. Empty. He slipped his fingers into the other pocket. Was there a hole big enough for Meg’s business card to slide through?

Memory returned. His shoulders slumped. After batting practice, he’d tucked the card into a dark corner of his locker so he could forget about it until after the game.

Lot of good that had done.

He jogged toward teammates doing last-minute stretches in shallow left field. The card had barely left his hands in the days since Sara had given it to him. He’d played with the top right corner so much that it had worn off a week ago. He’d even entered Meg’s number into his phone.

Then deleted it.

The only thing he hadn’t done was drive past her office. He drew the line at that. There was no point in contacting Meg. None at all. She was probably married and had five kids.

How ironic would that be?

Slowing to a walk, he glanced around the packed stadium, at the fans wearing short sleeves due to an unusually warm April day. Their hopeful faces told him they actually thought this team might make the playoffs.

If only he believed it. Better yet, if only he could get another opening day on life. Maybe a rainout with a chance to replay his thirty years rested and prepared after learning from all of his mistakes.

Another chance to do right by Meg, by himself.

There was no point, though, in dwelling on the impossible. Hope might spring eternal for this franchise, but for him? He focused on the thick green grass beneath his feet and breathed in the scent of spring on Lake Michigan’s shore—clean, fresh, unspoiled. He scowled. Clean and unspoiled—that hadn’t described him in years.

So what?

Mike stopped walking, squared his shoulders.

So what
was right. What was wrong with him? He didn’t need to see Meg to get a fresh start on life. He could make his own opening day right here, right now.

He nodded to himself. Fine. As of today, Mike Connor—centerfield for the Chicago Wind, Triple Crown winner last season, a man thoroughly confused and disgusted with himself—would live life properly. No mistakes, no regrets, no looking—

Shouts from the crowd broke into his vow.

Might as well start with a few autographs. Giving back to the fans and all that. He veered toward a section of the wall packed with people waving pens and baseballs and hats. A little fan love wouldn’t hurt, either. And if everything he signed ended up on ebay, well, today he didn’t care.

“Mr. Connor!” a child called.

Someone had manners. He searched the crowd. Had to reward that.

“Mr. Connor!” A blond kid waved a baseball at him. “Will you sign this please?”

Please? “Sure.” He took the boy’s ball and pen and scribbled his signature.

“I’m Terrell,” the kid said. “Mommy says my name means powerful.”

Well, that was wonderful. Mike handed back the ball and pen. What made someone pick a name like—

Behind the boy, a woman with honey-gold, wavy hair and green eyes pushed through the crowd and grabbed the kid’s shirt. “Terrell, don’t you run off like that.” Her eyes met his. She froze.

Mike blinked. She had to be a hallucination. That’s all. Just his frustrated conscience morphing her face with…

She remained real, just feet in front of him.

He swallowed. “Meg?”

“That’s my mom,” the kid said.

She grabbed the arm of a man beside her. Spoke to the guy. “We shouldn’t have—we need to go.”

Mike couldn’t lose her a second time, not on his own opening day. He lunged forward, his knees banging into the brick wall of the stands. “Meg, wait!”

She pushed against the people behind her, and she and the boy vanished into the crowd.

The man she’d spoken to—the man she’d grabbed—hesitated. A sad smile covered his mouth, and his eyes… There was no victorious arrogance in them. No swagger, no puffed-out chest.

Who was this guy?

Who was he to Meg?

The man slipped into the crowd, and the sounds of fans crying for attention rushed into Mike’s ears. Someone waved a baseball card in his face. Blindly he scribbled his name on it, searching the stands above him. Someone shoved a ball at him, and he took it and a Sharpie. Signed his name. Handed them back. Took another ball while he scoured every honeyed head above him.