Single (Stockton Beavers #1) (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Luke

This is just to thank Roberta for the good job she's been doing
… I repeat for about the twentieth time inside my head. I pace in front of the door while Mrs. Jenkins eyes me curiously from the couch. If not for the fact that Mom is dozing beside her, I'm sure she'd be telling me to sit down already.

But, seriously, what am I doing, going out with a woman who has no idea that I have a major crush on her? I must be a glutton for punishment. Yeah, we now share this common bond of taking care of Mom together, but I want this to be a fun night out for her. And honestly, I'm nervous because I don't know what else to talk to her about. Maybe I can open with inviting her to join my David Nichols fan club or something. Anything to make her laugh.

The steps creak and I look up as she makes her way down them, playing with the fringed ends of her scarf.
Wow, she looks amazing
. Tight jeans, quilted vest, shearling boots—yep, all in black, her signature color. And I feel like a total schlub in a windbreaker and sweat pants. I purposely didn't get dressed up for this because I didn't want to give her the wrong idea because this isn't a date…
right
?

"Just so you know," Roberta greets me, crossing her arms in front of her. "Under any other circumstances, I'd be soaking in a nice, hot bubble bath right about now before crawling under the covers."

I gulp, getting a good visual of what she's describing inside my head and blink, needing to get my mind out of the gutter. It's a chilly spring night, the type where even the most diehard socializer doesn't want to go out. But I'm not about to pass up spending some time with her so she can get to know the real me, away from the boatload of responsibilities I'm always carrying around on my shoulders.

I hold up my hands in surrender. "All right. We'll eat and come right back.
But
… I did promise to show you around Stockton, didn't I?"

She gives me the vaguest hint of a smile. "So where are we off to?"

Mrs. Jenkins coughs, pointing at her watch. "Don't forget, Luke. You're on the clock. You have exactly fifty-seven minutes before I have to leave for bingo night over at the church."

"Gee, thanks for reminding me," I chuckle, a tad bit irritated by the way she's rushing things along. I give Roberta a sheepish grin. "I thought we could grab something quick from the food truck on the square."

She purses her lips at me. "And here I was hoping for a meal at a nice restaurant with tables and chairs and everything."

I open the door for her. "It's a Stockton tradition. You're gonna love it."

"A greasy spoon on wheels? Great," she mutters halfheartedly, tucking her scarf more securely around her. "Probably offering junk food a single guy like you most likely subsists on—burgers, fries, shakes, the whole lot—not the kind of fare I care to indulge in."

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, honey," Mrs. Jenkins whispers loudly from the couch.

Roberta rolls her eyes at me as she steps out. "How far of a walk is it?"

"Only a few blocks." I give her a sidelong glance as the wind whips around us. "Why? Are you cold?"

"A little," she admits. "Are you sure you really want to eat outside? Isn't there somewhere else we can go?"

"I know it's a miserable night, but trust me, the food's worth it."

"If you say so."

We turn the corner, and I'm at a loss for words. She's not feeling it, and she's not one to fake being in a good mood for my sake. I don't know much about girls. Do they all act like this? Maybe it's her time of the month or something, or maybe she's tired. I just hope this wasn't a big mistake. What if it turns out we have nothing in common? I'm a low-maintenance guy. I'm cool with eating food that's cooked inside a truck, but if she's not…

We're walking down a street lined with family-owned stores that have been in Stockton for generations, and she stops to look at a display case in a jewelry shop window. I come up beside her and jut my chin at all the diamond engagement rings. "Which one do you like?"

"None of them," she groans, walking on ahead of me.

I laugh. "Then why'd you stop to look at them? Something must've caught your eye."

She shoves her hands in the pockets of her vest. "Sorry to disappoint you, but marriage really isn't my thing."

"Like Mrs. Jenkins said, 'Don't knock it 'til you've tried it,'" I tease, hoping to melt through her reserve.

But she just exhales loudly. "I have tried it, and I didn't like it."

I come to an abrupt stop. "Hold up. You were married before?"

"Yeah, a long time ago."

I'm completely floored. I wasn't expecting her to say that. Clubhouse gossip had her linked at one time or another to Jake Woodbury and Scott Harper on the Kings, but I never heard that she was married before. True, she warned me not to believe every rumor I've ever heard about her. But this isn't some rumor. What she's telling me is coming straight from her own lips. And I have to admit, it's kind of throwing me for a loop. She can't be more than twenty-five, and she's been married and divorced already?

I go for a dose of humor to mask my anxiety. "So tell me… Who's the lucky guy?"

"A sweet guy who picked me up in a bar, and who turned out not to be so sweet after all." She gives me a pointed look. "Can we not talk about this anymore?"

"Yeah, sure. No problem."

"Good."

I don't want to pry into her personal life, but she's the one who brought it up. It's like she's already lived this full life and experienced so much—while I haven't even gotten out of Stockton. No wonder she's bored with me as we walk in silence the rest of the way. It's like she's telling me not to get any big ideas. As far as she's concerned, this most certainly is not a date. She needed to eat. I needed to eat. End of story.

But I can't resist nudging her shoulder when I catch sight of the food truck. "There it is."

And I'm surprised when her eyes light up and a satisfied smile crosses her lips. "Oh my God, they have Mexican! You don't know how much I've been dying for Mexican food!"

She runs ahead of me to read the menu as a group of young guys, who just got their food, spot me.

"Hey, Single, my man! Blast one outta the ol' Beaver hole for me tomorrow night, would ya?"

"Single, you're my dawg, yo. Keep on keepin' on, brotha."

One of them casts a suggestive look back at Roberta. "It ain't the size of da playa, it be the size of his stick. Oww, owww!"

And they all start laughing as they walk away.

Roberta turns around and glowers at them.

And I can't resist. "Okay…when it comes to me? Believe
everything
you hear."

She snorts, and I start chuckling, and suddenly it feels like the tension's gone and we're finally having fun together.

I place my hand on her back, urging her to get in line, and that thrill of excitement shoots through me again when I suddenly feel warm all over. It's nice, coming up with yet another excuse to touch her. I'm not going to lie.

"They have spicy Korean BBQ, tofu tacos… I think I'm in heaven," she sighs.

I drop my hand onto her arm when she goes to pull out her wallet. "Please, let me."

I think she's going to put up one heck of a fight, but when she sees the determined look on my face, she steps aside and allows me to pay for her. And I don't know why, but it feels like I just scored a major victory. So I follow it up by carrying our food over to a brick alcove along the square. We're out of the wind, and it's actually kind of toasty in here thanks to the dryer vents from the adjacent laundromat.

"You had all this planned out ahead of time, didn't you?" she ribs me while loosening her scarf.

"Just as long as you're comfortable."

"Very." She nods, leaning against the side of the building.

I join her, opening the bag and handing over her short rib burrito. She takes a bite and closes her eyes, moaning in appreciation.

"Have a taste for the hot stuff, I see."

"Living in Texas for the past few months has spoiled me," she admits, licking a bit of sauce from her fingers. "But this is pretty darn good too."

I watch her and experience that same nervous, jittery feeling in my stomach again.

"So how are you liking your stroll through Stockton?" I ask, digging into my chicken taco.

She dabs at her mouth with a napkin. "There's plenty of local color, that's for sure."

"You haven't seen anything yet." I point to a nearby corner of the square. "See that statue over there…the bronze one? It's of my dad."

She pauses mid-bite. "You're kidding?"

"Nope, he was Mr. Beaver."

And she nearly chokes on her food.

I pat her on the back while she hastily reaches for her bottle of water. "It's okay. I know it sounds ridiculous. How would you like to go to school with all the kids knowing you're the son of Mr. Beaver? I guess it could've been worse. He could've named me after the mascot." I pause, holding back my smile. "Bucky Beaver."

The water spews out of her mouth, and I laugh uproariously. "Gotcha!"

She wants to be mad at me, but she can't. It's just too damn funny.

When she's finally able to speak, I bust her some more, "Just wait until I have kids. There'll be a whole bunch of little Buckys running around."

But my remark seems to kill the merriment in her eyes. She takes the empty wrapper out of my hand and begins cleaning up. "We should probably be heading back now."

Man, things were going so well, and I had to go and ruin it.

I reach for her arm. "Roberta, what is it? What did I say?"

"Nothing." She shrugs my hand away.

But I'm not about to let her blow me off so easily, not when we were finally starting to enjoy ourselves. This time, I pull on the corner of her scarf and end up drawing it down over her shoulder, spinning her around. I have her off-balance, trying to find her footing, when she falls into my arms.

Her eyes never stray from mine when her hand comes to rest on my neck at the exact spot where I got hit. I swallow hard, never believing anything in the world could feel as good as this. If given the choice, I'd go through all the pain and rehab all over again just to have her do what she's doing to me now. She glides her fingers along my jaw and across my goatee before lightly skimming them over my lips, making me shudder with pleasure. I lean in, and she lowers her hand, her eyes burning into me. Intent on capturing her lips with mine, I'm close enough to feel her warm breath on my face when suddenly she pushes me away from her, taking a step back.

Holding a hand to her forehead, she's unable to look at me. "Sorry… I tripped and—"

"Roberta," I gasp, struggling to catch my breath. "It's okay. I—"

Yet all she says is, "C'mon, Mrs. Jenkins is waiting," before turning and leaving the alcove.

I run a hand across my face, trying to make sense of what just happened.
I almost kissed her
… And for a split second, I could've sworn by the fire in her eyes that she'd really wanted me to.
God, could she possibly have feelings for me
? No… That's just crazy. She probably didn't want
to hurt my feelings
, and to save me the embarrassment, she graciously backed away before anything could happen. Yeah, that sounds more like it. Now we can just pretend like she tripped and I caught her and go on our merry way. My fingers stray to my neck, right where hers were.
Because that's what she wants, right
?

Chapter Fourteen

Roberta

"Stand still," I implore, tugging on his pant leg. "I'm never going to get this right if you keep moving around."

"How much longer?" Luke moans from atop the footstool. "C'mon, Roberta. I'm beat."

I remove a pin from my mouth and stick it in his cuff. "Don't blame me. Blame Landry. He came up with this crazy idea for auctioning off dates with his players, not me."

Luke groans, tipping his head back. "I just played eleven innings, and I have a day game tomorrow. Right now, I don't really care what I wear to this thing."

"Well, I do," I state emphatically. "If this is Landry's way of generating interest in the team, then you're gonna have to look the part. Besides, I'm the one doing all the work here. So quit complaining, would ya?"

His posture stoops a little as he sulks above me. "I don't wanna go on a date with some girl I don't even know."

A sudden pang seizes my heart, because I don't want him to either.

I sling the tape measure around my neck. I need to get a grip. Luke is a cute, single ballplayer who's extremely popular in Stockton. Of course, he's going to get a ton of girls to bid on him. Who can resist that shaggy hair and those expressive eyes? He's like catnip to women. Add in the life-threatening injury, and they'll be fawning all over him, vying to put their nurturing instincts to good use.

Yet helping him get ready for this date auction is bothering the hell out of me. It's not like I want to win him for myself or anything, but at the same time, I just can't stomach the thought of someone else winning him either.

"Owww!" I cry out.

He looks down at me in concern. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing… I wasn't watching what I was doing and I pricked myself," I grumble. "Maybe we should call it a night. I don't wanna bleed all over your new suit." I suck my thumb between my lips. "All right, I'm gonna need you to take your pants off for me."

"Uh…here?" he asks, his cheeks reddening adorably.

And for a naughty moment, I wonder what he'd do if I said yes. I can picture his shaky hands pulling down his zipper, the clink of his belt as it hits the floor…
Okay, Bobbie Jo. Stop
.

What the heck has gotten into me tonight? But I know exactly what it is… It's that kiss we almost had, the one I haven't stopped thinking about for the past week and a half.

"No, you can go change in the bathroom and bring them out to me." I duck my head and get busy putting things away.

He steps down and the force of his body rattles the dishes in the china cabinet. We exchange a nervous glance, our ears trained to the baby monitor on the coffee table. But thankfully, the noise didn't wake his mom. When he moves away from me, I whisper, "Be careful of the pins."

"Yeah, I know," he responds.

When I steal a glance back at him, I can't help but smile. He's walking slowly, holding his pants up by the knees so as not to disturb the work I've done.

Before shutting the bathroom door, he calls out, "Can you put the—?"

I get to my feet. "Already on it."

It's crazy, but we've developed this shorthand way of communicating with each other. It's gotten to the point that he doesn't even have to finish his sentences anymore. I already know what he needs me to do.

Pulling out my set of keys, I unlock the side closet and slide the sewing box back inside. After Luke told me how his mom got her hands on the toaster and almost burned the house down, I've added as many items to the closet as possible, filling nearly every shelf to capacity.

I really have to commend Luke for taking every necessary precaution. He did his homework, going above and beyond the caregiver role of a typical family member. And up until recently, he was meeting both of his goals: keeping his mom safe and keeping her with him. Even before I arrived, without receiving any professional training or outside assistance, he was getting the job done. Yet as I pass by the kitchen, I can't help but notice the black rim of smoke still visible on the wallpaper, knowing that all it takes is one mistake in order for tragedy to strike.

Honestly, I don't know how much longer Luke's mom will be able to stay at home. I can only do so much and there's no way around it, her condition is going to worsen. It's a subject I haven't yet broached with Luke, afraid of how he's going to take it. For now, all I can do is try my very best and give him and his mom my all in order to keep them together for as long as I can.

I reenter the living room, trying to dispel my gloomy thoughts, when I notice he has his pants hanging neatly over the back of the couch. I lightly finger the bottoms, and there's not a pin out of place. I stare at the back of his head, which is tilted to the side like he's concentrating really hard on something, and I'm engulfed by such a warm feeling of tenderness for him. All I want to do is tousle his hair, reach out and touch it, because I'm dying to know if it's as soft as I think it is. But if I've managed to resist this long…

"What are you doing?" I ask, coming up behind him.

He smiles up at me. "Returning a favor. If these big fingers of mine will let me…" He sticks the tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he tries to open a Band-Aid. "Gosh, this is even worse than those plastic produce bags in the supermarket. I swear, I'm all thumbs."

I sit on the edge of the couch and cross my legs. "Let me try."

"Nah, it's my turn to patch you up. I'll get it, eventually," he protests, waving me off.

He scoots forward, unconsciously spreading his legs even farther apart. And when the side of his mesh shorts glides over the top of my foot, the breath leaves my lungs in a rush. Oblivious, he keeps on focusing on the Band-Aid, bending over and holding it between his knees. "And I'm a player who's known for his hands," he groans, low and deep in his throat, that utterly masculine sound that's usually heard in the bedroom. I squirm uncomfortably beside him, causing him to look up at me.

And when he sees the way I'm looking at him, all flushed and with my lips parted, his Adam's apple bobs in his throat. Resting his elbows on his knees, he turns to me and I watch his hair fall across his face. But he doesn't push it back, his eyes refusing to leave mine for even a moment.

I lick my lips and he shifts, now fully aware of the reaction he's stirring within me. And I wonder if he's going to act on it when his chest starts to heave under his white cotton T-shirt. We haven't spoken about that night when he almost kissed me, yet there's no denying the heightened sense of tension that's been building between us ever since. After I rejected him the last time, he's not about to make a move without receiving some kind of confirmation from me first. It's like he's waiting for me to give him the go-ahead.

But all I do is hold out my finger to him. "It's this one."

And he just stares at it, a sharp crease forming between his brows. Impatient, I wiggle my finger in front of him, and he glances up at me from beneath his eyelashes, his gaze penetrating.

"Well, I haven't got all night," I bluster, trying to maintain some semblance of self-control. "C'mon, if you're gonna do it, get on with it."

He gives me a slow, confident smile before tearing the Band-Aid open with his teeth. I stare dumbfounded as he places it on his knee, before reaching for my hand and lowering his head to it. I gasp, completely overwhelmed, when he brings my finger to his lips, giving it a soft, gentle kiss. His breath is warm on my skin, his goatee lightly tickling my hand, and all I know is—
I want more
. But when he raises his head, he doesn't look at me. Instead, he takes the Band-Aid and carefully wraps it around my finger before standing up from the couch.

"Good night, Roberta."

Okay, what the
…?

I'm panting as he backs away from me with a twinkle in his eye. And I want to hurl something at him, a pillow, the remote—
anything
. But as he climbs the steps and heads toward his room, all I can do is sit there, too stunned to move.