The Change Up (20 page)

She laughed when he bobbed his brows, and then she nodded. “I guess I could spare some time for fun. I'm actually long overdue.”

“Where are you going, pretty lady?”

Rachel smiled at her father, who was sitting in an armchair beside the fireplace with a Grisham novel in his hands. Behind her smile was worry that he'd called her “pretty lady” because he couldn't remember her name. “I'm going out with a friend.”

“Be home by curfew,” he said, adding to her worry, but then he laughed. “I guess you're kind of old for curfews.”

“Just a little.” She kissed the top of his head, and then said, “I won't be out too late.”

Helen Anne, who was in a matching armchair with a Brontë novel turned over on her lap, made a scoffing sound under her breath.

Rachel ignored her, but a few seconds later, Helen Anne caught up with her in the entrance hall.

“Are you going out with Sam?”

“Yes,” Rachel said firmly. She wasn't going to argue, and she didn't need a lecture.

Helen Anne seemed to mull that over, pursing her lips and wrinkling her nose. “What do you think Luke will say about that?”

“I don't care what Luke says. This isn't 1996, Helen Anne. Nobody cares about that anymore.”

“I do.” She looked away, and when she looked back, her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “Do you know
that
was the last time we really talked? The night you broke up with Luke and you sat on the end of my bed telling me about it. But the next morning, Mom and Dad drove you to school, and you never looked back. Not once. It …” She struggled for words. “It hurt. I always figured I had that in common with Luke. So yeah, I care what Luke will think, even if it's just because I want you to talk to me the way you used to.”

Crud.
Rachel gave in to her own swell of emotion and wrapped her sister in a hug. “I'm so sorry. I really am. I don't know what happened. If I could go back knowing everything I know now, I'd do a lot differently … but not the Luke part.” She pulled out of the hug and looked at Helen Anne. “I like being with Sam. I like being with you and Macy, too. I'm going to make more time for that even after I go back to Philly. I promise.”

Surprise and something softer registered on Helen Anne's face. “Thank you for taking her to the game.”

Rachel took a few steps toward the door and said, “You're welcome. I'm going to take her to Pittsburgh to see a Pirates game one of these weekends, too.”

“That would be great.”

“You can come, too. I heard how much you like the scratching and spitting.”

Helen Anne's laughter echoed in the hallway. “I can't believe she told you that.”

“Kids.” A pang of nostalgia for their own teenage years suddenly filled her. “If you wait up for me, I'll sit on the end of your bed and give you details,” Rachel added.

Helen Anne didn't hesitate. “Deal.”

As she left, Rachel hoped tonight would be particularly good so she didn't have to embellish anything. She should've known Sam was way ahead of her.

“Should I be nervous?” she asked, studying his strong, handsome profile as he drove the truck down a narrow dirt road.

He smirked. “Nah. It's not like it's something you've never done before.”

“I'm way overdressed for camping.”

He looked her over. “You're way overdressed for what I have planned, too.”

“I'm not skinny-dipping in a water hole. I've watched Discovery Channel. People get brain-eating amoebas doing stuff like that. If you want me naked in water, I'd prefer a hot tub.”

“Well, now I know what we can do on our second date.”

While Rachel was wondering where and when they could get private access to a hot tub, Sam parked and then opened her door.

She looked from his smiling face to the soft ground, rutted from trucks and ATVs. “I wore heels.”

He glanced at her feet. “I see that. I told you to wear something comfortable.”

“These are comfortable, and I wore jeans. I tried to be practical, but it's hard when you don't know where you're going.” She gave him a playful angry eye.

He patted her thigh and said, “Hang tight.”

From the bed of his truck, he pulled out a bottle of wine, a box of crackers, and two plastic cups, which he put into a reusable grocery bag. Then he was back with a smile, lifting the bottle so she could see. “You wanted wine the other night, and I couldn't deliver. That didn't sit right with me.”

“And they say chivalry is dead.”

“If they say that, then this will really floor them.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted her off the seat.

“Wait!” She tensed, and he stumbled, nearly dropping her, but he regained his balance easily enough. Probably those athletic tendencies kicking in.

“Hang on. I'm going to carry you over this mud.”

She was in shock. That was the only way to explain why she didn't insist he put her down so she could walk like the able-bodied woman she was. Instead, she let him hoist her high on his shoulder, so her belly bounced against him as he jogged. It was so ridiculous she laughed.

He stopped a minute or so later and deposited her in the middle of a clearing. “How's that?”

She could stand without sinking, which was good, but … “What exactly are we doing here?” Probably a picnic. Which was sweet and completely opposite of her experiences with other men.

Sam's bold brows rode high on his forehead as he took in their surroundings. “I used to come here as a kid … to play Wiffle Ball. I thought it might be fun, but you can't play in heels.”

That sounded like a challenge.

“I can play in these,” she said with a definitive nod.

“You're going to hurt yourself.”

“Then you can carry me back to the truck again.”

“I'm going to do that anyway,” he said with a grin and a pat to her butt.

She would've been offended if she'd been anywhere but here. With him. She couldn't imagine any circumstance back in Philly where a man would take her out and swat her ass without getting the toe of her Manolos in his crotch.

“The game's called Wipe Out,” Sam said as he walked around, digging lines into the dirt with a stick. “This line is the pitcher's mound. That line is home plate. One of us will pitch, and the other will hit. Every time you make contact with the ball, you get five points. Every time you swing and miss, you lose a point. You get twenty pitches, and then we switch. You have to swing. There's no such thing as a ball. You either swing and hit, or you swing and miss. It's called Wipe Out because if the pitcher catches the ball, the batter's score is wiped clean. Got it?”

He looked boardroom serious. “I think so,” she said.

Finally, he smiled. “Good. Now, let's have a drink as a show of sportsmanship.”

“Sportspersonship,” she corrected.

“That's not a word.”

“It should be.”

He crouched to open the wine and fill both cups. She stood over him, feeling the waning sun on her face and the sweet breeze in her hair, and sighed. For once, she wasn't thinking about the stack of things back on her desk she hadn't finished or the list of appointments overflowing on her calendar for tomorrow. She was just here, living in the moment for a change. Rachel took a long, deep breath, pulling the fresh forest air into her lungs, as she idly admired Sam's strong hands and thighs.

He rose, handed her a cup, and then lifted his. “To changeups.” He really had a hang-up about that pitch, but before she could ask him about it again, he added, “And to beautiful women who play Wiffle Ball in high heels.”

“I'll definitely drink to that.”

The cheap clink of flimsy plastic on plastic was as satisfying as any crystal stemware's ding. And the oaky Cab tasted heavenly on her tongue. But it was the company that stirred her insides into a pleasant frenzy.

Five minutes later, Rachel had scored minus five points, and no matter what Sam said, she refused to blame the shoes. “I found the one thing you aren't good at,” she teased. “Pitching.”

“Hey, now. It's hard to pitch accurately with a Wiffle Ball. That's what makes this fun.”

She could argue that he was the one who made things fun, but she didn't want to go getting sentimental. It would definitely mess with her game.

Eventually, she made contact, but the ball didn't travel very far. Even so, Sam tried to make a daring catch, which amounted to him diving headfirst into a patch of grass.

He missed. She cackled. “That was very graceful.”

After he dusted the dirt off his jeans, he eyed her up like he was either going to toss her over his shoulder again or kiss her. She would've been okay with either, but not yet …

“Back to the mound,” she said, sticking the bat between them. “I get ten more pitches.”

She ended her turn five points up, though she was under no illusion that it was good enough to beat him.

Sam took his sweet old time handing over the ball and getting positioned at the imaginary home plate. He did a lot of wiggling and flexing and preening, which she rolled her eyes at. But on the inside, she was buzzing. He looked amazing no matter what he did.

“I'll try not to take your head off,” he said cockily.

“I'll do the same.” The devil was in her eyes, and she liked how that made him laugh.

Rachel cranked her arm around in windmill fashion and drilled it in there underhand.

Sam swung and missed. “Lucky break,” he said.

“Mad skills,” she countered.

“Do it again,” he challenged, looking mighty sexy when he did.

The ball left her hand, whizzing through the air, but then a gust of wind whistled through the holes and sent it sailing off hard right. To her surprise, Sam chased it down, all grace and strength, hitting the ball with the tip of the bat.

“Five points!” he yelled.

But Rachel had the ball in her sights, and it was reachable. She sprinted, heels and all, arms outstretched. And when the ball hit her hand, she curled her finger into a hole to make sure she didn't lose it. “Wipe out!” Her voice cracked with the thrill of it.

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“Wipe out,” she said again, teasing him with the ball overhead and her own gyrations.

He watched intently, a smile on his lips but heat in his eyes. “Beginner's luck,” he said. “But I'm not holding back anymore. I'm coming at you with all I've got.”

“Bring it on, big boy.”

His brows bobbed, and his hips circled as he took a couple warm-up swings.

She spit-shined the ball on her untucked blouse and rolled her shoulders for dramatic effect. Then, she let it rip. The wind made a funny whirring sound through the holes of the ball as it left her hand. But then the air stilled, and the ball seemed to hang there, begging to be hit.

He launched this one like a rocket, straight into the air above him, higher and higher, until it caught on the breeze and carried into the trees.

“Five points,” she said.

“Game over,” he said. “I bet it's hung up in the trees.”

“So, tie game?” she asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

He rested the silly yellow bat on his powerful shoulder and studied her. “I get the feeling you're not okay with that.”

“I like to win.” Truth be told, she liked the game, too. She liked this day, the company, the way her chest had opened up and she could breathe. No stress. No fear. No important deals or health scares. “And I didn't want it to end yet.”

Understanding graced his smile when he said, “Then let's hope we can find the ball.”

Five feet into the woods, it was clear their chances sucked. Rachel stood on an overgrown path in her heels, peering up at the dense, leafy cover, looking for anything white to catch her eye, while Sam wandered farther into the brush.

“See, if you were dressed appropriately, I could show you how beautiful it is off the beaten path.”

He already was, and that surprised her. She'd never learned much from her previous lovers. They were a means to an end. Utilitarian. But Sam was different. And if she was honest, that scared her.

Rachel ventured deeper into the trees, careful where she stepped, surprised to find a bench in the middle of a tiny clearing. Carvings marred the weathered wood. Initials, hearts, a swear word or two, but what really caught her eye was the three-by-five rusted metal plate attached to the back, bearing a Thoreau quote:
To be awake is to be alive.

In the middle of the woods in a pair of $300 heels with her heartbeat echoing in her ears, Rachel had finally opened her eyes.

“See anything?” Sam asked from somewhere in the distance.

“Everything,” she whispered. For the first time in forty years. She'd been doing more than selling her lovers short; she'd been selling herself short, too. There was more to her—and life—than professional goals and executive decisions.

“Is everything okay?” She heard him coming through the brush toward her.

“Did you know this was here?”

“Nope.” He ran his hand along the carved-up back and then sat. “It's a great place for a little bird-watching.” He tilted his head to look at the treetops, and she admired the curve of his throat and strength of his jaw.
The little things.
“There,” he whispered, motioning with an outstretched arm and wiggling fingers for her to join him on the bench. “A wood thrush.”

Rachel sat, his arm warming her upper back, and scanned the trees.

“See its white belly?”

She looked harder. “No.”

“Relax your eyes,” he said, his soft breath fluttering against her cheek, and she knew he was looking at her. “Relax your focus. That's the key to hitting a baseball, too. If you stare at one point, you lose the power of your peripheral vision, and that's where you'll pick up the pitcher's release point—or in this case, the bird.”