The World is a Stage (39 page)

Her sister ignored her and took in her handiwork.

The kilt was secured into place with a giant circular pin. It fit her hips but barely cleared her ass. And from the looks of it, the top was worse, a bandeau of the same fabric that was clearly meant to look like a bikini.

“Sheesh, Rachel. Your abs are amazing,” Molly said, watching as Rachel pulled off her shirt and changed into the rest of the ridiculous costume. Her hand reached out to trace a pattern of lines that Rachel was proud to call at least a four-pack.

“You try working out under Michael’s watch for a few weeks and see what happens,” Rachel joked. Before she could stop herself or overanalyze the gesture, she reached out and placed a hand on Molly’s stomach. “But I think your tummy is looking a lot cuter these days.”

It was. A slight swelling was evident on days like today, when Molly’s tank top stretched tight over her abdomen. Rachel could even see the little indentation of her belly button pushing out.

Molly placed a hand over Rachel’s. “It seems so big already. The doctor says that happens a lot with second pregnancies.”

Rachel’s hand dropped.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t excited before,” she said quietly. “You deserve this happiness more than anybody I know, and I tried to take it away from you. I don’t have any good excuse for my actions except to say that I was scared. I’m
still
scared.”

“Of what? Eric?”

Rachel shrugged. “Yes and no. Maybe not him, but what he represents. Do you know how much it hurt me when you lost Lily? Do you know how hard it’s been for me watching you falling into the same patterns time and time again?”

“No.” Molly frowned. “How could I? You never said.”

Rachel took a deep breath— the only way she knew how to keep standing. So much of her life had been spent
not
saying the things that needed to be said. She’d always thought it was better to concentrate on what needed to be done, rather than address the intangible, messy emotions that Lily’s death left behind.

They never talked, she and Molly. Not about the things that mattered.

And now she couldn’t seem to shut up.

“I’m saying it now. I only wanted to keep you safe. I only wanted to make sure you don’t have to feel like that again. Our whole lives, it’s been my job to protect you, Molly. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to turn that off.”

“It’s never going to go away, you know. The pain of it.” Molly’s voice was surprisingly clear. Odd, when Rachel was having such a hard time speaking around the lump in her throat. “You can’t make feelings go away, Rachel, no matter how hard you try. That’s always been your problem. You think if you work hard enough at it, they’ll just disappear.”

“I don’t think that now.” She didn’t. It felt like every emotion she’d ever had was coming roaring to life inside her, and she had to sort through each one like it was brand new.

“Did you know I talked to Mom yesterday?” Molly asked, giving Rachel’s hand a warm squeeze.

“Oh.” That couldn’t be good. Rachel had officially registered her for a six-month stay at a facility on the coast, some fancy converted bed-and-breakfast that overlooked Puget Sound and promised daily serenity. It had taken every last penny in her bank account, but she’d done it. Six months. The exact length of Nick’s sentence, which had come through that morning. It seemed a lifetime—and not nearly long enough to begin making the reparations she owed them both. “How did she sound?”

“Not happy,” Molly admitted. “But I think she might be willing to give it a try. Do you need help paying for it—you know, now that you’re moving to New York and all?”

“Nah.” Rachel shook her head, trying to cover her sudden flush of color. Remembering, she stopped, letting Molly see her face. “I signed back on with Shakespeare After Dark yesterday—even managed to convince Dominic my Bloom review was worth a raise. A big one.”

“You did?” Molly’s eyes widened.

“I did,” Rachel admitted. “I decided I wanted to be here this time to watch your belly—and that baby—grow. As much as you’ll let me, anyway. Is that okay?”

Molly let out a squeal and clapped her hands before drawing Rachel into a crushing embrace. “Of course it’s okay. I can’t do this without my big sister.”

They held each other for a moment longer. Rachel hadn’t been lying—she was staying for her sister, and she was staying for herself too. But a huge part of her also hoped there was one more person who might be willing to give her a reason to stick around.

“I might need your help getting Mom to the facility, though,” Rachel warned, eventually pulling back. “She’ll fight every step of the way.”

“Of course,” Molly agreed, her curls bouncing. “She said something about going only if her Tonys could come with her. We could use them as bait.”

“She said that? Well, that would explain why she spent the better part of the evening in the homage room.”

Molly shuddered. “You don’t still go in there, do you?”

“I did once,” Rachel admitted. She surveyed her outfit and laughed, the pair of them heading out from the bleachers back to the field. Training in this thing was going to be ridiculous. “But it wasn’t so bad—Michael was with me at the time. He kind of makes everything better, you know?”

Molly rubbed her stomach and beamed. “Yeah. I know.”

“First up, Peterson,” Michael announced.

He had to keep moving his mouth in order to prevent it from falling all the way to the ground. Rachel was wearing it. She’d actually put on the kilt and bra and was doing jumping jacks in the middle of the field as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

He hadn’t actually expected her to put it on—he’d ordered it with the rest of the uniforms weeks ago, a gag he thought would piss her off, maybe get a good rise out of her.

Things were rising, all right.

“What am I first up on?” Peterson asked.

“One-on-one combat. Against Rachel.” He blew his whistle. The men gaped—there wasn’t a single one of them Peterson couldn’t take with one hand behind his back. Even with her sexy kilt look going on over there, Rachel didn’t stand a chance.

“She can’t fight Eric,” Molly cried, bolting up out of the bleachers. “He’ll kill her.”

“I think maybe we should ease her into that kind of conflict,” Julian suggested, agreeing with Molly. “Why don’t we start with me?”

Even McClellan shook his head. “Seems a bit much, Mikey.”

Rachel jogged up, delicious parts bouncing, oblivious to the demands Michael was about to place on her. “What’s a bit much?”

“You and Peterson in the pit,” Julian said, nodding in the direction of the soccer goal. “Michael wants to work on the one-on-one.”

She swallowed heavily, her eyes not quite meeting Michael’s. “And you want me to go up against Eric?”

“Yes,” Michael said, resolute. She’d apologized, she’d shown up to practice, and she’d worn the kilt. He wanted to know how far she’d go.

“Okay,” Rachel said, shaking her limbs, still avoiding his gaze. “Let’s do it.”

With a spring in her step and a defiant toss of the head, she moved to the circle at the goal line where they’d been holding the challenges. She placed her hands on her hips and swung her body lightly, her skirt slapping against the outsides of her thighs.

Michael bit back a groan. It had to be all of forty degrees outside today, and most of the guys had put their T-shirts back on after a brief display of manliness. Not her. She was milking it, teasing him. They were half-naked Antony and Cleopatra all over again.

Peterson shook his head. “I’m not fighting her, Michael. This is crazy.”
 

“Just stop before you break her neck,” Michael said casually. “It’s not that hard.”

“That’s not funny,” Peterson mumbled. “Seriously. I get what you’re doing, but you can stop pushing now.”

Michael stood a little bit taller. He was not going to stop pushing. Not until he reached the end.

Michael blew his whistle right in Peterson’s face.

“I have had it with this whistle,” Peterson grumbled. He pulled it straight off Michael’s neck and crushed it underneath his heel.

Rachel clapped her hands, slowly at first and then gaining momentum. Eventually, everyone else joined in.

“Thank God, somebody finally destroyed that thing,” she called. “For your act of heroism, Eric, I’ll even promise to take it easy on you.”

It was the right thing to say. No amount of goading and whistle-blowing on Michael’s part would compel Peterson to face Rachel in the ring. Peterson still had a lot of anger, and he was the type of man who didn’t like to let it go without a fight. But this kind of playful challenge, uttered with confidence and good cheer—it was something none of them could walk away from. It was what they did. They were Team Win. They were brothers.

With only a few more grumbles and kicks at the broken pieces of Michael’s favorite whistle, Peterson gave in and joined her inside the circle, lowering himself into a fighting stance and standing opposite her.

“Don’t worry,” Rachel said. “I plan on being a much better fighter now. No more kicking in the groin—if there’s something I want said or done, I’ll do it face-to-face, man-to-man.”

Michael stared at her, and he could have sworn she stole a glance at him before directing all her attention at Peterson.

“I’ve learned a lot,” she added. “About a lot of things.”

“I think we both have,” Peterson admitted, meeting Rachel squarely. They shared a mutual nod, sharp and over almost before it began. “Now will someone please start the damn fight?”

Bereft of his whistle, Michael let out a high-pitched yell, signaling the starting bell. It was one he was interested in watching, and for more than the skin show. Rachel and Peterson circled one another for a few moments, gauging each other’s reactions. The training they’d given Rachel was mostly about stealth and sneak attacks, about using her smaller size against a larger foe. And for a second, he thought it was going to work.

But Rachel was still green and slow. Peterson had her flipped over and on her back in a matter of seconds.

Michael could hear the heavy thud of her body landing in the dirt, the gasp that could only mean all the air had left her lungs. He hobbled to her side, leaning anxiously over her eyes. They looked all right. Bewildered, maybe, but still intact and seeing things clearly.

“Can you sit up?” he asked, placing a gentle hand behind her head.

It wasn’t necessary. She took a deep breath and sprang to her feet.

“Again.”

Peterson’s face spread into a grin at the same time Michael’s did.
Thatta girl.

The two of them grappled three more times, and each time, Rachel got a little bit closer to landing a blow. The final round, she even got a clean sweep under his leg, bringing him crashing to the ground before Peterson pinned her easily against the dirt. Michael would have liked to have said he was paying attention to her movements, making notes of things to work on, but all he could see was the mud spattering over her bare stomach, her thighs flashing as she sprang and moved and bounced her way around her larger opponent.

Even in his stupor, he noticed the change coming over Peterson with each round. It wasn’t forgiveness—that would take a while, especially with a man like that one. But from where Michael stood, it looked an awful lot like respect.

And that was the next best thing.

Rachel spit out a mouthful of grass when they were done, large chunks of dirt embedded into her teeth as she smiled. Michael had never wanted to kiss her more.

“We’re never going to win,” Julian muttered, but he was smiling too.

“We don’t have to win,” Rachel said, beaming. Her eyes met Michael’s. “We just have to try.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

My Only Love

Michael wanted a chance to talk to Rachel before she left practice for the night, but she rushed out of there before he could do much more than instruct her on the proper cleaning and care of woolen fabrics.

They all made plans to meet the next day for a last-minute strategy session before the Race. And by strategy session, they meant several pitchers of beer and a lot of trash talk that probably wouldn’t come to fruition. Michael figured he’d have to try to take her aside then. Maybe she’d even wear her kilt.

It was past eight o’clock, so Jennings was in bed when Michael got home. He was too wound up to watch a movie or consider the possibility of sleep, so he headed out to the old barn to get the Frogger game going.

He’d already started researching where he could buy a few more vintage arcade games and maybe even a pool table. A game barn probably shouldn’t have been first on his to-do list for the Second Chance Ranch, as they’d formally named their company on the business license applications, but if there was one thing Michael knew, it was that every man needed somewhere to unwind and let loose.

He pulled open the door of the barn and stopped, on immediate alert. It was usually dark in there and smelled of a combination of old things. Jennings’s recent manure purchase added an earthy tang.

But a light flickered toward the back, and it actually smelled kind of good. Like food and flowers.