Authors: Lucky Charm
She worked on the next day’s show until her stomach began to growl. She
looked at a clock. High noon. No wonder she was starving—she hadn’t eaten anything since a
protein bar at five this morning. She could pick something up on her way
home.
She packed up her stuff, said good-bye to the station staff, and walked
outside into a bright New York day, headed for one of her favorite restaurants, when
someone stepped in her path . . . someone about six foot four with coal black hair, steel
gray eyes, and a body right out of
Sports Illustrated
. Someone who had a square jaw
on which stubble had already begun to appear, a small diamond stud in one ear, and
incredibly muscled arms folded across a broad chest.
Someone who was
really much more handsome than she’d anticipated, which had made this meeting on the
street a little rough. She didn’t want to just ogle him, as she’d been tempted to do all
morning. She’d always thought he was one of those overt muscle guys with spindly legs and
feet and you-know-what-else. Only Parker Price didn’t have a spindly bone in his
body.
Too bad, she thought, as she smiled up at him, that he was such a
high-dollar choker. Otherwise, she might be seriously attracted to him. “Excuse me, but
you are blocking my path and creating a traffic jam on the sidewalk,” she said
politely.
“I don’t care,” he said, staring down at her. “What you did in there was not
cool, Kelly.”
She gasped, truly affronted. The worst short stop in Mets’ history was going
to critique
her
? “What wasn’t cool, Parker? The fact that you suck, or the fact
that everyone knows you suck?”
“I don’t”—he paused to lean down so that his nose was just
inches from hers—“
suck
. And you ought to be ashamed for being such a mean shock
jock.”
“Mean?”
she cried as two men walked by and suggested they move. “I’m
not
mean.
I’m accurate. I have a show about
sports
, and sometimes, accurate
and sports stars don’t mix very well. And anyway, Tex, what’d you think it was going to
be? A love fest?”
“Well now, Yank, I didn’t think there was going to be any love, but I
did
think you might at least listen to what I had to say. I thought you would at
least take my plea seriously.”
She laughed. “How could I take you seriously?” she asked,
flinging her arms wide. “You were trying to influence the way I do my show, and that is
so
not cool. As they say, if you can’t stand the heat—”
Someone slammed
into her from behind and knocked her right into his hard, immovable, one hundred percent
male body.
Wow.
He put his hands on her arms and set her back.
“Hey, watch it!”
Kelly shouted at the woman who’d bumped her.
“Get out of the
way!” the woman screeched as she sailed by, followed by several more people staring darkly
at them as they strode by.
“Like I was saying,” Kelly continued, completely undeterred,
“the Mets paid you one hundred and ten million dollars to solve their problems, and not
only have you not solved their problems, you have
added
to them. So don’t you think
you owe the Mets, and me, and
all
the fans out there a viable explanation as to why
you stink? Something a notch above
I am superstitious
?”
“Who died and
made you the supreme judge of viable explanations?” he demanded. “I just asked you to cool
it, that it was getting in my head, and I figure, if you
really
want the Mets to
win, maybe you could lay off a couple days.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said
incredulously.
“I am
so
not kidding,” he said sternly. “Do you have any idea how
much work I put in for this team?”
“Do you have any idea how much work I put into my
show?”
“GET OFF THE SIDEWALK!” a man bellowed at them. “You’re blocking foot
traffic here!”
Both Parker and Kelly looked at the outraged rotund man who was shouting at
them. “Just move on, pal,” Kelly snapped.
“He’s right. Let’s go to lunch. How
about Italian?” Parker responded.
Kelly gave a bark of laughter. “Now I know you’re out of
your mind.”
“Why? We obviously have something to discuss, and this isn’t the place to do
it. Unless you know I’m right—”
“That’s ridiculous!” she said, her eyes narrowing. “You
really
have
lost your mind. Of course I’m not afraid
you
are right, because
I know
I’m
right. And I don’t like Italian in the middle of the day, so let’s have
sushi.”
“I don’t like sushi ever. Let’s have Asian.”
“No,” she said,
shaking her head. “Too spicy. Chicken.”
He thought a moment, then nodded. “I
can agree to chicken. I know a great restaurant right around the corner—”
“No,” she said
instantly. “I know a great place—”
“Jesus, will you just lead the way?” he
demanded.
Kelly led the way, all right, wondering why it was that men who typically
thought they knew
everything
and women were just minions in their world to do their
bidding, had to be so damn good-looking. It wasn’t fair. It threw everything off kilter
and distorted the proper alignment of things.
She was marching a few steps ahead
of one prime example of a man who was too good-looking for his own good, who thought he
could just waltz into her show and change it to whatever he wanted.
When he put his
hand protectively on the small of her back as they were jostled in a crowded cross walk,
she was painfully aware of how close he was, and how good he smelled, and how dangerous
that was.
In the diner, which was loud and crowded and serving standard diner fare,
they got the last booth. Well,
Kelly
got the last booth. Mr. Big Shot had to stop
and sign a couple autographs. By the time he sauntered to his seat, she had read the
entire menu, from the salad starters all the way down to liver and onions and back up
again.
Parker sat down, glanced at the menu, and then shut it and pushed it aside.
“Salad. It’s the only thing a person can eat in a joint like this.”
Weird. Kelly was
thinking
the exact same thing
at the exact same moment. She glanced at him over the
top of her stained menu, which she refused to put down. “What
kind
of salad?” she
asked accusingly.
He seemed to think that was a strange question but said, “Chicken
Caesar.”
“Augh!” she exclaimed and slapped the menu shut. “That’s what
I
was
going to have!”
“So have it,” he said with a shrug.
That would defeat her determination
to have nothing in
common with him. “No thanks,” she muttered and
glanced at his hands. Those were some
enormous
hands. Enormous hands that were
making her feel slightly flushed. Hello . . .
flushed
? The last time she’d felt
slightly flushed, she’d had mononucleosis.
The waitress appeared, her ticket
book out. “You know what you want, hon?” she asked Kelly.
“Chicken Caesar and water with
lemon, please.” Across from her, Parker lifted a brow.
“Got it,” the waitress said. “And
for you, sugar?”
“Same,” he said.
The waitress looked up as she reached for the menus and looked
at Parker fully for the first time. Her eyes went wide, and she suddenly broke into a
wreath of smiles. Oh great, time for more idol worship.
“Hey, you’re that baseball player!”
the waitress said.
Parker smiled charmingly and shrugged a little. “I
am.”
“
Wow
,” the waitress said, beaming. “Can I have your
autograph?”
Across from him, Kelly rolled her eyes. But Parker calmly took the ticket
book the waitress handed him and asked, “Who should I make it out to?”
“Lucy. Like in
I Love Lucy
,” as if he couldn’t get Lucy the first time. Parker started to write,
but Lucy suddenly put out her hand. “No, wait! Will you make it out to my husband, Paul?
He’s a
huge
Mets fan.”
“How about I do two? One for you and one for
Paul?”
“Would you
really
?” she squealed, and squatted down at the booth,
watching him write something on one ticket then on another ticket as Kelly restrained
herself from barfing. Parker tore out both tickets and handed them to her. “Thank you so
much,” she gushed. “This will make my husband’s day.”
“My pleasure, Lucy,” he said with a
wink and watched her rush away, clutching her autographs. Then he looked at Kelly. “Would
you like an autograph?”
Kelly snorted. “I just hope she
didn’t have the salads written on the other side of those autographed tickets, because I
am starving.”
“So am I,” he said, pushing a hand through thick black hair. “You must have
to be at work very early every morning.”
“Five-thirty, Monday through
Friday.”
“Wow,” he said, with a lopsided smile. “That’s rough.”
“Not if you’re
not a party animal,” she said with a lopsided smile, too.
His smile widened to a full grin.
“Now Kelly O’Shay, you don’t look like the kind of woman who believes everything she reads
in the
Daily News
.”
“You’re right. I never believe my horoscope. But everything
else, I believe. I mean, why would the
Daily News
lie to me about you? And can you
honestly expect me to believe you are a good boy, early to bed, early to
rise?”
He chuckled low, leaned forward so all she could see was his gray eyes, and
said, “I never claimed to be a good boy. And I won’t deny that I get out every now and
then. A guy can’t live on frozen dinners alone, you know.”
She just bet he
got out every now and then. Probably in the company of little girl groupies, dressed in
tiny micromini skirts and halter tops. Probably the sort that wore microminis and halter
tops
and
hung on his every word. Hell, she couldn’t blame the poor dumb things.
Parker was
hot.
“The last time I went out, I went to the Museum of Modern Art,”
he said, completely surprising her. “Have you seen it since they completed the
renovations?”
“Ah . . . no.” The Museum of Modern Art? A
museum
? He really didn’t
seem the type, did he? She couldn’t picture him, a big guy, knocking around a museum.
“That must be your attempt to get me to believe you are cultured and refined and not just
a jock who can’t bat.”
“I’m not trying to get you to believe anything. I was just
remarking that the last time I went out, I went to see the Museum of Modern
Art. I happen to be a big fan of architecture and modern paintings.”
Well, knock her
over with a feather. “Right,” she said, and smiled, waiting for the punch
line.
“Come on, Kelly,” he said genially. “Don’t tell me you’re suffering from the
totally inappropriate, completely ignorant, and disgustingly uninformed conception that
just because I am a professional athlete, I have no appreciation for the fine arts. I hope
you aren’t
that
narrow-minded.”
In a word?
Yes
. She didn’t
buy for a minute that Parker appreciated the fine arts. She had him pegged as the sort of
guy who came off the field, sat back, popped a couple beers, and watched
SpongeBob
SquarePants
reruns. “I’m just having a hard time picturing you walking around an art
gallery.”
“Huh,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Just how do you picture
me?”
The image of him naked suddenly danced merrily across her mind’s eye, and
totally taken aback by it, Kelly blinked.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” she
said, feeling a bit of heat beneath her collar. “I don’t picture you at
all
.”
“Well, I wish you would try picturing me playing baseball and see if you
can’t turn that shock jock bit down a notch.”
There was that image again, only
this time it was a naked Parker in the batter’s box, and Kelly could not keep the smile or
the heat from her face. “I don’t
picture
you,” she insisted emphatically and
instantly dropped her gaze to the table, working to wipe the grin off her
face.
“Look at me,” Parker demanded.
Kelly refused to look up but rubbed
the back of her neck and wished the naked Parker would take a hike. Her face was flooding
with heat.
“
Oh
. Okay. I get it,” he said with a sigh.
“What?” she
asked, looking up, and saw the knowing smirk. “No, no, there is no
oh
,” she
protested, perhaps a tad too emphatically.
“Right.” He was grinning at her. A
naked Parker Price was grinning at her.
She snorted and looked around for
the waitress. “So how hard can it be to unwrap some premade chicken Caesars and bring them
over?
“Hey, don’t freak out, Kelly. I will admit that I pictured you the same
way.”
That
certainly got her attention—she jerked a wide-eyed gaze at him.
“
Excuse
me?”