Second Thoughts: A Hot Baseball Romance (16 page)

Yeah. Angel might be losing her short-term memory, but he was pretty sure she’d remember
that
. He settled on a vague excuse: “Things didn’t work out with Shelby.”

“And they didn’t work out with Chelsea before that. Or Madison. Or Paige.”

Shit. Maybe her memory was better than she let on. Better than Janice claimed anyway. The home health aide always had looked on the dark side. “What do you want me to say, Angel?”

“I want you to say, ‘I married the woman of my dreams yesterday, we had mind-blowing sex in the honeymoon suite, and your first great-grandchild is due in nine months.’”

“Christ!”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Josh Cantor. I’ve got a bar of Ivory in the front powder room, and I’m not afraid to use it on that mouth of yours.”

Great. His senile grandmother was ready to pimp him out to any woman with a womb, but she’d wash his mouth out with soap for a little swearing? He took a deep breath and reminded himself he wasn’t a rebellious kid any more. Time to get this conversation back to where he needed it to be.

“Come on, Angel. How about it? Will you give me your recipes?”

Her lips tightened into a thin white line. “I’m giving them to Beau Dumont.”

“Beau Dumont is a cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch with a stick up his—”

“Josh!”

“But Angel! If you give him your recipes, he’ll just convert them into some low-fat, low-calorie, no-taste cardboard to serve in the dining rooms of that nursing home of his.”

“And I’ll be living in that home, sooner rather than later.” She waved off his protest. “No, you don’t need to lie to me. I’m getting worse. Just yesterday, I left the stove on until the copper teakettle glowed green. It’s only a matter of time before Janice won’t be enough.”

“Then we’ll hire someone else.”

Angel’s fingers scrabbled on his wrist. “Josh, love. I understand that you want to take care of me. You want to do what’s right. But we both know I’m going to end up in Beau Dumont’s home.”

“Even if that’s true, you can’t give him your recipes!”

She took a healthy swallow from her old-fashioned and looked at him slyly. He recognized the new look; she’d been using it for the past few months, when she was bargaining for something she really shouldn’t have. “I’ll tell you what, boy. I’ll give you my recipes when you give me a great-grandbaby. Get cracking. I want you married by March 1
st
.”

Jesus. Had she slipped that much? She was babbling nonsense. “Now, Angel—”

“I want to hold another newborn, Josh. I want to know the Cantor name will go on, even after I can’t remember it.” She startled him by cupping his chin with her hand. “I want you to be happy, boy. All women aren’t like that Harpy.”

Harper
, he started to correct her, but there wasn’t any reason. Hadn’t been since the judge stamped his divorce decree. He’d had no reason to think about Harper since he’d turned over two sets of house keys, his car keys, and the lion’s share of his bank account. The last alimony check was due on December 31, and he couldn’t wait to sign his name.

The judge had declared her a
corporate spouse
, a good woman devoted to doing anything, everything, to making Josh’s baseball career a success. In the court’s eyes, Harper had sacrificed early and often, giving up her own possibilities for career advancement so she could help Josh move up the ladder of major league baseball.

Corporate spouse, my ass.
Harper had been a supportive spouse about the same way he’d been a faithful, dedicated husband. But she’d been a hell of a lot smarter than he had. She’d hired an investigator and gotten pictures. Snapshots and a sympathetic judge, and Josh was poorer than he’d ever been in his life.

If he’d listened to everyone—Angel included—and signed an ironclad pre-nup before marrying Harper, he might not need a restaurant for investment income. He might have a decent retirement plan in place, a balance sheet that reflected his worth on the field and off. He might not be worried about how he was going to pay his own mortgage, plus the cost of Angel’s looming nursing home, along with her medical bills.

But Harper’d had him by the balls when he’d proposed to her. By his dick at least. He’d been stupid enough to think he was in love when they got married, and he’d refused to let any legal bullshit ruin that. He’d been an idiot.

Angel shook her head, as if he’d admitted his remorse out loud. “You’re scared, boy. And it’s my job to break you of it. That might be the last thing I do for you.”

He didn’t want to think about Angel being gone, so he growled, “I’m not some horse you can train to saddle.”

She snorted. “You’d be a lot easier to handle if you were. When you broke your arm sliding into second in Little League, I made sure you got out there the very next season. When that aluminum bat broke your nose in high school, I got you to the doctor, had you fitted for a face mask, and got you back in time for the college scouts to see what you had. I’m not letting you throw away the rest of your life, just because that creature hurt you.”

“So let me get this straight. I need to find a woman, marry her, and get her knocked up by March, or you’re giving your recipes to Beau Dumont.”

She frowned but didn’t call him on his language. “I can live with a wedding. The baby might take a little time to catch. I’m not unreasonable.”

Of course not. Angel was the goddamn voice of reason.

She went on. “For now, you can have the recipes, one at a time. For every week you’re dating the same girl, I’ll give you another recipe.”

“Right, Angel. And what am I supposed to do? Have that girl sign a goddamn affidavit?”

“Language!” she tutted. But then she said, “I’ll accept a photo as evidence that you’re courting.”

Maybe it was the disease, but she sounded perfectly reasonable. She was honestly talking about trading recipes for romance, and he was supposed to act like that was
normal
.

But what other option did he have? He needed Angel’s leather-bound recipe file. “I get to choose which recipes.”

She eyed him steadily. “Of course.”

“And you’ll be reasonable about proof, at least for the first few weeks. Any decent woman would be frightened off in half a minute, if she knew you were blackmailing me.”

Angel didn’t react to his accusation. “I always know when you’re lying to me, boy, so don’t even
think
about trying anything. But yes, I’ll be reasonable.”

Shit
. What else was he going to do?

He took her glass as she held it out for a refill. He measured out sugar and bitters, added a teaspoon of water. The steel muddler was heavy in his palm as he took out his frustration on the ingredients.

He’d gotten through the first round of
Who Wears the Apron
on the power of his ideas. All right, his ideas, and maybe his name. The TV station probably liked the idea of bringing a local celebrity into the competition. But now he’d have to up his game. Now he’d have to prove he could cook.

He couldn’t lose
Who Wears the Apron
if he had Angel’s recipes. So he’d just have to see what he could do about finding a bride. Or at least a woman whose picture he could deliver into Angel’s eager hands. It was the least he could do for his grandmother. It might be the last thing she remembered.