A mug of coffee and the sweet roll in hand, she walked into the living room. There she sneaked a peek from the front windows. Sheers and sandstone-colored cotton covered the French-cut glass. The street was quiet, the neighborhood not yet awake. Several new homes still sat empty.
A rolled newspaper caught her eye. Thrown, it had landed near the front tire of her Saturn. Surely she could crack the door, run out, grab the paper, and return without anyone seeing her. She decided to risk it.
Her decision was a poor one, Eve soon realized. She should have set down her coffee and roll and had both hands free when she went for the paper. Instead, both were full when Quackers stormed the driveway.
He came at her with wings spread and an earsplitting quack.
Eve went so light-headed, she saw dots before her eyes. Fear froze her feet. The duck was going to bite her. . . .
Sloan McCaffrey stretched his arms across the bed. Eve’s scent lingered, soft, sweet, sexy as hell. A smile broke behind his yawn. The woman had fantasies. Last night they’d been played out to the fullest. She had ridden him dry.
He’d be hard-pressed to get it up until he’d had a protein shake and some scrambled eggs.
He pushed up and found himself alone. Surely Eve hadn’t kissed him off and left. Rising naked, he scratched his belly, then moved toward the windows to see if her car remained in the driveway.
Car, Eve . . .
duck
. All three were in the drive.
Eve stood pale, barefoot and statue-still as the mallard circled close, seeming to want whatever she held in her hand. A sweet roll, Sloan realized. The duck wanted her breakfast.
Shit fire!
He grabbed a pair of running shorts from a dresser drawer, tugging them on while taking the steps. He made it to the door just as Eve tore off a bite of cinnamon bun and tossed it to Quackers.
The mallard snapped it up and demanded more.
Eve took a step back, and the duck waddled forward.
She quickly tossed more roll.
Quackers stopped, ate, ruffled his feathers.
Sloan was about to shoo the duck from the driveway when Eve took charge of the situation. “A bite for you and a bite for me,” she told the mallard.
Her hands shook as she split the last of the sweet roll with Quackers. She took a sip of her coffee and swallowed hard.
“You okay?” He came up behind her.
He heard her sniff and saw the tears that had collected in the corners of her eyes, yet she managed a nod.
Openly annoyed that there was no more food, Quackers took off for the sprinklers that had gone off in the neighbor’s yard. Sloan and Eve watched as the duck cleaned himself and preened beneath the spray.
Eve sighed, and Sloan pulled her back against him.
“You were brave.” He dropped a light kiss on the soft curve below her ear. He raised goose bumps on her neck, and fought a grin that he’d turned her on.
She leaned heavily against him. “I stood up to a duck.”
“And lived to tell about it.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
He nuzzled his jaw against the top of her head. “We all get scared for different reasons.”
“What scares you, Sloan McCaffrey?”
“That you might leave and not come back.”
She turned in his arms, facing him full on. “You gave good rodeo. You’re worth another ride.”
Relief ran bone-deep. He said what he’d been considering from the moment she’d entered his home. “Move in with me, Eve.”
She blinked. “Live . . . here?”
“Would it be so bad?”
“I couldn’t think of anything better.”
Sloan relished the moment as he stood in the sunshine in the middle of the driveway with his barefoot Eve. His knit shirt touched her knees. He was certain she wore panties, but her breasts felt soft and free.
He wanted to feel her, yet waited until they returned to the house to do so. Behind closed doors, he touched and teased and took her against the entrance wall.
He liked breaking in different rooms with this woman. The house was big. There’d be a lot of sex.
Only after they’d sagged to the floor did Sloan realize Eve had forgotten her newspaper.
And he’d gone without a condom. It was time to marry this woman.
“You want to marry me?” Eve stared at Sloan McCaffrey across the dining room table, uncertain whether she’d heard him correctly.
The Rogues had won their home series against the White Sox, and Sloan had celebrated with Chinese take out and a square velvet box.
Eve remained perfectly still. Chopsticks crossed her plate, and the fortune in her cookie went unread as the princess-cut solitaire winked at her.
Nerves gripped her. Three weeks had passed since she and the dogs had settled into Sloan’s home. The move had been comfortable and easy, the sex phenomenal.
His proposal should have reassured and excited her, yet doubt made her cautious. She licked her lips. “Why now?”
“Why not now?” he returned. “Should I have waited for Christmas or your birthday?”
“Now works; just tell me why.”
The
why
seemed to confuse him. She nudged just a little. “People marry because they’re compatible . . .”
“We have plenty in common. We both like rodeo.”
“For financial reasons. . . .”
“I don’t need you as a tax write-off.”
“They want to have kids.”
“Are you pregnant?”
There was a little too much hesitancy in his tone. She now understood what had prompted his proposal. Sloan had taken her in the entryway that first morning without a condom. He wanted to be honorable.
Eve handed him his get-out-of-jail-free card. “I don’t need a condom to protect me, Sloan. I’m on the pill.”
He rolled his shoulders, reached across the table, and took her hand. “I want children. Lots of them. But I’d like time to spoil you first.”
“Why me?” She needed the words.
“I’m into tight-ass blondes.”
“More,” she insisted.
He skimmed her wrist with his thumb. “I love the scent of your shower gel, the slick sweetness of your skin when the steam clears. You look good in my T-shirts. You stand up to ducks. You’re an amazingly gifted artist. I enjoy watching you paint.” He squeezed her hand. “Most of all, I love listening to the evenness of your breathing right before I fall asleep. You bring me peace.”
She went soft inside.
He’d said all the right things; she owed him as much. “I love watching you play with the dogs. The way you get down on your hands and knees in the backyard and don’t worry about grass stains. I love how you hand-wash my car instead of running it through the car wash. How you send me flowers from Cincinnati and Minneapolis when you’re on the road.”
She sighed. “You set my spirit free and let me be daring. Nothing compares to your tucking the comforter beneath my chin when you think I’ve fallen asleep, right before you lift Dozier and Juliet onto the bed.”
“She knows,” Sloan whispered to the dogs sprawled beneath the table. “Who spilled our secret?”
“I woke up one morning to Dozier’s dog breath.”
“Boy could use a Tic Tac.” He edged his chair closer to hers, admitting, “I’ve wanted you from the moment I walked into Thrill Seekers. Eventually my heart got into the game.”
“I thought you wanted Taylor.”
“Taylor was a knee-jerk reaction. She belongs with Brek Stryker. You’re the sister that I want for the rest of my life.”
“What about your holiday trip? Do you still plan to ski La Grave?” From the moment she’d met him, she’d feared for his life. The mountain was dangerous. She wanted Sloan all in one piece.
“I could be persuaded to cancel my trip.”
She convinced him three times before midnight.
The man would be home for the holidays.
He coaxed her into a Christmas wedding on her last orgasm. He hadn’t let her come until she’d agreed.
They’d gone on to spoon, their sleep soon deep.
Morning stole into their bedroom much too early for Eve’s liking. She’d turned during the night, and now faced Sloan. She delicately traced his features with a fingertip: wide forehead, dark brow, square chin. And gray eyes, now half-veiled, as he watched her watch him.
“You look serious,” she said. “Mental preparation for today’s game?”
“Today could be my last start,” he told her. “Stryke comes off the disabled list tomorrow. The Rogues have a five-man rotation. Chances are good I’m back to being a reliever.”
She massaged the strain from his temple. “Maybe Guy Powers will go to a sixth rotation.”
“Maybe Dozier won’t pass gas under the covers.”
Eve couldn’t help laughing. “There’s always the off chance. You’re good at what you do, Sloan. Prove yourself worthy.”
Beneath a September sun, Sloan McCaffrey played his ass off against the Milwaukee Brewers. He wanted to start, and he needed Powers to know how badly. He tried to stay loose and shake off his doubts, but his body tightened with each pitch.
His shoulder felt metal-hinged by the third inning. And his elbow was cranky.
“Oil for your joints, Tin Man?” asked Psycho as he passed Sloan on the way to the dugout.
Sloan shot Psycho the bird from inside his glove.
He took his place at the end of the bench, away from the other players. Solitude was a pitcher’s friend. Alone, he had time to think. He needed a plan of attack.
“Exhale, McCaffrey, or you’ll turn blue. Blue isn’t your color.”
The words came from Brek Stryker as he dropped down beside Sloan. Brek had dressed out, and now watched the game from the dugout instead of the bullpen.
“Congrats on your engagement,” Brek continued. “Taylor spoke with Eve before the game. Big ho-ho, man.”
Christmas vows. An image of a very naked Eve at the moment of agreement colored Sloan’s mind. He’d held her on the verge of climax, her face flushed, her breasts raised, her pelvis barely restrained, until she’d said yes.
Brek smiled. “Knew I could get you to relax.”
“Eve does it for me.”
“I know the feeling.”
The frenzied sound of the crowd made Sloan crane his neck. Kason Rhodes now stood in the batter’s box.
Sloan and Brek counted pitches.
Rhodes swung on two fastballs and got called on strikes. He dug in, gaze narrowed, nostrils flared.
“Three hundred twenty feet?” Sloan bet Rhodes would slam the baseball over the right-field wall.
“Four twenty-five,” Brek countered. “He wants center field bad.”
Rhodes got center. He smacked the shit out of the ball, then took the bases at an all-out run.
“The man plays for keeps,” Sloan begrudgingly admitted.
“Take a page from his playbook,” Brek stated as he pushed to his feet. “Loosen up, McCaffrey. Stop playing like you’re afraid to make a mistake.”
Sloan went seven innings, allowing only one run.
The Rogues led by four when he took to the locker room.
He iced his elbow, then watched the remainder of the game with the trainer, Jon Jamison.
Victory carried the team on an adrenaline high. The win ranked them first in the National League East. They were the team to beat. Their eye was on October.
Pitching coach Danny Young caught Sloan on his way out. According to Young, Brek Stryker had put in a good word on Sloan’s behalf. The coach had listened. A six-man rotation started tomorrow.
Sloan threw back his head and roared his good fortune.
It was Christmas in August.
Ho-
frickin’-
ho.
“Addie and Edwin Sweeney have announced their engagement. They’re getting married at Thanksgiving,” Taylor said as she clicked off her cell phone. She looked up at Brek, tall, solid, and all male. His power and strength never ceased to amaze her. “Followed by Eve and Sloan at Christmas.”
Brek snagged a towel off the workout bench, where he’d been pressing weights. He yanked off his T-shirt and wiped sweat from his face, chest, and under the waistband of his athletic shorts. “Women and their holiday weddings.”
“Valentine’s is ready-made for a wedding,” she suggested. “Hearts, flowers, chocolate, romance.”
“Too much fuss. Big weddings take away from what’s important,” he countered. “You need no more than the bride and groom, a justice of the peace, and the intent to go the distance.”
“Distance”—she met his gaze—“was never my strong suit.”
He sent her a halfhearted smile. “You’re telling me?”
Brek had known her at her worst.
She was a better person because of him.
They needed to talk. Now was as good a time as any. Brek returned to the rotation today, his first outing since his injury. He’d broken his self-imposed silence, requesting that Taylor keep him company during his morning workout.
It was do or die today. Taylor needed to move beyond the gray area of their relationship. They’d lived together for three months now. They’d danced around their future, yet made love like there was no tomorrow.
Addie’s phone call had pushed Taylor out of her comfort zone. Did Brek see them as a couple or as a man and a woman soon to part ways?
She straddled the stationary bike in a hot-pink belly shirt and low-rise jeans. Her shoulders were stiff, her spine straight. She’d always been blunt and bold, yet today fear claimed her. She had no control over Brek’s feelings. He hadn’t said he loved her. She couldn’t predict the outcome of their conversation.
Maybe she should leave things alone.
Maybe she should let Brek make the first move.
Maybe—
“Talk to me, Fearless?” he asked, using her nickname. Dropping to the mat, he began a set of stomach crunches. “You’ve gone dead air on me.”
Now or never. She went with now. “I ran us through my mind and found a lot of blanks.”
He slowed his crunches. “What blanks do you need filled in?”
“Future blanks.”
He tucked his head against his chest, deepening his curls. Two hundred later, he rolled to his feet. He was mildly sweaty, his muscles pumped.
He flexed his arm and fingers, waiting for the energy current that made his fingers tingle. He smiled at the rush of circulation.
He massaged his palm, then looked at her. She sensed him shutting down. “What future, Taylor?” he asked.