The Real Deal. Debbi Rawlins
gave him a dazzling smile, and said, “Wouldn’t it be cool if this suddenly turned to snow? You know, those kind of big fat fluffy flakes that cling to your hair and eyelashes and trick you into swearing you smell fresh Christmas trees and hot apple cider?”
He smiled back. “And hauling out your sled even before there’s enough accumulation for a decent ride down the neighborhood slope.”
“Exactly,” she agreed, all dimples. And then she sighed. “I checked the forecast before I left. It’s supposed to snow on Thanksgiving day back home.”
“Don’t tell me you still have your sled.”
“I’ve always been kind of partial to inner tubes.”
“Oh, yeah, you could get some speed out of those suckers.”
She laughed. “I’ve suffered more than one broken bone to prove it.”
“Amazingly I didn’t break anything, but I have a few scars on my arms and legs, courtesy of snowboarding.”
“Would’ve been a shame to mess up that pretty face,” she said, and then touched the tips of her fingers to her mouth. “Oops. Did I say that out loud?”
“Hey.” Nick gave her a teasing frown, mostly to hide his surprise. Did she know about Manhattan’s Sexiest Man Alive list that had just come out? Had she been messing with him all along?
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” She pressed her lips together, which did little to hide her anything-but-contrite smile. Then she straightened and moved her head into the light so that he could see that her eyes were a rich chocolate-brown. “Oh, good, I see the Thornton.”
A surge of disappointment came out of left field. He watched her hug her bags to her body while she fished out her purse and withdrew her wallet.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, waving away the money she produced. “I’ve got it.”
“No, let’s be fair about this.” She peered at the numbers on the meter, and pulled out another bill.
“I was coming this way, anyway.” He closed his fist over her hand. “Please.”
Her startled eyes met his.
Her hand was small. She was kind of small, period, maybe five-five.
“No, that’s not fair,” she said, her eyes widening slightly. “We agreed to share the cab.”
“Emily.”
She blinked and tugged her hand away. “Well, thank you, Nick.”
He hadn’t realized the driver had pulled to the curb, that a uniformed doorman was approaching with an umbrella to assist Emily out of the cab.
“It was nice meeting you,” she said haltingly.
“Same here.” Damn, he hadn’t felt this awkward since he was in junior high. And for no reason at all. “Have a good vacation.”
“Thanks.” She opened the door. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Right. You, too.” He hesitated. “Need help with your bags?”
“No, I’m good. Stay dry.” She struggled a moment until she had a firm hold of each tote, and by then the doorman offered her his gloved hand.
Nick watched her climb out, his gaze taking in the snug fit of her jeans as they stretched across a nicely rounded backside. No designer label on the pocket or peeking coyly from the seam, just regular faded blue denim worn by most of the women around Berber, Indiana.
That’s what was wrong, he realized. Why he was feeling soft in the head. Nostalgia. Nothing complicated. Emily reminded him of home. And for the first time in years, he’d actually wanted to spend the holidays there. But it hadn’t worked out. No big deal. Maybe he’d reconsider and take a flight south tomorrow. He had open invitations from three of his teammates who lived in Florida. Or maybe it would be better to spend the time alone. On the beach. Forget the rain and snow for a week or two.
Forget that his best friend might never play ball again.
Nick closed his eyes and shoved a hand through his hair. They’d talked about contracts and trades and eventual retirement, him and Billy. But they’d never dared to bring up being sidelined too early. It was bad luck to talk about something like that, according to Billy. He was from the bayous of Louisiana and was a superstitious old boy. No matter how much he’d joked about his family’s odd beliefs, Nick knew Billy had his own hang-ups about Cajun folklore.
In the end, none of the superstitions had mattered. The fate of Billy’s career had come down to a slick curve in the Catskills and a drunk driver. Well-meaning fans had written cards and sent flowers, while the press murmured that matters could have been worse…at least Billy was alive and could still walk. But they didn’t understand. For a star outfielder in his prime, there were far greater fates than death.
“Hey, Nicky, which way? You going home?”
The cab driver had turned around in his seat and stared at Nick, as if he’d been trying to get his attention for a while.
“Yeah.” He nodded and slid a glance toward the flashy but elegant entrance. Emily had already disappeared inside. Funny, he hadn’t figured her for choosing a trendy boutique hotel like the Thornton. “Upper East Side.”
“You got it,” the driver said and continued to chatter about the Knights’ winning season.
Half listening, Nick slouched down and laid his head back. Maybe returning to his apartment so early wasn’t such a hot idea. Nothing to do but watch the tube. Though he could call the folks and wish them a safe trip. Tomorrow morning they’d be leaving for Vermont.
He snorted. Yeah, that call would take all of five minutes. Not true. He and his mother always had a good chat. But him and his father, they didn’t seem to have that much to say to each other these past few years. He supposed he could call Marla and take her out for a drink and then spend the night at her place. She’d pout for half an hour, let him know what she thought about him not calling her for two weeks, but she’d give in. She always did.
The cab came to an abrupt halt behind a silver Escalade. Nick threw up his arm to brace himself. On the floor near his feet shot out something pink. It looked like a book. Had Emily dropped it? Frowning, he picked it up and slanted the cover toward the illumination of a streetlight. Erotic New York: The Best Sex in the City.
Nick choked out a laugh. This couldn’t be Emily’s. It probably belonged to an earlier passenger. The sudden stop must have jarred it loose. Though she had said she’d been to the bookstore. He opened the book and leafed through the pages, his jaw dropping at some of the pictures. Whether the book belonged to her or not, this was too good to pass up.
“Driver, we need to turn around. I’d like to go back to the Thornton.”
EMILY REMOVED HER PURCHASES from the bags and spread all the clothes, apart from the black teddy, on the queen-size bed. The small box of condoms she’d bought at the drugstore next to the bookshop she placed on the nightstand. She wanted to read the box before putting it away. Having never bought condoms before, she was curious.
The teddy had gotten damp so she hung it over the glass shower door in the luxurious bathroom that she desperately wanted to take home with her. The deep black-and-white tiled tub alone was worth the price of the room. In the twenty-four hours she’d been here, she’d already taken two indecently long baths.
She caught her reflection in the mirror and groaned at her wavy hair. Well, so much for taking an extra fifteen minutes to blow it dry all nice and sleek this morning. What little makeup she’d applied was also smudged at the bottom corners of her eyes, and the mineral powder she’d brushed on her face had faded away. Kaput. Totally gone. As if it had never been there. And her pale lips, well, they just sort of blended into her face.
Why couldn’t she have met the totally toe-curling Nick this morning? She’d looked