Slow Heat
Page 17Trying to be tough but failing, Tag nodded.
Wade bent and looked into his eyes. “Don’t forget. Call me anytime.” He straightened and exchanged a look with Sam, whose eyes softened, surprising him. Warming him.
“Tag,” she said quietly. “We’ll figure it all out, I promise. Say good-bye to your partner-in-crime here.”
“Bye,” Tag said to Wade. “I hope you get traded to the Bucks.”
Wade raised an amused brow as Sam started to lead Tag away. He caught Sam and reeled her in, putting his mouth to her ear. “That goes for you, too, Princess. Call me anytime, day or night.”
She started to roll her eyes, then went stock-still when, with his back blocking her from view, he very lightly scraped his teeth over her earlobe. He wasn’t sure why except he couldn’t help himself. Her breath hitched, a very satisfying response, and he then kissed the spot before letting go of her. He watched her hurry to catch up with Tag, picturing the next few hours in her world, wondering as he did who he felt the most sorry for: her, or the kid . . .
Chapter 15
It ain’t over till it’s over.
—Yogi Berra
Sam glanced over at Tag as they hit Highway 1. He was eyeing the interior of her car with surprise.
She drove a standard Honda Accord, which she liked for its value and gas mileage, plus the sunroof always made her feel like she was doing more to enjoy herself than she really was. “What?” she asked him.
“Is your real car in the shop or something?”
“No, why?”
“I thought when you were in the big show, you got whatever you want.”
“I’m not in the big show. I just work for the big show.”
“Grandpa and dad have Beemers.”
Sam slid him a look. “I like this car.”
“It’s just like Grandma’s.”
“Your mom’s mom? You see her a lot?”
“Just at Christmas. She makes me kiss her.” He shuddered.
“This can’t be an old lady’s car, if that’s what you’re inferring. I’m only twenty-nine.” Thirty in three weeks, but who was counting?
His mouth hung open. “Does dad know how old you are?”
“Hey, he’s only one year younger than me.”
“His girlfriend is twenty-two. He says twenty-two is perfect.”
She sighed, and Tag fell back into silence. She glanced at him. “You still want ice cream?”
He lifted a shoulder indifferently. “If you do.”
“What do you want?”
“To go home.”
A one-two kidney shot. Sam exited the highway and drove through downtown. It was evening now, which meant that the streets were loaded with UCSB students looking for fun, tourists looking for bars, and the occasional poor schmuck like her just trying to get home from a long day at the office.
They passed outdoor paseos, beautifully landscaped plazas, brick-lined sidewalks in front of local specialty shops, and world-class shopping. She turned off the main drag and down one of the myriad multi-use avenues. Here there were sidewalk cafes mixed with little boutiques, bookstores, and unique specialty shops. She lived in one of four refurbished condos over an art gallery. Parking was always a bitch but today, since karma had already laughed at her, she was rewarded with a spot only one block down. “Okay,” she said to Tag, turning off the engine, reaching for his bag. “We’re here.”
He took his bag from her, either to be a little gentleman, or because he didn’t want her to touch his stuff any more than he seemed to want her to touch him. He eyed the little Italian restaurant on the corner. The chef was in the window tossing a large round of dough in the air. “You live at a pizza joint?”
“Oh,” he said with disappointment.
Because she figured he was hungry, she led him inside to put in an order.
The place was filled to overflowing with a crowd ranging from starving college students all sharing one pie and one check to the upscale, ritzy shoppers with their fancy shopping bags at their feet.
Ernie was behind the counter. Rumor had it he was good in both the kitchen and the bedroom, but Sam could only attest to the kitchen part. He made the best Italian food anywhere, he and his dark hair and matching dark, dreamy eyes, with the smile that could melt bones at a hundred feet. He was her age, a few inches taller than her five foot six, and built like a boxer. They spent several evenings together a month, but unfortunately he wasn’t her type.
Actually, more accurately, she wasn’t his type, in that she didn’t have a penis.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, smiling at her. “What’ll it be tonight?”
Sam turned to Tag. “What’ll it be?”
Tag looked startled to be asked, and he played with the baseball cap on his head uneasily. “What do you want?” he asked Sam.
Did no one ever ask his opinion? “I’d love to have your favorite tonight, whatever that is.”
He gave that some very serious thought, his brow furrowed like an old man. “Pepperoni, extra cheese.”
“Nice choice,” Ernie said.
Sam thought about the calories and mentally groaned but smiled at Tag, who was still looking like he was thinking too hard. “Is your bag heavy? Let me—”
“Girls aren’t supposed to carry stuff for boys.”
So Jeremy had taught his son how to treat a woman, but not how to be a kid. Sam looked into Tag’s far too solemn eyes and damn if she didn’t see past the delinquent-in-the-making and completely melt. She arranged for delivery, then led Tag out of the place. On the crowded sidewalk, a group of college students passed by them. Five females, all dressed like it was Halloween at Victoria’s Secret.
Tag’s neck nearly snapped as he tried to keep them in his sight. “Holy cow,” he whispered. “Do they walk around like that all the time?”
“It’s a college town,” she said, barely suppressing the urge to cover his eyes. She led him across the street to the art gallery. By sheer bad timing, the window display had changed from the gorgeous oils of the different seasons of Yosemite to a series of nude sculptures.
“You live here?” he asked in awe.
“On the second floor.”
Tag blinked at the nudes but didn’t voice his thoughts, which Sam figured was just as well. They climbed the open stairs to the second floor and walked along a balcony to the third door. She fished through her purse for her keys while Tag leaned on the railing, watching the goings-on below, running his fingers over Wade’s number on his chest.
She opened her door and let him in. He paused before stepping inside, all ten-year-old bravado combined with a heartbreaking smile and assessing eyes that reminded her of someone that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “Make yourself at home.”
Tag carefully set his bag on the floor and stood in the foyer, not moving.
Sam loved her condo. It was surprisingly big and airy, with high ceilings and big picture windows. But she hadn’t done much with the place. The walls were the same cream they’d been when she’d moved in three years ago, and mostly bare, but she’d decided she liked the clean, efficient look. Her furniture came in earth tones and was sparse but soothing.
It definitely wasn’t set up for kids.
Hell, it was barely set up for her, given how much she traveled with the Heat seven months out of the year. “Are you thirsty?”
“No, thank you.”
They looked at each other in awkward silence. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me, Tag?”
“When am I going home?”
Her heart tightened. “Not for a while.”
She watched the hope die in his eyes and she wished she had a road map on how to handle this. “How about a tour?” She pointed to the other end of the living room, which spilled into the kitchen and a dining area. “Food’s in there. I’m probably not stocked for your palate but we can fix that.” In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator. “You can help yourself . . .”
Tag stared into the fridge with absolutely no expression. Sam looked from his face into the refrigerator as well. Water. Apples. Coffee beans.
Feeling like she was failing, she sighed. “Okay, so during the season I eat out a lot. We’ll get you stuff tomorrow, okay? What constitutes kid food these days?”
He lifted a shoulder.
“Come on. Give me a hint.”
Nothing.
“Spinach?” she teased gently. “Liver and onions?”
His eyes cut to hers, caught her smile, and then it happened. His lips twitched. He caught himself before he allowed a full-blown smile though, so it wasn’t complete success, but she was going to win him over. Any minute now.
“Maybe quesadillas,” he finally said.
“Great.” Tortillas and cheese, easy enough. “What else?”
“Mac and cheese.”
“Okay.”
“And pizza.”
She smiled. “So anything with cheese.”
He did the almost smile thing again.
“I have a secret Cheez Doodle stash,” she admitted, and opened the shelf above the refrigerator.
Tag eyed the bag. “My dad never lets me have Cheez Doodles. I leave orange handprints everywhere.”
“Then you’re not eating them right. The trick is to lick your fingers clean.”
Again with the almost smile. She showed him her spare bedroom, which had a bed and an exercise bike that she’d used exactly twice. The spread on the bed was a pale yellow down comforter, with a pile of pillows. Probably a little girly. “This can be your room,” she said. “We can get you different bedding. Maybe send for some more of your things.”
Tag was quiet a moment. “Am I going to be here that long then?”
Her heart squeezed, but he’d asked several times now and she knew she had to be as honest as she could. “Maybe three months.”
He let out a barely heard sigh.
She wanted to promise him Cheez Doodles for the rest of his life if he’d stop looking like she’d just handed him a death sentence. “What are we going to do about school?” she asked.
“I’m homeschooled. Or I was. But last week my teacher chucked the coffeepot at dad’s head and didn’t come back.”
“Let me guess. The twenty-two-year-old?”
“Yeah.”
Sam opened her mouth, then closed it. Seemed she’d be hiring a tutor. They watched TV while sharing the pizza, and she offered him the remote, interested in what he’d pick.
A SpongeBob SquarePants repeat.
He ate three pieces of pizza when it came, and shocked her by taking her plate away and cleaning up afterwards without being asked.
She was beginning to realize that in his household, he’d been the grown-up.
“Maybe we should go to bed,” she said. “It’s already nine-thirty. What’s your bedtime?”
“I don’t have a bedtime.”
When he emerged a few minutes later, his hair was standing straight up and he still had a smudge of something near his ear. “Did you use soap?” she asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You didn’t say I had to use soap.”
She stared at him. “For the record, from now on when you take a shower, I’ll want you to use soap. And shampoo. You know, actually clean yourself.”
“ ’Kay.”
“How about toothpaste?”
He tossed up his arms like who knew? and disappeared back into the bathroom.
When he came back out, she decided not to mention that he’d also need to use a comb regularly. One battle at a time. “Ready for bed?”
“I’m not tired.”
His eyes were drooping and he was yawning even as he said this. “Humor me,” she said.
“Can I make a call first?”
She’d like to save him the disappointment of calling his dad and not having him answer but she didn’t want to say no to such a simple request. “Sure.”
He pulled out his cell. “Hey,” he said. “You said I could call any time, day or night. Can I come over?” Tag’s gaze slid to Sam. “Yeah, she’s here. Hang on.” He handed the phone out to Sam.
“Having trouble, Princess?” came Wade’s low, husky voice.
“No.” At least nothing she wanted to admit to. Sam looked at Tag. “No trouble at all.”
Wade let out a soft laugh that scraped at her belly. “You’re as talkative as he is. And you sound like you’re a woman on the edge.”
“No. There’s no edge.” Only a huge gaping black hole swirling, waiting to gobble her up.
“Want me to come save you and take him for the night?”
Yes to the coming over. But that was certain parts of her body talking, and they didn’t get a vote. “No.”
“You sure? I have ways to tame kids.”
And women . . . “We’re fine.” She shut the phone and tossed it back to Tag. “Sorry, but it’s you and me, Tag. We can do this.”
Tag sighed and nodded.
Not exactly a vote of confidence.
Chapter 16
The great thing about baseball is that there’s a crisis every day.
—Gabe Paul
The blogs and newspapers continued to buzz with the fact that a woman had tamed Wade, and the Heat’s like-ability improved daily. The sponsors were happy. Gage was happy.
Then the Heat took the Padres at home on game two and the fans were happy, too.