Lori Wilde - [Cupid, Texas 02] Page 8

  “Something.”

  “Cute.”

  “May I go now?”

  “Listen, about the other day—”

  “This hedge trimmer is heavy. Could we have this conversation another day?”

  “We sort of got off on the wrong foot—”

  One eyebrow shot up on her forehead. “We?”

  “Okay, me. It was my fault. I acted like—”

  “Hedge trimmer.” She held it up. “Heavy.”

  “Oh, right. Here, let me take it for you.” He stuffed the sack of seeds underneath his arm and reached for the trimmer.

  She clung to it with a death grip. “I’ve got it,” she said through clenched teeth.

  They were drawing a crowd. Toby had come into the room and the cowboys and loading dock workers wandered over, as well as a couple of other customers.

  Fine by him. He was used to the limelight. “Let me carry it to the car for you. It’s the least I can do.”

  “You don’t owe me a thing.”

  Man, she wasn’t giving an inch. He tugged on the box.

  “You want to carry my books for me too?” She hung on to the box like it contained her life’s savings.

  “C’mon. What’s the big deal?”

  “You want to carry it to my car for me?”

  Damn, she was stronger than she looked. He tugged more firmly. “I do.”

  She smiled slyly and then let go unexpectedly, sending him stumbling backward. “Okay, carry it to my car for me.”

  He hustled toward the door.

  “Hey, Malcolm’s brother,” Aimee called from the teller’s cage. “You gonna steal those pumpkin seeds?”

  “Oh yeah, right.” He held one finger up for Lace. “Hang on a minute.”

  She sighed but motioned him toward the teller cage.

  “Be right back.” He winked.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t run off.”

  “I can’t. You have my hedge trimmer.”

  “I’ll get you another one, Lace,” Toby said. “Drive around to North Main and I’ll take it out to you.”

  “It’s okay, Toby. I’ll wait.”

  Pierce turned back to the teller’s cage, saw that everyone in the place was smirking at him. What the hell was so damn funny? He smiled big. He wasn’t about to let them know he was ruffled.

  Aimee held out her palm even though she was behind a glass window. “Ticket?”

  He juggled the hedge trimmer. The thing was heavier than you might expect and the shape of the box threw him off balance. He cocked the box on his hip, dug in his front shirt pocket, and fished out the ticket Toby had given him. In the process, he dropped the sack of seeds.

  Someone chuckled.

  Pierce bent to scoop up the bag and whacked the end of the box into Toby’s leg.

  “You’re deadly with that thing, Hollister. Are you sure that you hold on to a football for a living?”

  One of the cowboys snorted. No one was asking him for an autograph.

  “Sorry,” Pierce apologized. He was not going to stop smiling. Was not going to let them see he was flustered. This was all Lace’s doing. She turned him into a tongue-tied idiot.

  “That’ll be ten dollars and fifty-seven cents.”

  He dug in his wallet.

  The door creaked open.

  Pierce darted a glance over his shoulder to make sure Lace wasn’t running out on him, but it was another customer coming in. He pushed the bill through the slot toward Aimee, all the while keeping his gaze trained on Lace. “Keep the change.”

  He turned to Lace, being careful not to whack anyone else with the box.

  “Hey, big shot,” Aimee called.

  “Yes?” Distracted, he glanced back.

  Aimee was holding up a ten-dollar bill. “You’re fifty-seven cents short.

  “Sorry.” He thought he’d given her a twenty. He did the box-balancing shuffle again, dug another dollar out, and passed it to Aimee.

  “Hang on, I’ll get your change.”

  But he was already walking toward Lace, sweat beading on his brow. It was damn hot in there.

  Lace gave him a Mona-Lisa-ain’t-got-nothing-on-me smile and he followed her out the door. Hell, he’d follow that butt just about anywhere.

  She sashayed around to the back of her Corolla and opened the trunk. He rushed over to put the hedge trimmer in for her. Stood there breathing like he’d just run the ball fifty yards into the end zone himself.

  The tip of her tongue flicked out to moisten her upper lip. “Pierce?”

  Was she going to forgive him? Thank him? “Yes?”

  “I think you should know something.”

  He leaned in closer, getting a deep breath of her deliciously earthy scent. “What’s that?”

  “That sack of seeds?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Take a look at them.”

  Confused, but willing to do just about anything she asked, Pierce opened the crumpled paper bag and peered in at the thin, spiny, brittle seeds.

  “Do those look like pumpkin seeds to you?”

  His mind vapor locked, and for the life of him, he could not remember what pumpkin seeds looked like. He blinked, glanced at her. Talk about pressure. He felt like he was back in calculus class. “Um … um …”

  “Did you ever carve a jack-o’-lantern when you were a kid?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Think back,” she said with extravagant patience. “What did the inside of the pumpkin look like?”

  “It had this orange yucky crap in it and these big—” He met her eyes. “These aren’t pumpkin seeds.”

  “Very good.” She gave a little half clap like he was a puppy who’d managed to hold his bladder until he’d gotten outside.

  His eyes met hers. “What are these seeds?”

  “Salsola iberica.”

  “In English,” Pierce said. She was getting a kick out of his ignorance.

  “Russian thistle.”

  He frowned. “Russian thistle? What’s that?”

  “Fancy name for tumbleweed.”

  His face warmed. “These are tumbleweed seeds?”

  She nodded.

  “Why would Toby sell me tumbleweed seeds?” he asked.

  Lace canted her head. “For one thing, a slick-talking salesman conned Toby into investing a thousand dollars’ worth of Joe Angus’s money for Salsola iberica, convincing him that it was the cattle fodder of the future, and Toby needs to unload it to stay on Joe’s good side.”

  He swore, using one short, stark, succinct word. “Toby thought I was too dumb to know the difference.”

  Lace shrugged, straightened her head, and raised her brow, but she didn’t say what he figured she was thinking. You did buy them, dumbass.

  “I do know the difference,” he said defensively.

  Her eyebrows went higher.

  “I wasn’t paying attention when Toby was scooping up the seeds because I was busy looking at you.”

  “So it’s my fault?” Her lips twitched in amusement.

  He grinned back. “Totally. If you knew how hot you looked in those jeans—”

  “For another thing,” she interrupted, ignoring his compliment, but a pale pinkness tinged her neck and slowly spread up her face to color her cheeks. “Malcolm called before you got here.”

  “Malcolm called?”

  “He told Toby about your bet over the pumpkin crop. They punked you, Pierce. It was a group effort.”

  “So when Aimee called me ‘old dude’ and pretended she didn’t know who I was—”

  “Setup.”

  “And the part about people saying I’m washed up?”

  “Untrue. People are on pins and needles waiting for you to get back on the gridiron.”

  Well, that was something of a relief. He wasn’t a has-been. Yet.

  Lace motioned toward the door of the store.

  He turned to see everyone who’d been in the store standing outside grinning at him. Joke.
It had all been a joke. Well, damn. He could take a joke. In spite of the hollow feeling in his gut, he grinned, held up the sack of seeds, and called, “You got me.”

  The bunch at the door burst out laughing.

  Toby waved him back inside. “C’mon. I’ll get you the real pumpkin seeds.”

  “Be right there,” he said to Toby, and then turned back to Lace. “You were in on this prank too?”

  “I wasn’t. I overheard them.”

  “Why did you tell me the truth instead of letting me get home with the thistle seeds so Malcolm could do a gloaty dance?”

  “Because I hate seeing anyone humiliated. Even you.”

  He looked deep into her soulful blue eyes, and saw the remnants of childhood hurt lingering. She blinked and it went away, but for a brief second, he’d seen it, and while she’d clearly gotten past her teenage crush on him and the shame it had caused her, that public pain was part of who she was.

  His throat constricted. Damn. He was so sorry for that. He reached out a hand to touch her, but she stepped back, just out of reach.

  “Better go fetch your pumpkin seeds and get them in the ground or they won’t be ready in time for Halloween.” She slammed the trunk closed. “Then again, smart money says Malcolm’s going to win the bet.”

  “The town is making bets?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How much did you put in?”

  “Twenty on Malcolm.”

  Pierce splayed a hand to his chest. “Ouch.”

  “You might be good at flinging a football, but a farmer?” She shook her head. “You’re not.”

  “I can’t believe you backed Malcolm.”

  “What can I say? For once in your life, Pierce, you’re a long shot. Now you finally know how the rest of us feel.”

  Chapter 6

  Abscission: the natural separation of flowers, fruit, or leaves from plants.

  SLIGHTLY over forty-eight hours later, Pierce was in Valley Ranch, on the examination table of Dr. Hank Travers, the physician for the Dallas Cowboys who oversaw his care. It was a previously scheduled, six-month postoperative visit. He’d spent Saturday and Sunday getting those pumpkins in the ground, and his butt hurt from riding a tractor. He’d driven to El Paso Sunday evening and caught a flight to Dallas this morning.

  Everything in the office was top-notch, state-of-the-art, no-expenses-spared in the pursuit of health for income-generating athletes. While it was nice, sometimes he felt like he was little more than a Thoroughbred racehorse. Only valued for what he could provide, interchangeable with the next young hotshot who strolled through the door.

  Knock it off. You’re fine. You haven’t had to take Vicodin in two months. Although planting those pumpkin seeds had stirred up the pain, he was handling it.

  Technicians had just run him through X-rays and a CT scan, drawn blood, and taken his vital signs. He was waiting on Dr. Hank to appear and give him a clean bill of health with a firm timeline of when he could return to football.

  If it was October, he wouldn’t be there to harvest the pumpkins. Why did that make him feel kind of sad? It wasn’t the loss of ten grand. That was chump change. But hell, he sort of liked the rhythm of Cupid. Missed it already and he wasn’t even gone yet.

  Be honest. You’ll miss Lace.

  That was ridiculous. How could he miss her? He’d seen her exactly twice in a week’s time and before that, he hadn’t seen or thought much about her in twelve years. Maybe so, but on the first-class flight to Dallas, he kept wishing she was with him so he could show her his world. Then again, she probably wouldn’t be all that impressed with his high-rise condo in spite of the killer view of the Dallas skyline and all the amenities, including a health club and spa, a nine-hole golf course, and a twenty-four-hour concierge. Now, if they had an arboretum, that might impress her.

  She was a lot more down-to-earth than the women he usually dated. Um, you’re not dating her. But he could be. He wanted to be. The only thing getting in his way was Lace. An image of her popped into his mind, those lips, that lush figure, jet black hair, and he started having all kinds of Snow White fantasies—minus the seven dwarfs, of course.

  It was a bad idea for a guy wearing a paper gown waiting for a doctor to show up. He closed his eyes, willed away visions of Lace in order to stop the half-boner from becoming full-fledged.

  There was a double rap of knuckles on the door and then Dr. Hank entered without waiting to be asked in. Calling him a doctor was a bit of a stretch, since he was younger than Pierce. It could just as easily have been Jay Bettingfield coming through the door.

  Dr. Hank’s teeth were dental-commercial straight and his thick dark hair, swept back off his face, gave him an Elvis Presley resemblance. He wore a blue polo shirt with the Dallas Cowboys logo on it in silver, pleated khakis, a short white lab jacket thrown over the ensemble, and boat shoes without socks. A black stethoscope dangled around his neck and he carried a chart in his hand and an oversized brown X-ray folder.

  Dr. Hank’s brow wrinkled in a frown.

  Pierce’s balls drew up tight and flat and he suddenly felt queasy. “What is it?”

  “I’m afraid your leg isn’t healing as quickly as we hoped. You’ve been going to physical therapy, right?”

  Pierce swallowed back the bile souring his throat and nodded. “Yeah, sure, three times a week, except for this past week. Not this past week though.”

  “Why not?”

  “My dad’s been sick—”

  “That’s no excuse. Hire a caretaker for your father if you need to, but if you want to have a prayer of getting back to the gridiron you must do your physical therapy, No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

  A chill passed through him and he put a hand to his injured leg. “Is it that bad? I mean it doesn’t even hurt all that much anymore.”

  “The bone isn’t growing back the way we’d like.” Dr. Hank took the X-rays out of the folder and shoved them up on the lighted X-ray thingamajig mounted on the wall. He took a pen from his pocket and pointed out the area of concern.

  “Is there a pill or something I can take to speed up bone growth? Steroids? Or those pills old ladies take so they don’t break their bones?”

  “No, drugs for osteoporosis won’t work in your case, and I’m afraid the steroids we had you on right after the surgery to control swelling might have contributed to the problem.”

  Sweat beaded on his upper lip and he brushed it away. Oh shit, oh shit. He was Joe Theismann.

  Dr. Hank went on explaining things in medical mumbo-jumbo. Pierce’s ears rang and he caught only bits and pieces of what the doctor was saying. “Ligaments, tendons … blah, blah … support … blah, blah … but hopefully no permanent limp.”

  “What—” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat, started over. “Are you saying that I won’t be ready to go back on the field in October?”

  Dr. Hank did not meet his gaze or answer his question. He set down the chart, came closer. He had the well-fed look of a man living the high life. Probably owned a Jag. Or two. “Could you lie back and let me examine your leg?”

  Pierce sucked in a deep breath. As he lay back, the doctor pulled out the sliding shelf from underneath the top of the examination table to support his legs. Talk about vulnerable. Bare-assed in a paper gown while someone who’s younger than you are tells you that your career is all shot to hell.

  Dr. Hank poked and prodded his leg with hands that were too cold. The scar was still tender. Pierce flinched.

  “Does that hurt?”

  “When you poke like that.”

  “It shouldn’t be that tender.”

  “Normally, it’s not.”

  Dr. Hank looked like he didn’t believe him. “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”

  “You mean besides breaking my leg during the Super Bowl with a hundred million people watching?”

  “You mentioned something about your father.”

  “He’s been sick and they can’t find out what�
��s wrong with him, but he’s starting to get better.”

  “You lost your mother to cancer, didn’t you?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s in your chart.”

  “Oh. Yes, my senior year of college.” He didn’t like thinking about that. “What’s that got to do with anything? You don’t think …” He sat up abruptly, almost whacking Dr. Hank in the head. If he’d been an older doctor with slower reflexes, Pierce probably would have whacked into him.

  “You don’t have cancer,” Dr. Hank assured him and pushed the shelf back in so Pierce could sit all the way up.

  “Then why did you ask about it?”

  “I was just thinking that you’ve been through a lot.”

  “No more than anyone else, less than most. Hell, I’m thinking I’ve been the most fortunate son of a gun on the planet.”

  “Until now,” Dr. Hank murmured.

  A chill passed through him, but he quickly shook it off. No. No. He didn’t care how gloomy the good doctor looked. He was coming back from this. He was not Joe Theismann, no matter how much the media liked to draw that comparison.

  “You can get dressed and I’ll meet you in the corridor.” Dr. Hank picked up the chart and turned to go.

  Pierce put out a hand to stop him. “Bottom line it for me, Doc. Will I be able to return by Thanksgiving?”

  Dr. Hank’s features softened. “I know this is hard to hear, Pierce, but there’s not going to be any football for you this year.”

  WHILE PIERCE WAS in Dallas getting bad news, Lace was in the greenhouse twining young tendrils of Podranea ricasoliana, also known as pink trumpet vine, around wooden stakes. In a few weeks, the plants would be large enough to transplant into the garden for an added splash of color along the rock wall behind the Cupid fountain.

  Several times she paused in mid-twine to stare out the glass greenhouse at the Davis Mountains rising up from the desert floor just beyond the town limits, but she wasn’t seeing the mountains. Instead, she kept picturing Pierce looking humbled and chagrined but sheepishly good-natured over the prank that the crew at Angus Feed and Grain had dished out.

  She’d been doing a damn good job of keeping an amused distance until his eyes had met hers, and a heater of empathy stirred something inside. Something she had not wanted to resurrect. Tempting as he was, she was not going mushy over Pierce Hollister.