17. Seventeen

Seventeen

It didn't take Nell long to figure out that Whit was trying to get her to break the rules.

He wasn't even subtle about it. He'd turned the Whitney O'Rourke seduction machine up to full blast, complete with sexy smiles, flirty comments, and suggestive looks that convinced her he could scorch the clothing right off her body if he really put his mind to it. In public, he more or less behaved himself, but when they were alone… he was temptation personified. A fallen angel daring her to sin. His dark, smoky eyes promised her the fulfillment of every fantasy, every suppressed desire, every naughty urge. That silky voice whispered that he was the bad boy of her wildest dreams; all she needed to do was say the word, and he'd haul her off to the nearest horizontal—or vertical—surface they could find. And until she did, he'd be keeping his hands to himself.

It was another game, of course. She'd set him a challenge, the one thing he couldn't resist. He wasn't going to touch her, not without an explicit invitation. But that wasn't going to stop him from trying to get her to touch him.

She could have put an end to it. If he'd seemed remotely serious, she probably would have. Whit might be pathologically competitive and obnoxiously aware of his own good looks, but all Nell would need to do is tell him to stop, and she knew he'd do it. He was clearly enjoying himself, however, and she didn't want to spoil his fun. At least not when she had every intention of winning.

And she was going to win. For every sly innuendo, she countered with confusion. For every lazy stretch that teased those hard muscles lurking beneath his shirt, she faked a yawn.

"You realize what an easy target for reverse psychology you are, don't you?" she asked, mostly to hide how effective that testosterone overload actually was.

Whit leered in response. "Implying I only want you because you said I can't have you. Try again, Nellie. That just makes it more interesting."

She considered telling him that not everything in life was a competition, but she'd already heard enough about the infamous O'Rourke family rules to last her a couple of lifetimes. There were four of them, she'd discovered, each one loonier than the last. Her own edict of don't tell Grandmother was starting to seem downright normal next to: constant competition, a bloodthirsty need for revenge, the declaration that mercy was for suckers—nine-year-old Whit had apparently come up with that one—and a general reminder that rules were merely suggestions. Nell thought that last one a contradiction in terms, but when she'd mentioned it to Whit, he'd clarified they meant other people's rules. Their own were ironclad. Then he'd given her his sideways grin, licked his lips, and dropped his gaze to her breasts.

The next two days kept them busy, so there wasn't much opportunity for Whit to get her alone—to both her relief and disappointment. Monday included a charity brunch at the local senior center, which was followed by a silent auction at a nearby country club. Nell did her part as doting girlfriend to provide a buffer between Whit and the more inquisitive town elements, including another former classmate who made a couple of snide remarks before Nell stepped in and shut him down, since, once again, Whit wasn't doing anything to defend himself. But aside from the guys who had gone to school with him, no one seemed to have much of a problem with Whit. A few rude comments aside, most of the town was waiting with open arms to welcome their prodigal son. Literally, in some cases. There was a whole queue of women ready to swoop in and reminisce about the good old days—and probably to do a lot more than reminisce, if Whit hadn't kept Nell plastered to his side. Nell wondered how many of them he'd slept with, then felt disgusted with herself for wondering.

When Whit got pulled into a debate about pitching mechanics with one of the players from the old-timers game, Nell found herself in conversation with Maggie. A conversation that confirmed Nell's initial impression of her: Maggie was sweet but shy, and seemed completely in over her head when it came to Skip's world of baseball jargon and business decisions. Probably because she was in over her head. Apparently Maggie's late father had been a friend of Skip's, and the job she'd taken with him was a temporary position Skip had offered to help her get back on her feet after her father passed. A lot less illicit than Whit had been imagining, though he wouldn't abandon his belief that the two were sleeping together. According to him, Skip wasn't nearly that altruistic. If he'd really wanted to help Maggie, he could've just written a check.

Skip himself was too busy with stadium details to do more than toss a couple of comments in their direction—though he'd gone nuclear when he heard about Whit's car. He didn't think the tiny Fallen Oaks Police Department was up to the task of finding the culprit and wanted to bring in an outside investigator. That had led to another blistering father-son argument, but since Nell was actually on Skip's side on this one, she let Whit handle it himself.

On Tuesday, their morning was spent at the elementary, where Skip, Whit, and a few members of the Fallen Oaks Fishers gave one-on-one baseball lessons to dozens of starry-eyed children in the tiny field that adjoined the school. Nell sat on the makeshift bleachers with Allie and Freddie, trying not to melt every time some remark of Whit's earned him another mile-wide, gap-toothed grin, or when he bent to accept hugs from a few of the more affectionate students. She didn't need any reminders of how good he was with kids. He was going to make a great dad someday, a piece of knowledge that made her heart squeeze painfully .

The lessons were followed up by photo-ops, some with the children, some with local media—the exact sort of publicity Whit had been hoping for, though Nell knew him well enough by now to realize he'd have been just as kind and patient with those kids without the flash of cameras. It was clear he genuinely liked children, and understood them better than some of the teachers she'd worked with. He'd even roped her into helping him with a particularly anxious seven-year-old who couldn't get past being awe-struck long enough to speak.

I know how you feel, kid , she thought. She'd been annoyingly awe-struck herself lately. Among other things.

Although maybe awe-struck wasn't quite the way to put it. She wasn't tongue-tied or stammering, she was… having fun. More fun than she wanted to admit. Spending so much time in Whit's company should have been exhausting, or at least uncomfortable, but instead of feeling awkward and out of place, Nell was more relaxed than she could remember being since she'd been a kid. Relaxed, and at the same time, wholly and acutely alive. When Whit wasn't trying to seduce her, he was laughing with her, arguing with her, discussing books and TV, pop culture and politics—and, god, even sports —and getting into more silly competitions than she could count.

All of which led to Allie cornering her on Wednesday while Nell was helping set up Bucky's booth at the fairgrounds for the town's annual Harvest Fest. Whit and Bucky had gone to unload some extra shelving and a couple of hay bales from the pickup, which was all the opportunity Allie needed to pounce.

"You know, Whit doesn't bring his girlfriends to meet the family," she said, pushing aside a couple of baskets of sweet corn to perch on the booth's countertop. "Ever."

Nell darted a quick look around, but the only people in earshot were a couple of middle-aged women setting up a pie stand. She lowered her voice. "He still hasn't. Remember?"

Allie cocked her head. "Yeah, what's that about? You get along really well and you seem normal—which would definitely be an upgrade, from what I know of the last one. "

That didn't feel like a compliment. Nell gave her a bland smile. "All part of my diabolical plan."

"So I misjudged you. I can admit when I'm wrong." Allie leaned forward, casting a furtive glance at the pie sellers before turning back to Nell. "Anyway, I need your help."

Nell groaned. Over the past several days, she'd learned enough about Whit's youngest sister to know those words couldn't possibly lead anywhere good. "If this is another weird O'Rourke contest, leave me out of it."

"As Whit's girlfriend, you're O'Rourke adjacent. That means you're obligated."

"Thankfully, I am not actually his girlfriend."

"Keep telling yourself that." Allie apparently took Nell's irritated grumble as assent, because she hopped off the countertop and took a step toward her. "It'll be quick, I promise. I just need you to call my sister."

Nell blinked. "Rory? Why? She doesn't even know who I am."

"That's the point. You call, tell her you're with ESPN or something, say you're doing a story on her marriage to Satan, and ask for a comment."

"You want me to actually say Satan?"

Allie ignored that. "She might recognize Freddie's voice, so he can't do it. And Maggie already turned me down."

And so it was up to Eleanor Lacey, sports journalist, to rise from the ashes. "Won't she just send me to voicemail?"

"Leave a message."

It didn't take Nell long to realize it would be easier just to give in. And she had to admit, she was dying of curiosity about Whit's other sister. Rory had been dodging Whit's calls—which, according to him, was a sure sign she was lying about the whole thing, because he would see through her bullshit—and when Whit had finally managed to get his mother on FaceTime, she hadn't shed any light on the situation. Instead of giving him an answer, she'd pokered up. The bubbly, bright-eyed Allie lookalike that Nell had glimpsed on Whit's phone had told him to ask his father .

"All right," Nell said, wondering if it was a bad sign that she didn't even feel guilty. Though really, what was one more lie added to her list? "But I take no responsibility for this."

She wasn't expecting Rory to answer the phone and had a moment of panic when the line connected and a breathless voice offered a thin hello.

"Oh, hello!" Nell winced as her own voice came out in a high, singsongy chirp, and made an effort to smooth it into something approaching professional. "This is Eleanor Lacey with ESPN . I'm doing a story on your marriage, and—"

" No hablo inglés ," Rory said and hung up.

Well, Nell had tried, anyway. She slipped her phone back into her pocket and shrugged at Allie. "The Bride of Satan says no comment."

"What do you mean, no comment? She has to comment!" Allie set her hands on her hips and scowled, but since Whit and Bucky were on their way back from the truck, she let the matter drop.

Once the booth had been set up, Bucky shooed Nell and Whit off to amuse themselves until it was time to pack up. That was fine by her. She hadn't been to a festival, or any sort of fair—not counting book fairs—since before her mother got sick. The scents of caramel corn and pumpkin pie shot her straight back to childhood, but it wasn't nostalgia she felt walking beside Whit, her hand tucked neatly into his. It was something both deeper and more fragile than that, something more peaceful, something a lot like… contentment. The day was perfect: the sky a bright, dizzying blue; the fairgrounds rich with fallen leaves and blazing autumn colors; the air crisp but not biting—though it had proved chillier than expected, and she was wearing another of Whit's too-large sweatshirts under her jacket. It should have made her panic, how easy it was to pretend she really was his girlfriend, how good it felt. But panic would be for later. She was in the now, in the right now , and she intended to hold onto it as long as she could.

The Harvest Fest was traditionally held at the end of October, but Bucky had explained that the city council had delayed it a couple of weeks to coincide with Skip's groundbreaking plans. That meant a few of the usual activities had been altered, but Nell couldn't see much was missing. In addition to food stands and farm goods, the festival boasted an assortment of arts and crafts, live folk music, a hayride, a petting zoo, and several games that had been borrowed from the local county fair. Including a dunk tank. Which someone—Nell suspected Allie—had thoughtfully signed Whit up for.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you lunatics it's too cold to have a dunk tank?" Nell asked, eyeing the rickety-looking collapsible bench and giant plastic tub while Whit ducked into a tent and swapped his jeans for a pair of hideous green and orange striped shorts he'd procured from god knew where. Take A Dive For Charity! was painted in glittery letters on the side of the tub, along with the pricing guide. A dollar for kids, a few more for adults for the chance to send the Blizzards' ace for a frigid dip—along with the already drenched high school linebacker and burly volunteer fireman who had preceded him. "You're going to get hypothermia."

"Feel free to help warm me."

She could hear the smirk in his tone and did her best to sound scolding. "I changed my mind. You could use a good dousing."

Whit gave her his sideways grin as he emerged from the tent and handed her his neatly folded jeans, but before he could reach the tank, someone stepped in front of the ladder.

He didn't tense up quite as completely this time, but Nell still knew exactly who she would see when she turned. Sawyer Brewster, leaning back against the ladder with one arm draped across the top step, barring the way. He was off-duty at the moment, casually dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a rumpled gray sweatshirt—but Nell suspected that was the only thing casual about him. From what she knew of the guy, he could give Whit a run for his money in intense. He was the very definition of broody.

"What are you doing?" Whit asked him, voice tight.

"It says dunk tank, not drunk tank," Sawyer tossed out. "I'm a last minute substitution." Then, in one swift, sleek motion, he climbed up to the tank and seated himself on the bench, fully clothed. Nell could only assume it was some sort of demented, macho attempt to show Whit up. But if Sawyer wanted to be the one to freeze into a Popsicle, well—let him.

Whit must have agreed with the sentiment, because he turned to leave.

Sawyer's next words stopped him. "Running away again, O'Rourke? Come on, let's see the fabled arm in action. A hundred bucks says you can't dunk me."

A completely ridiculous wager, since Whit could probably hit the target a block away and blindfolded. But then, that was what Sawyer was counting on, Nell supposed. Whit O'Rourke never backed down from a challenge. It was that same competitive drive that had propelled him all the way to the majors… and pushed him to betray his friends. Now he could either lose face, or betray Sawyer again—at least symbolically. Miss on purpose, or send him diving. No matter how he played it, Whit couldn't win.

Whit turned, and the small group of onlookers that had gathered instantly parted for him. The starstruck teenager behind the sales counter took the money he'd dug out of his wallet and handed him a faded yellow tennis ball. A total hush fell over them as Whit tested the weight of it a moment, bouncing it gently in his right hand, and did a quick warm-up with his shoulder and arm. Playing it up for the audience—or, more likely, delaying the inevitable. Nell wasn't sure what he intended; she wasn't even certain he knew what his plan was. His face was totally unreadable, his eyes focused solely on the target. She said his name and he ignored it.

She had to do something.

The second Whit lifted his arm to throw, Nell let out a sudden gasp, stumbled, and careened sideways into him. Reflexively, he turned and caught her, even as his fingers released their grip. The audience groaned as the ball went spiking into the ground.

Crisis averted. Temporarily.

Allie clearly had no scruples about dunking her brother's former friend. She peeled herself out of the crowd, slapped a five dollar bill onto the sales counter, plucked the ball from where it had rolled in the dirt, and whipped it directly at the target—proving that she might not have the O'Rourke family interest in athletics, but she definitely had the talent. Bullseye. The target slammed inward. The bench collapsed. Water splashed out of the tub as the crowd lurched back.

Sawyer came up sputtering.

"You owe me a hundred bucks, officer ," Allie said. She smirked, tossed her hair, and then maneuvered the grinning Freddie toward the barn that housed the petting zoo.

Nell didn't waste any time in steering Whit away from the dunk tank. "Concussion relapse," she said, rubbing at her forehead. "I should probably sit down."

Whit's look told her he wasn't buying a word of it, but since she'd shackled herself to his arm, he had little choice but to guide her over to one of the nearby benches. "I could've handled that."

"Cannon fodder," she said.

"That felt more like the cannon. I guess I should count myself lucky you didn't stab me again."

She thrust his folded up jeans at him. "Here. Put these back on. Those shorts are an atrocity."

"You sure you don't want to come with me? I might need protection."

What she wanted to do was kiss him. He was doing his best to cover it, but she could see he'd been shaken. She wanted to push herself up on her tiptoes, curl her arms around the back of his neck, drag his head down to hers, and kiss away all the sadness that lurked in his eyes.

Instead she gave him a wobbly smile. "I don't think the big bad wolf will be knocking down any houses for a while yet."

But yet turned out to be a lot shorter than she thought. When they returned to the farmhouse later that evening, the wolf was waiting for them.