9. Nine

Nine

Whit parked his car in the rugged patch of dirt that served as the driveway leading up to his grandfather's garage. Nearby, a sleepy-looking tabby was stretched out on the hood of an old powder blue Ford pickup, the same rickety road hazard his grandpa had been driving for the past thirty years, since no amount of bargaining or bribery could convince him to retire it. A few years back, Whit had offered to replace it with a brand new, top of the line F-150, and his grandpa had told him in no uncertain terms that he didn't need charity. He'd rather drive around in a rust bucket held together with chewing gum and prayer than accept money earned from—as he put it—grown men playing a child's game. At this point, Whit fully expected he'd demand to be buried in the damn thing.

But at least the presence of the junkyard atrocity meant that his grandpa was at home, which solved his most immediate problem. Breaking and entering seemed like a needless waste of time when he was already on a tight schedule. He had to get this Grantham thing taken care of before Nell started regretting her decision, and a quick glance at her face told him she'd already left second thoughts behind and was well on her way to third, fourth, and fifth.

"Welcome to Hotel O'Rourke," he told her as he shut off the engine of his Audi. "Amenities include a fantastic view of cornfields and a rooster that crows at all hours. "

"You're really planning to stay on a farm?" Nell unbuckled her seat belt and twisted around to look through the back windshield, peering out at the land with open interest. He followed her gaze. His grandfather's farm was the quintessential homestead: single-story house with a brick chimney and a neatly fenced wraparound porch; weathered livestock barn with adjacent silo; a windmill for the well. There was even an antique milk can tucked up against the side of the garage, a few dried cornstalks poking out from the top. The only thing the place lacked was a clothesline with a couple of flannel shirts whipping about in the wind.

" We are staying at a farm," he corrected. Then, because he couldn't resist, he added: "I hope you like fresh milk."

She wrinkled her nose. "If you're trying to get me to change my mind, you're on the right track."

"You want your job back, don't you?"

"Depends. If getting my job back means drinking milk five minutes out of the udder, I think I'd rather just find a new one."

"Didn't you just tell me you never go back on your word?"

"You haven't won yet. And as far as your grandpa's concerned, I'm lactose intolerant."

"Isn't that commonly known as a fib? What would your students say?"

"I'll be sure to give myself detention."

Whit grinned and hopped out of the car, giving the landscape a quick survey. He hadn't been out to visit since signing with the Blizzards, and his grandpa had fallen a bit behind on chores. The porch needed painting, the lawn needed to be raked and mowed, and a shutter on one of the windows was hanging askew. The whole roof should probably have been redone years ago, but he supposed Skip had been too busy trying to work out the details of the stadium to worry about whether his father's house was threatening to fall down on his head. Not that Whit's grandpa would have welcomed the interference. The elder Whitney O'Rourke— Bucky to everyone but his late wife—was on the wrong side of eighty and declining in health, but steadfast in his insistence that he could manage just fine on his own. The same way he'd been managing for the past thirty odd years, ever since his only child had left to play ball instead of staying to work the family farm.

These days, there wasn't much of a farm left. Over the past few decades, the sprawling acres that had once been Bucky O'Rourke's livelihood had dwindled until it was barely even a hobby operation. Most of the land had been rented out or sold to neighboring establishments, along with the bulk of the machinery. Bucky still hired seasonal workers from among the local high school students, but the only properties he regularly worked were a couple of cornfields and a small vegetable plot, and the barn housed three times as many cats as cows. Cows that, despite his teasing of Nell, were mostly ornamental, since they no longer produced milk.

Skip wanted Bucky to sell whatever remained and retire. Bucky had stated it would be over his dead body, and since his family knew him well enough to believe he meant it literally, that had been the end of the discussion. For now.

In the meantime, the porch needed painting. That much Whit could do, provided he could trick his grandpa into letting him.

He breathed in the cool afternoon air as he stepped around the car, nudging a few of the leaves that had collected in the driveway with the edge of his shoe. The chickadees that had been flitting about near the eaves of the garage chirped at him. A brisk wind nipped at his shirt. He'd missed this, he realized—the comforting stillness of open country and the scent of cut hay, the fallen leaves and damp earth. They'd arrived too late for the peak of the fall colors, but a couple of birches were still holding onto their ochres and golds, and the old maple that overlooked the porch flamed starkly red. That same maple had stood there as long as Whit could remember, stubbornly keeping its leaves long after the rest of trees were bare. In a few hours, the setting sun would slant through the branches, dappling the porch with shadows. He could picture his grandpa sitting on the swing with a book and a beer, watching the twilight roll in.

"I haven't spent a lot of time on farms," Nell said as she climbed out of the car behind him. She stood for a moment with her hands planted on her hips, her head tipped skyward. The loose wisps of hair that had worked free from her ponytail tangled in her face. "It's pretty here."

"When it's not buried in forty feet of snow." Whit loped the rest of the way to the porch, then paused with his hand on the door to toss a quick glance over his shoulder. "By the way, my grandpa hates baseball, so try not to mention it."

"I thought all American men over the age of fifty liked baseball."

"Grandpa enjoys being contrary."

"This is your paternal grandfather?"

"Whitney O'Rourke the elder," he replied. "Third generation farmer."

"So I'm guessing he wasn't too thrilled when the fourth and fifth generations didn't follow in his footsteps."

"And now you know why he hates baseball."

The inner door was already open, so Whit yanked at the screen door and stepped inside without knocking. The lights were off but the drapes were pulled, and the afternoon sun filtering in gave the entryway a soft buttery glow. Within, the house looked exactly as it had all throughout Whit's childhood: the same cream-colored floral wallpaper beginning to peel at the edges; the same scuffed wooden furniture that was too old to be modern, too new to be considered antique. The bookshelves built into the walls of the small living room were still jammed with Louis L'Amour paperbacks, and the picture frames that hung over them still displayed jigsaw puzzles instead of paintings. The clock over the fireplace chimed out the hour. The air smelled of coffee and cigarettes.

Frowning, Whit followed the scent into the kitchen, where he found his grandfather at the dining table, assembling his latest puzzle with one hand and holding a cigarette in the other. An empty Mason jar sat nearby, repurposed as an ashtray, the bundle of fake daisies that had formerly occupied it shoved toward the edge of the table. Without a word, Whit stalked across the room and leaned over the sink to tug the window open, nudging aside the cat that had been sunning itself on the sill. Then he turned to his grandfather, plucked the cigarette from his hand, and stubbed it out on the side of the jar before dropping it inside.

"I thought you said you were quitting," he said.

"And hello to you, too," Bucky replied, reaching to pull a new cigarette from his shirt pocket. He sighed when he saw Whit's expression and let his hand fall. "For your information, mister, I am quitting." A rueful smile spread across his face. "Tomorrow."

"Does Dad know you're still smoking?"

"Your dad can mind his own business," Bucky answered cheerfully, "and so can you."

"I'll be sure to write that on your tombstone."

"You can write what you want. I'll be dead." But he withdrew the rest of the pack from his pocket and handed it to Whit. "Happy now?"

"Happier, anyway." Whit took a short step back and studied his grandfather. Bucky had never been a large man, but nothing—not even his own son and grandson towering over him—could convince him of that fact. He'd lost a couple of inches over the past few years and somewhere along the way his frame had gone from stocky to stout, but though his movements had slowed and his shoulders had begun to stoop, he still carried himself with the air of a man on a mission. Today he'd chosen to forgo his traditional overalls, opting instead for a pair of jeans and a shirt of faded blue and green flannel that had seen better decades. He looked tired, Whit thought, noting the shadows beneath his eyes. Tired and old. "Are you getting enough sleep?"

Bucky took a sip from his coffee mug and regarded Whit with a mixture of irritation and affection. "I sleep when I'm tired, I eat all my veggies, and I only have one beer before bedtime. You want to know about my prostate, too?" He lifted his bushy white eyebrows, then hooked a thumb toward the doorway of the kitchen, where Nell stood fidgeting. "You didn't come here to prod me about my health. Who's your friend?"

Whit hesitated. Lying to his dad was one thing. Lying to his grandpa was basically the eighth deadly sin. And since he didn't think Nell would agree to sleeping arrangements that involved the two of them sharing a bedroom, let alone sharing a bed, he was going to have to come clean. "This is Nell. She's a friend of mine. Dad thinks we're dating, so don't tell him otherwise."

Bucky reached into his shirt pocket for his missing cigarettes, then tried to play off the motion by withdrawing the small pair of glasses he used for reading. He slid the glasses onto his nose and peered at Whit, blinking as his vision adjusted. With his bald head, drooping mustache, and disgruntled expression, he put Whit in mind of a grumpy walrus. "Why does he think you're dating?"

A quick glance at Nell told him he was on his own this time, so Whit just shrugged. "It's complicated."

"Meaning you lied to him."

"More or less."

"Mm-hmm. Well, he won't hear about it from me," Bucky promised. He tipped his head toward Nell. "She the one who was polishing your knob for you?"

It was impressive how quickly Nell's complexion went from nervously pale to bright flaming red.

"Jesus, Grandpa," said Whit.

"No need to get huffy." Bucky poked at his glasses. "I'm not judging. I'm just asking."

"Since when do you read Meltdown ?"

"It's a small town. Just about the only person who didn't text me is my pastor."

Whit sighed. Not that he'd expected any different. At this very moment, someone was probably collecting funds to put up a billboard. Whit O'Rourke, Professional Pervert . "Sorry to scandalize the neighborhood, but since you asked, that's not what was going on."

Nell apparently remembered she was meant to be contributing, because she made a kind of fluttery, flailing motion with her hands and then blurted out, "We're suing!"

"Thanks. Very helpful," Whit drawled.

"I told you I wasn't going to be any good at this," she complained. "You are suing, though, right?"

"Since you keep announcing to the world that I'm going to, I suppose I probably have to. "

Bucky divided a look between them. "If she's not your girlfriend, why is she wearing your clothes?"

"Coffee mishap," Whit answered. "Can we crash here for a few days?"

"Not if you're going to make a habit of coffee mishaps. If I don't get my morning caffeine, I get crabby. Skip didn't have room for you?"

"He's pissed about my bad press."

"I hope you told him to pull his head out of his behind. He cares too much what people think about him. So do you, kiddo."

Easy for him to say, Whit thought; his grandpa had never had his face in a tabloid or been a headline on CNN. He also knew that was an argument he wouldn't win. "So can we stay?"

The bushy eyebrows raised again. "You know the rule about sleepovers."

"Did you miss the part where I said we're not dating?" Whit wasn't sure if he should be flattered or offended. Bucky had instituted the rule when Whit was seventeen years old and had spent most of his senior year of high school living at the farm. Appropriate, he supposed, for a horny teenager angry at the universe and bent on self-destruction—not that it had done any good. But Whit was nearly thirty and long past carving notches.

He noted that his grandfather had neglected to state the rest of the rule. Whit could recall it verbatim. No sleepovers, remember that no means no, the lord gave you two hands to keep you from getting lonely, and if you're gonna do it anyway, keep it wrapped up. The gospel according to Bucky O'Rourke.

"You didn't do much ‘dating' in high school, either, as I recall," Bucky said dryly.

Whit didn't know what was more alarming—that his grandpa seemed intent on embarrassing him, or that it was actually working. He avoided looking at Nell. "I'm thirty years old."

"You're twenty-nine, and my roof, my rules."

"What do you want me to do, swear on a stack of bibles? I solemnly swear I will never have sex . "

"Seeing as I don't want my only grandson struck by lightning, I guess we'll have to forgo that," Bucky replied, chuckling. "I'm just messing with you." He aimed a smile at Nell. "You can have Whitney's old room." He jerked his chin at Whit. " You can have the couch."

Whit leaned back against the kitchen counter, folding his arms and crossing one foot in front of the other. "Here I was thinking I'd be banished all the way out to the barn."

"You keep fussing over me and you will be." A devious glimmer came into Bucky's eyes. "And since you're going to be living off my hospitality, I figure you won't mind being put to work."

Whit considered bringing up the flaking paint on the porch, but doubted it would be that easy. Bucky was nobody's fool. The second he suspected Whit was trying to look after him, his back would go up and his foot would come down. "If you're looking for someone to strangle your rooster, I'm your man."

Bucky squinted at him from behind his glasses. "I'd call your bluff, but you might pull a muscle backpedaling. You can go muck out the barn."

Whit looked at him in amusement. "What, now?"

"You got something better to do?"

Catching his eye, Nell—clearly horrified at the prospect of being abandoned with his grandfather—shook her head frantically and mouthed the word no. She tapped a finger against an imaginary watch.

Whit ignored her. "I have a couple of calls to make," he told Bucky. "But I can multitask. You want to get Nell settled in?"

"She can help finish my puzzle."

"Great." He took a few long strides toward the side door that opened out into the backyard, then turned to toss his car keys toward Nell. She was still staring daggers at him, but clapped her hands together and caught them. "If he gets too obnoxious, feel free to run him over."

"Just for that, you get barn duty tomorrow, too," Bucky called after him.

"And don't let him pick up a cigarette!"

** *

By the time Whit had cleaned out the stalls in the old pole barn and replaced all the soiled hay with fresh bedding, he'd contacted three of his former teammates in Chicago—plus one of the coaches—and called in a favor from an assistant manager. Then, since he'd decided that might qualify as overkill and invite scrutiny, he called two of them back. In the end, he left the details up to his friend Charlie, whose All-Star name power and status as a recent MVP pretty much guaranteed someone in Frank Grantham's immediate circle would take his call. All Charlie had asked in return was that Whit participate in his charity bowling tournament in January, which Whit would have agreed to do anyway. Simple, easy, and entirely painless—provided it worked. He wasn't certain what he'd do if it didn't. Negotiate new terms, probably. It wouldn't be the end of the world if he had to pack Nell back up and wave her off on a flight to Chicago, but now that he'd set his mind on a plan, he didn't want to deviate from it. That and he hated to lose.

His worries wound up being needless, as Charlie worked his magic in record time. Whit had just finished putting out feed for the barn cats and was heading back into the house when Charlie messaged him that the meeting was set.

Simple, easy, and entirely painless.

For him, anyway. Nell clearly didn't know much about Frank Grantham if she believed a brief interview would convince him to save her job. Grantham was a self-serving narcissist with an overinflated ego and an underused moral compass. His charitable contributions weren't causes but carefully selected tax breaks, and if Nell thought he would give a damn about her school or the students in it, she was deluding herself. Grantham might agree to have her rehired, provided she were willing to grovel, flatter, flirt, and otherwise humiliate herself enough to soothe his vanity, but that failing—and from what he'd seen of Nell's temper, it would fail—she was in for a massive disappointment .

He still had half an hour until the agreed upon deadline hit, and since he'd sweated through his T-shirt and smelled like the more fragrant parts of a cow, he dug a change of clothing out of his suitcase and hopped in the shower before going in search of Nell. He'd heard the blue Ford sputtering its way down the road while he was in the barn, so he assumed his grandfather had gone into town. He also assumed Bucky had been wise enough to overcome his compulsion to entertain guests and had left Nell to her own devices—an assumption that proved correct when Whit peeked into the guest room and found her curled up in the window seat with her legs drawn up and her knees serving as a book rest.

Since she was totally absorbed in whatever she was reading, he stood in the doorway and watched her. She'd taken off her shoes—sensible flat-heeled slip-ons with a cream-and-blue butterfly pattern, set very neatly against the wall—and with the cuffs of her jeans turned up, he could see the faint ink of a tattoo on her left ankle. Her toenails, he noted, were painted the color of cherries. Not the shade he'd expected from her, since she seemed to prefer softer, more neutral tones, but then, he hadn't expected the tattoo, either. It made him think of the little scar on her lip; an innocent detail that whispered of something wicked. The curtains were open and the late afternoon light spilling in caught in her hair, giving it a rich, coppery luster. Sitting there with her lashes half-lowered and the sun on her skin, she looked picturesque. And startlingly pretty. Pretty in a way that made him think of lazy mornings spent rumpling bed sheets and made him wonder what else she wore in red.

That was a dangerous direction for his thoughts to head down, so he shoved the image aside. Jamming his hands in the pockets of his jeans, he took a short step forward and cleared his throat. "Good book?"

She started at the sound of his voice and turned toward him, looking sheepish. "I bought it for my flight."

That would have been the perfect opening to let her know her flight needed changing… but he'd instructed Charlie to have Grantham's office call her at the last possible moment. And he was enjoying watching her squirm. "I see Grandpa didn't send you running for the hills," he said instead.

She shut her book and set it aside, giving him a reproachful look. "You mean after you ditched me with a total stranger five minutes after I'd met him?"

"Given your sentiments toward me, I figured a total stranger might be a step up. Did he grill you?"

"He wanted to know where I'm from, what I do, and how we met."

"Yeah, he definitely thinks we're sleeping together."

Nell groaned. "Fantastic. The one person we actually told the truth doesn't believe us."

"You've gotta appreciate the irony, though."

She glared at him.

Whit shrugged. "So what did you tell him?"

"I said my sister introduced us."

"Smart."

"We didn't talk long. After we finished his puzzle, he made me a sandwich, showed me the guest room, and told me to get out of his hair."

"Funny, considering he doesn't have any." Reflexively, he reached up and brushed a hand through his own hair, still damp from the shower.

Nell caught the gesture. "Worried?"

"My mom's dad died with a full head of hair, so I'm probably okay. Of course, he also had a heart attack at forty, so I guess I should watch my cholesterol."

She swung her legs down from the window seat but didn't stand, leaning back on her palms as she looked at him. Tilting her head, she motioned toward the far shelf where a couple of old tournament trophies were gathering dust. "Your grandpa said this room used to be yours."

"Only for a few months. I lived with him a while during my senior year of high school." He gave the room a quick, impassive study. The furnishings were sparse—a dresser topped with a couple of old knickknacks; a bookshelf; a bed flanked by twin nightstands; a lamp shaped like a flower vase—but everything had been kept tidy and neatly arranged. The trophies had been his sole contribution to the decor. Not much had changed in the past decade, but despite his grandfather's best efforts, the room had never felt like his. Whit had spent more time sneaking out of it than staying in.

"Because of your father?" Nell asked.

"It's a long story." One he had no interest in sharing.

She must have realized it wasn't his favorite topic, because instead of prying more, she pivoted. "You don't mention your mom much."

"She and my dad divorced when I was a teenager. She's currently honeymooning in Scotland."

"Scotland?" Nell gave him a pained look. "You'd better be planning on a phone call, because I am not taking this explanation tour international."

Whit chuckled. "Mom's pretty laid back." He still wasn't quite ready to end the suspense, so he leaned into the doorjamb and cocked his head slightly. "What about you? I think I remember Paige saying your mom passed away."

A brief shadow moved across her eyes. "When I was twelve. Pancreatic cancer."

"I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago."

He doubted that made it hurt less. "That's why your grandmother raised you?" Considering what she'd told him of her grandmother, that had to have been difficult.

"We went to stay with her after Mom died. I wouldn't say she raised us."

"What about your dad?" He knew Paige was an orphan, but Nell had mentioned a father.

"I never saw much of him. He and my mom were only married a year. After she died, he wanted custody… but that would've meant leaving Paige. He didn't have a lot of interest in being a father, anyway. What he really wanted was a payout. The judge let me decide who I wanted to live with."

"And you chose your grandmother. "

"I chose my sister. Paige needed me more than I needed a deadbeat dad."

So her habit of rushing to her sister's defense had started young. She had a thing for playing hero, he'd noticed. And rarely to her own benefit. "What about now? Do you keep in touch?"

"He calls me once or twice a year, usually because he needs money."

Which meant she was an orphan, too, or near enough to it. "Be careful not to tell my grandpa that. He'll try to adopt you. He collects strays."

Nell aimed a pointed look at the foot of the bed, where a suspiciously feline-shaped lump was snoring beneath the faded patchwork quilt. "That explains all the cats."

"These are just the indoor cats." There were four of them, at his last count. But he wouldn't have been surprised if his grandpa had added one or two since his last visit. "You should check out the barn. They've pretty much taken over the place."

She stood, stretching her arms over her head, and then bent to put on her shoes. Those cherry red toenails vanished. "Tempting as that is, we should probably get going."

Whit played innocent. "Going?"

"To my hotel," she said, giving each word a slow emphasis. She tapped her imaginary watch again. "It's been three hours. Time's up, O'Rourke."

"Two hours and fifty-seven minutes, by my clock."

"So I have three minutes left to decide how big I want my private jet?"

"Just how rich do you think I am?" he asked in amusement.

"A lot richer than you're about to be, if you didn't get me my meeting."

"Do I seem nervous?"

Her gaze sharpened. "Are you saying you got it?"

"I'm not saying I didn't."

"I hope you're not expecting me to just take your word for it."

Right on cue, her phone rang .

"You might want to answer that," he said.

Her mouth made a perfect O. Pure shock showed on her face as she fumbled for her phone, but when she answered the call, her voice was calm and professional. Teacher voice, he thought: patient, personable, attentive. She nodded along as she spoke, absently twirling the ends of her ponytail with her free hand. Whit watched her dazed expression with satisfaction, ready to gloat the second she hung up the call.

What he wasn't ready for was her reaction.

It took a moment. The dazed look remained as she slipped her phone into the front pocket of the Blizzards hoodie and wiped her palms on the sides of her jeans. A soft breath whistled out of her. She turned toward him. Whit opened his mouth to make an obnoxious remark.

And then didn't speak.

Her whole face was lit up. She looked like a little kid who'd been given a puppy for Christmas. Like a rookie call-up who'd just hit a walk-off home run. Her smile was wide and radiant. The sheer joy she exuded made him feel like all the air had been sucked out of his chest.

A situation that was in no way improved when she proceeded to throw her arms around him and squeal.

Whit was too stunned to do anything but stand there. He didn't know if the noises she was making contained any actual words, but if they did, he couldn't decipher them. She was nearly vibrating with excitement. She was also bouncing up and down. Literally bouncing up and down, which meant her breasts, currently brushing against him, were bouncing up and down right along with her. She might not have a lot going on in that area, but it was more than enough to redirect his blood flow straight to his groin.

Something that was quickly going to get embarrassing for both of them if he didn't put a stop to it.

He carefully disentangled himself and caught her by the sides of the arms, holding her still. "Something tells me you loathe me just a little bit less right now. "

Her squeals ended in a shaky laugh. "Sorry." She took a couple of steps in retreat, wiping at her eyes. "And thank you. I should've said that first. Thank you. Do I want to ask how you did it?"

He cleared his throat. "I told you I was owed a few favors."

"The perks of celebrity."

"The perks of having celebrity friends, in this case."

It was hard to gloat over someone so grateful. He felt another stab of guilt—especially since it wasn't as though he'd done it out of the kindness of his heart. And he knew, even if she didn't, that she'd been bargaining for a poisoned prize. When she broke into a fresh volley of thank yous, the guilt kicked up a notch.

He tried to ignore it. He wanted to ignore it. He tried to remind himself that she was still Nell , no matter how adorable or delighted she looked. Still the same woman who had taken it upon herself to announce his PEDs usage to the world. Not to mention made that ridiculous dig about his sexual prowess.

But it wasn't easy to remember any of that when she was standing there lit up like a Christmas tree. He'd have to be exactly the asshole she thought he was to see the hope shining in her eyes and not feel a pang of misgiving.

Whit sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. "I need to say something. I'm probably going to regret it, but I need to say it. I'm not sure this meeting is going to work out the way you imagine it."

"I'm not going to mess up my chance, believe me."

"I just think you should manage your expectations. Grantham isn't exactly going to be open to what you have to say."

That brought her down to earth a little. "Meaning I shouldn't tell him to go… you know."

"That would be a good starting point."

A faint wrinkle appeared on her brow. "If you don't think I know how to play nice, why did you just coerce me into spending a week as your arm prop?"

"Bribed you into spending a week as my arm prop," he corrected. "And you're more like cannon fodder. If someone gets too irritating, I'm planning on hurling you at them and running away. "

"Brave of you."

He shrugged.

"I can behave myself if I have to," she said. "I spent six years getting good manners drilled into me by the high queen of cosmetics, remember?"

"Good manners will get you in the door. They're not gonna get you your job back."

"I've done my research on Grantham."

"Yeah, and like I said, I've met him. He's a dick."

"So you don't think I can handle him?" When a snicker escaped him, she stuck her hands on her hips. "Why are you laughing?"

"I'm trying to decide if you'll get angrier at me for saying you can handle a dick or saying you can't."

Just like that, her sunbeam smile turned into a glare.

"Hey, you said it, not me." He moved forward and swiped his car keys from where she'd left them on the window seat. "I just thought I should warn you. Anyway, I hope you made a list."

"A list?"

He dangled the keys in front of her face. "I won the bet, Miss McLean. It's time to go shopping."