Back in the Game: A Stardust, Texas Novel (25 page)

“Hey,” she said, marveling at the opportunity he’d just dropped into her lap. “If you want, I can feed and walk Nolan Ryan while you’re gone.”

CHAPTER
18

Being with a woman all night never hurt no

professional baseball player. It’s staying up all night looking for a woman that does him in.

—
C
ASEY
S
TENGEL

The scene was set.

A bottle of sparkling wine chilled in a silver bucket on the bedside table. Two wine glasses, a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries, and a box of condoms sat beside it. And she had a seductive playlist loaded in the mp3 player, LL Cool J currently crooned “Doin’ It.” Two scented candles—one vanilla, one cinnamon—flickered and danced on the dresser on the other side of the oversized, totally masculine bedroom. A black and gray comforter topped the king-sized bed and on the wooden spindles of the headboard, she’d tied the cheetah scarf.

She took off her glasses and studied herself in the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door, both shocked and pleased by the vixen she spied there decked out in Victoria’s Secret. Suki had done her makeup for her and while her sister had been heavy-handed with the eyeliner and mascara, Breeanne couldn’t believe the transformation, with the paint and spackle she could actually pass for pretty. Suki had been after her for years to use more makeup and she wished she’d listened.

What would Rowdy think when he saw her?

Chill bumps raced up her arms and she couldn’t stop imagining the slow grin that would slide across his face. Soon she would be one hundred percent a woman. But she was ready to go and there was no one to do it with.

Her gaze shifted to the clock. Seven-fifteen.

That was the only fly in the ointment of her grand seduction. Rowdy had said he’d be home on Saturday evening, but he hadn’t been specific as to the exact time. She’d finished arranging everything at six-thirty and now she felt at loose ends.

She paced the bedroom, hummed along to Sade singing “By Your Side.” Was the song too romantic? She didn’t want Rowdy getting the wrong idea and thinking that she expected anything more from him than just sex, because she didn’t. Well, that was a lie. She did. But she knew better than to wish for that. She’d take what she could get. Sex was plenty. It would be enough.

Oh God, was she making a huge mistake? Should she bag up all this stuff and get out of here while she could?

Snap out of it.

Running away wasn’t going to get her anywhere. She craved excitement, adventure, and a life like every other single woman her age.

Should she text him? Ask when he was coming home, but then he might ask why she wanted to know. She needed something to calm her down. Walk Nolan Ryan again? Get dressed and get sweaty? The wrong kind of sweaty. Then she would have to shower and risk ruining her makeup and what if Rowdy came home when she was in the middle of it?

What she really needed was something to chill her out.

Her gaze fell on the wine bucket. Surely, he wouldn’t mind if she opened it without him. She was probably supposed to be letting it breathe anyway, but she didn’t know the first thing about wine. Truthfully, she hardly drank. She had a sip or two of champagne for New Year’s and celebrations, but her old heart medications hadn’t mixed with alcohol and she hadn’t had a chance to experiment since going off them.

A couple of sips of wine might be the ticket to calm her jangled nerves.

This was her first time opening a bottle of bubbly and she wasn’t sure how to go about it. In movies champagne corks were always going wild and shooting around the room, ricocheting off stuff. The last thing she wanted was to put her own eye out.

Forget the wine. Let Rowdy handle it when he gets here.

She couldn’t remember a single old movie where the woman opened a bottle of her own seduction champagne or sparkling wine.

Right. She perched on the edge of the bed. Watched the number on the digital clock flip. Seven thirty-five. Seven thirty-six.

She shivered again, this time from cold. She’d tried to turn the temperature up a tad, but he had one of those complicated modern thermostats she couldn’t figure out, downside of growing up, and working, in old buildings.

Wine might warm you up.

She picked up the bottle of Prosecco. The guy at the liquor store had said with a leer, “Good wine to get jiggy wid it,” when she’d asked his recommendation for what wine best paired with a romantic evening, leaving her to wonder if she did indeed want to get “jiggy wid it,” whatever he meant by that.

“You know how to open that?” he had asked, ringing her up.

“Yes,” she’d lied.

Caterpillar eyebrows climbed up his short forehead an uh-sure-you-do expression.

As she was walking out the door, he hollered, “Don’t put your eye out with that.”

She wished Rowdy would get her so they could get “jiggy wid it” together. She picked up the wine, ice water sluicing off it, to drop on her bare toes. She shivered again. Things were starting to unravel.

Soldier on.

Breeanne studied the bottle. Opening it seemed pretty clear-cut, but she didn’t want to make a mistake, so she Googled “how to open a bottle of champagne.”

Google took her to an article on WikiHow, and yes, uncorking champagne—aka sparkling wine when it wasn’t from Champagne, France—was as straightforward as it looked. But the article did come with the dire warning:
Don’t put your eye out.
Causing her to wonder exactly how many people had put out an eye with a champagne cork?

Gingerly, she followed the directions in the Web site article, and was rewarded with a soft, gentle pop. The cork landed elegantly in the middle of the comforter. Would you look at that? She was no longer a virgin at opening champagne bottles. Hopefully, her next virginity-busting move would be equally as satisfying.

Except it was eight o’clock and Rowdy still wasn’t home.

What if he’d changed his mind and decided to stay in Dallas? What if he and Zach had made contact and were bonding with a night on the town? What if he’d hooked up with a woman?

What if, what if, what if.

To keep from wigging out completely, she poured a glass of the Prosecco, and took a sip. The bubbles tickled her nose. The lightly, sweet, fruity taste reminded her of the Moonglow pears that grew on the backyard trees at Timeless Treasures.

Idly, Breeanne picked up a chocolate-covered strawberry. By eight-thirty, she’d eaten three chocolate-covered strawberries, drank the glass of Prosecco, and poured another. “I Threw a Seduction and Nobody Came,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “That’ll be the name of my autobiography.”

Not that anyone would publish her autobiography because she hadn’t done a damn thing with her life except not die.

“Ha,” she said, and raised the glass of sparkling wine to her reflection. “Take that, birth mom. I didn’t die.
Ppptttt
.”

She hiccupped, pasted a palm against her mouth. “Oops.”

Narrowing her eyes, she glared at her reflection. “What’s that? I need to get past not dying and start living? Well, I gave it a shot and you see how this is turning out.” She flung her arm wide and wine sloshed from her glass, splattered the rug.

Oh crap. At least it wasn’t red wine.

Headlights cut across the window, the sound of a vehicle engine motoring up the drive.

Rowdy! He was here! He was here!

What to do? What to do?

Okay, okay, she could handle this. She wrung her hands and her pulse took off like she was running the Kentucky Derby in high heels. She downed the remaining Prosecco, parked the glass beside the ice bucket, rearranged the remaining strawberries so they didn’t look so sparse, dove onto the bed, and struck what she hoped was a sexy, come-hither pose.

That’s when she glanced down and saw a big blob of chocolate had fallen off the strawberry, fallen the middle of her bustier and started melting.

Seriously? You gotta be freakin’ kidding me!

Rowdy couldn’t
wait to get home, see Nolan Ryan, and slide into his own bed.

In Dallas, he’d called Zach repeatedly and kept getting his voice mail. He called the three guys on the team who were still talking to him, a lot of them were still mad that he’d staged the walkout, and one of them told him where Zach was living. He’d driven to the condo and spent the night in his car, but his brother had never shown up. On Saturday, he’d hooked up with old friends who told him tales of Zach’s wild partying behavior. The friends insisted on taking him to dinner, but the entire time he kept sneaking glances at his watch, anxious to get back to Stardust.

When had he become such a homebody? Before he was sidelined, on the nights he wasn’t working, he was either out on the town or throwing parties. Now, that lifestyle held the shine of an old boot.

Instead, he wanted to hang out with Breeanne and talk baseball for hours and cook her spaghetti carbonara.

And that scared him. A lot. He didn’t know who this new Rowdy was. Or what world he fit in.

He pulled into the driveway and spied Breeanne’s Sentra. A helpless smile spread across his face. She was here checking on Nolan Ryan.

He hurried into the house, eager to see her and tell her what had transpired in Dallas, but the house was dark and quiet. Nolan Ryan greeted him at the door. He flicked on the light, and squatted to hug his dog.

And heard the distant sound of music drifting down from upstairs. Curious as to what Breeanne was up to, he followed the music to his bedroom.

The door was open a crack.

He smelled vanilla and cinnamon, identified the song. “Between the Sheets” by the Isley Brothers. A strange feeling grabbed hold of him. One part anticipation, one part dread, one part . . . What
was
that other part?

He toed the door open wider.

Candles flickered shadows on the wall, illuminating Breeanne in a soft glow as she lay stretched out across his bed, elbow bent, propped up her left side, palm cradling her cheek. A bottle of sparkling wine was open with two glasses sitting beside it. One of the glasses had a quarter inch of wine in the bottom.

Her sexily tousled hair tumbled about her shoulders. Her slim right arm rested down the curve of her hip. She would look as adorable as a basket of calico kittens if it were not for what she was wearing.

A tight black bustier tucked her in and pushed her up, amplified her meager cleavage. A tiny triangle of cheetah panties invited him to stare at the sweet V of her thighs. A lace cheetah garter belt held up black fishnet stockings, and call-girl-high cheetah peep-toe stilettos clad her feet.

Holy Frederick’s of Hollywood
.

Someone must have given her makeup techniques because she’d taken off her glasses and mastered the smoky-eyed look of a French cabaret singer. “La Vie en Rose” replaced the Isley Brothers on the playlist. The sight of her shiny red lips filled his mouth with the taste of candied apple and sent molten steel shooting straight to his dick.

Va-va-va-voom-vamp-vixen.

She flicked out the tip of her pink wet tongue and slowly licked her lips.

His pulse slammed in his windpipe. His chest ached. His legs quivered. The room shrank. Walls closed in. Ceiling dropped. Floor lifted.

Aw shit, aw damn, aw hell.

“I need you,” she whispered.

His head buzzed. The hairs on his arms stood up. His nerve endings burned electric, pitching hot tingles up and down his body. It was all he could do not to crawl right up on that bed with her and do what both Breeanne and nature were begging him to do.

Don’t!

She was a virgin, and while she might not believe it, he was the last thing she needed.

“What you need,” he drawled, calling on every ounce of willpower he possessed, “is a cold shower.”

A flash of uncertainty crossed her face, but her smile hardened in place and she patted the quilt beside her. “Let’s get dirty first, then we can take one together.”

“As invitin’ as that offer is, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to decline.”

Her bottom lip trembled slightly, that plucky smile losing its starch. “You’re not attracted to me?”

Rowdy stepped over to the dresser, picked up the baseball sitting there. The first baseball he’d ever thrown in a major league game tossed it into the air, snagged it, tossed it again, higher this time, stepped forward, and caught it behind his back.

“I know I’m not all that pretty, but I thought this getup would help.” She sat up, swept a hand at her outfit while at the same time grabbing for one of the king-sized pillows to hold in front of her.

“Are you nuts? You’re gorgeous.” He kept tossing the ball, catching it, concentrating hard to keep from saying, “Screw it all,” and sweeping her into his arms.

“I am?”

“Not in an obvious way, but dammit, Breezy, from the moment I saw you across Irene Henderson’s lawn, I wanted you.”

Her throat moved as she gulped. She was hugging the pillow, knees to her chest, and unwittingly giving him a luscious view of the section of sweet flesh where her upper thigh melded into her butt cheek.

“Really?” she whispered.

“Hell’s bells, woman, can’t you see what you do to me?” He glanced down.

Her gaze tracked below his waist, and underneath the overdone makeup, he could see her blush.

“I can’t stop thinking about you. The smell of you is all over my house,” he said. “Every time I turn a corner I get a whiff of springtime, fresh and green, mixed with the scent of old books. A sweet, woodsy library smell that makes me want to read. I go around the house sniffing things you’ve touched.”

“You do?”

“When we’re working, I steal sideways glances to keep from outright ogling and when you’re not around . . .”

Her lips parted, and in a husky, Marilyn Monroe whisper, she said, “What?”