Sliding Home Read online

  It’s what I did. I counted. I guesstimated. And I was usually right.

  But what I hadn’t counted on was that our host’s too-cute daughter would walk tentatively in my direction. Though she tried to hide it, she was sweating—and not from the heat. Her fingers twisted together until she stilled them into fists at her side. And then, clearly on impulse, she grabbed a cold beer from her father, popped the top, and chugged back half the can.

  Clearly the woman had lost a bet with her sister, who was watching with gleeful excitement from the sidelines. Well, it was gleeful…until I caught her gaze and she gave me a death stare. It was a warning: play nice or else.

  Which, naturally, made me lean back in my seat and decide that I’d rather play dirty.

  I looked back at the shy sister. She was cute in the way of all small-town girls. Strawberry-blond hair cut short and sassy; a loose tee that showed intriguing curves, but wasn’t tight enough to upset Mom and Dad. Her denim shorts were very short, softly cupping what I call an irresistible heart-shaped ass. And best of all? She was looking at me with a hint of daring that had little me perking up with interest.

  Down boy! I ordered sternly. It wasn’t cool to mess with my host’s daughter. Not when I was the inner-city kid hanging out for the afternoon in the suburbs. And it was doubly uncool to play with a girl wandering over to the wild side on a dare. Just because my dark side loved breaking a good girl, that didn’t mean I was going to let it out. And certainly not with Connor’s delectable cousin.

  Besides, just last week, I’d had another conversation with team owner Joe Deluce about how my playboy ways could damage the team image. So naturally, I was on my best behavior.

  Meanwhile, Miss Temptation Incarnate started out in the usual way. “Everybody get enough to eat? I’m sure there’s more potato salad in the kitchen. I can—”

  She was interrupted by a chorus of denials. Mrs. McDonald’s food was top-notch, but nothing beat watching a sweet girl come on to a player. Everybody would be kind to her, but tomorrow, I’d be ribbed mercilessly in the locker room.

  Meanwhile, Connor straightened up in his seat and tried to distract his cousin. “Hey, Ellie, how’s work at the hospital? Kill any patients yet?”

  It was only good-natured teasing, but Ellie flinched. At her reaction, Connor turned a sickly shade of puce. Fortunately, the girl had spunk. She pulled it together quickly and shrugged. “Not yet, but it’s early days.”

  Everyone chuckled, but Connor still looked as if he’d kicked a puppy. “What happened?” he asked.

  Ellie’s sister answered, her voice as loud as her nail polish and equally abrupt. “Wrong meds. Doctor’s fault. Long story. Hey Connor, would you mind helping me and Dad bring up another case of beer from the basement?”

  Mr. McDonald looked around in confusion. “Nobody wanted any more beer, honey,” he argued, but she cut him off.

  “Yeah, but that was so long ago.” She drained her can for emphasis. “Besides, Mom wants to move the couch and we can’t do that alone.” She tugged on Connor’s arm. “Come on, coz. I need your help.”

  Connor obviously wasn’t fooled, and the girl sure as hell couldn’t lift him if he didn’t want to go. But what could the guy do, sit there and refuse to help? He wasn’t stupid. He knew girls came on to me all the time, so he shot me a hands-off message before he heaved his muscular bulk out of the lawn chair. And then he swept his gaze across the rest of the team, telling us all, without words, that we were supposed to behave.

  That was Connor: the team killjoy. The one who always thought five steps ahead when the rest of us were thinking with our dicks. It was annoying as hell, but he was also the voice of quiet confidence that was as much a backbone of the Bobcats as the coach and the support staff. We wouldn’t be a winning ball club without him.

  I nodded to show that I’d gotten the message. Then he turned to his uncle with a sigh.

  “Come on, Uncle Bob,” he muttered. “Show me what needs lifting.”

  “Great!” Rachel chirped as she put her arms around the men in her family. “Hurry up, Daddy. We’ll get it done in no time.” They followed along, but not before she shot her sister a Significant Look. Ellie, on the other hand, rolled her eyes in the way that all younger siblings do, and I liked her even better for it.

  We all watched Rachel drag her father and cousin away, waiting patiently to see what would happen once the McDonald menfolk were gone. Of course, I was busy coming up with percentages to possible what-comes-next scenarios.

  There was a 9 percent chance Ellie would drop into a lap dance on my knees. She was too good a girl to actually make it to my lap.

  And a 47 percent chance she would stammer something about how great I played, and how she’d been following me since my AA days with the Indigos.

  A 21 percent chance she’d chew me out for dating and dropping one of her best friends. No, make that 28 percent. Even though I steered clear of the wholesome type, every single wild child had a friend like Ellie. Given the amount of heat climbing up Ellie’s neck, the odds were getting stronger that I was about to get a tongue-lashing, and not the fun kind.

  And there was a 10 percent chance she’d just stammer out something incoherent and bail.

  Which left 6 percent for miscellaneous charity things. She probably knew somebody with a sick kid who was dying to meet me or something. This possibility had been in the 98 percent chance category until Rachel dragged her father and cousin away. No one dispensed with the menfolk only to ask a favor for a sick neighbor. Unless the favor was scandalous? A striptease for a lecherous old lady?

  I was still amusing myself with the possibilities when Ellie came to stand in front of me. She had to clear her throat twice and her hands were clenched like a prizefighter’s, but she spoke clearly enough. Of course, two sentences in, I knew that all my guesstimates were shit.

  “Okay,” she said as she took a few short, quick breaths. “I hate doing this with an audience, but my sister insisted.”

  I quirked my lips. “Lose a bet to her?”

  “What? No. Why would you think that?”

  Strike one. “Uh…I just had a hunch.”

  “Oh. Well, it was wrong.”

  I nodded. What else could I do?

  “I know this is weird, but I’d like to go out with you.”

  My teammates chuckled and nudged me, acting like adolescent boys. I glared at them and put on my best choirboy smile. “You know, it’s always fun to talk to a fan. Especially one who has been following me since the Indigos.” I figured there’d be a 100 percent chance her next words would be “How did you know?” delivered with an awed gasp.

  “The what?” she asked.

  I frowned. She was moving off script. “My AA team. I was called up—”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. I didn’t even start following baseball until Connor was picked up by the Bobcats.”

  Strike two. “So, you’re not a fan.”

  She flushed a pretty pink. “Of course I am. Go Bobcats!”

  Wow, she was really bad at that. But I was apparently worse at figuring out what she was doing. So I buttoned my lip and decided to wait. But I couldn’t stop my brain from its calculations. I figured there was a 40 percent chance that she really wanted this date, and a 60 percent possibility that she didn’t, but wanted to chew me out regarding whatever friend of hers I’d hurt. She didn’t seem like the kind of girl to be looking for revenge, but hey, I’d already misjudged her. Maybe her embarrassed flush was righteous indignation.

  “Um, right,” she said, and her neck turned a darker pink. “So here’s the deal. I, um, I’d like to go out with you, but, um, I’ve got some rules.”

  “Rules?” I echoed. “You mean like no whips for the first hour?” My teammates chuckled because, you know, adolescent boys and all. But I forced my expression to soften. “Ellie, just spit it out. What do you want?”

  She lifted her chin. “A real date. I’d like you to take me out to an expensive restaurant, where we can
talk about our lives over steaks and decadent desserts. Then you could drop me off at home, holding my hand if you’d like, but going without a good-night kiss. A classic ’50s date.”

  “You planning to wear a poodle skirt?” I asked, busy envisioning myself bending her over, lifting the poufy back, and…

  Her smile turned into a smirk. “No poodle skirt. Just my chastity belt.”

  Okay, there was something strange going on. I could see it, in the raise of her eyebrow and the sideway jut of her hip. She was daring me to say no. But the tenseness in her lower lip told me that she was bracing for it, too. WTF? I couldn’t help myself—I decided to probe a little deeper.

  “You know Connor will gut me if I mess with his cousin.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Connor still remembers me in pigtails and pink ruffles.”

  I took in a few more details of her appearance. No ruffles, but her tee was a soft pink that matched her shimmery pink fingernails. I must have taken too long a look, because her body stiffened and her pulse leaped in her throat.

  “God, just say no already. Then I can get back to my regular life.”

  This was getting curiouser and curiouser. “Are you asking me to say no, or asking me out on a date?”

  Now she was even more uptight. “I know I’m not your usual type.”

  True that. She was the complete opposite of the bold, fast fuck I usually enjoyed.

  “And with my rules, I’m nothing like the kind of girls you usually date.”

  The guys snorted at that, and now I was the one feeling indignant. “I’ve gone on normal dates before.” Just not since the AAs.

  “I’ll even help you out,” she said. “Pick an answer: A—Connor would kick your ass if you dared get me alone for an intimate dinner.”

  I snorted. “Connor could try.”

  “How about B, then? You’ve got to train or have an early curfew tomorrow.”

  “Nah. Just the game, but we should be done by six.”

  “Okay then, what about C? You’ve got an appointment with a different lovely lady.”

  “Just how many ways have you imagined me rejecting you?”

  Her eyes narrowed, but her cheeks pinkened. I could tell she’d run through this scenario hundreds of times in her head.

  “Okay, then there’s D. You’re just not into me.”

  That wasn’t true. I’d been into her from the moment she’d walked into the backyard carrying a fruit salad. She’d hugged her mother and kissed her father’s cheek while her freckles fought with her dimples for most adorable feature on her face. There’d been absolutely nothing sexual about her, just an overall sweetness, and I had been hit by a wave of lust that nearly ripped through my jeans.

  The thing is, she was exactly my type, which is why I didn’t date girls like her. Sweet, wholesome girls usually started asking about meeting my crappy family by date three, and I just wasn’t going there—with anyone. It was much better to have my fun with someone who didn’t count on a morning after.

  The problem was that Ellie clearly expected me to let her down, and I just wasn’t that kind of guy. There was some stupid genetic thing going on in my firefighter family that made us all want to be heroes. We did our best to save the day in the worst way…which meant I had a nearly pathological desire to make good girls happy. I could no more turn Ellie down than I could let her burn to death in a fire. And that’s why I usually avoided good girls. And why I shouldn’t have come to this family barbecue, even though the entire team was here.

  “Then we’re down to E. You’ve been struck dumb with shock.”

  Not shock. I was just trying to strangle my better nature. But it wouldn’t be silenced and suddenly, I was answering her in the worst possible way.

  “Seven,” I rasped.

  She looked startled. “What?”

  “Seven. As in, I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven. Will you be here or do you have your own place?”

  She glanced around her parents’ backyard, obviously stunned. And then she stammered out her answer.

  “I, uh, I live in Indianapolis. I’m just visiting for the barbecue.”

  “So here, then.”

  “B-but you don’t have—”

  “Seven. And no good-night kiss.” Because if I kept my hands to myself, maybe I’d manage to get through it. And maybe she’d be disillusioned enough to walk way, not expecting anything more.

  Ha! Unfortunately, that was the one thing good girls always expected: more. Too bad I didn’t have anything to give.

  Chapter Three

  Ellie

  “He wasn’t supposed to say yes!” I complained to my sister for the thousandth time. “So no, I didn’t bring a dress.”

  “Wear this.” She grabbed a gown and pushed it at me. We were at her apartment in the city, in a swanky loft that was too hot in the summer but allowed my sister to have racks of clothes all along the brick wall. She held up the miles of fabric and all I saw were dark red sequins and a plunging neckline.

  “I can’t wear that.”

  “So let’s go shopping.”

  “I can’t afford that.”

  My sister huffed out a breath. “They’re on the seventh-inning stretch.” She gestured at the radio, which was giving a swing-by-swing commentary. Although right now, it was playing an advertisement for truck covers. “You’ve got to wear something nice. He’s coming in a limo.”

  “He’s what?” I gasped, and then Rachel flushed bright pink.

  “I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.” Then she shrugged. “You told him you wanted an old-fashioned date, right? For him to pick you up at the house, then take you out to a fancy dinner.”

  “I didn’t say anything about a limo,” I cried. I’d never been in a limo in my life. Not even for prom.

  “Well, maybe he won’t. I mean, just because I overheard Connor telling him he better pull out all the stops for you…”

  “Oh my God.” I already had two older brothers. I did not need an older, overprotective cousin, too.

  “Which brings us back to the question of what you’re going to wear.” She tried to shove the sequined sheath at me again and I batted it away.

  “Why do you have a ball gown, anyway?”

  “Because I’m a radio personality. I never know where I’m going to be sent. I’ve been to balls, political parties, fundraisers—all kinds of stuff.” Then she winked. “Besides, I got it cheap from a cross-dresser I know who’s decided to hang up his sparkles and settle down. He’s getting married and there’s a baby on the way.”

  I blinked. “You know the most interesting people.” The only ones I knew were sick, struggling with diabetes or heart disease or some other potentially devastating illness. Sure they had interesting lives, but none that involved sparkly gowns. At least, not when I saw them.

  “And now you’re going to get to know Jake Armstrong.” She spun me around and tugged at my T-shirt. “Strip. You don’t have much time.”

  “I’m not wearing that.” I started to flip through the dresses on the nearest rack. There was no organization, of course. Dresses hung next to sweatpants, next to assorted belts and scarves. I held up a pink paisley cravat and arched my brow. “Do I want to ask?”

  “Halloween. I went as a dominatrix. Pink tie in one hand, bullwhip in the other.”

  I tried to picture it. Thing is, I could. Rachel loved to dress up in all sorts of wild clothing. Me, I just wanted leggings and an oversize tee. When I wasn’t wearing scrubs, that is.

  I dropped the tie and searched for anything of hers I could wear. I finally came up with a simple black sheath. That would work, right? It was formal, could be classed up with my simple gold hoop earrings, and the neckline barely plunged at all.

  It was perfect.

  “Aw, come on,” Rachel whined. “You’re going out with the hottest baseball player in the major leagues. He’s bringing a limo. Live it up, will you? How about this?” She held up a short, flirty dress made of gold lamé.

  I r
olled my eyes and headed for the shower with her black dress.

  She responded by grabbing a pair of three-inch gold stilettos. “You can’t wear sneakers with that dress, sissy,” she taunted. “Thank God we’re nearly the same size.”

  Same size, yes. But we had completely different proportions. Rachel was two inches taller and statuesque. I was two inches bustier and had hips that could make a fortune in the roller derby. Especially since I spent my spare time trying out recipes I’d seen on TV. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and so I showered and dressed as fast as I could, only to mourn the view in the mirror.

  “I’ve gotten fatter,” I said. I glanced at my sister. “I’ve been trying out dessert challenges from this website I like.”

  My sister blew out a whistle. “You’ve gotten curvier and you look hot. Now tell me all about these desserts while I do your makeup.”

  “Not a chance in hell.” She’d have me looking like a runway model for…whatever über-dramatic fashion designer was in vogue right now. Was it sad that I couldn’t even think of one? “What other dresses have you got?”

  “None. You’re wearing that. Now let’s talk accessories.”

  An hour later, we were fighting traffic to get back to my parents’ house where Mom and Dad were trying not to be obvious with their cameras. I felt like I was going to the prom again, and damn if it wasn’t a little bit exciting. And exasperating. I mean, I was a grown woman, right? Why would I be sitting in my parents’ living room wondering if I remembered how to walk in stilettos? And yet here I was, and my heart was thumping triple time in my throat. I settled myself by mentally listing all the ways a good ER nurse could calm a panicked patient down.

  I’d just managed to do it, too, when my mom let out an excited squeal.