Текст книги "Long Shot"

Автор книги: Hanna Martine

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

The number on the screen was unrecognizable, but it was an area code she knew to be upstate New York.

“This is Jen Haverhurst.”

“Jen, hi, my name is Ann Wagner. I’m director of the Finger Lakes Tourism Bureau. I’m looking for assistance in setting up incentive packages in my area. I’m told this is an area of expertise for you?”

Suddenly Jen felt light as air, her sandals barely touching the concrete. “It is, and I’d love to talk to you about it.”

Ann exhaled. “Fantastic!”

“May I ask how you got my name? My business cards aren’t even printed yet.”

“Oh. Sue McCurdy told me about you.”

Jen stopped walking, right there in the middle of the crowded New York sidewalk. Someone crashed into her from the back and glared at her, and she shuffled off to stand in front of the window of a Greek restaurant. “Wait. Sue McCurdy. As in Mayor Sue?”

“I can’t believe she wants people to call her that, but that’s Sue for you.” Ann chuckled. “She and I were roommates at Syracuse way back when. She called me specifically to give me your name.”

Jen slapped a hand over a blue-and-white-striped flag painted on the glass, in order to keep herself upright in the face of shock.

“She said you did a bang-up job up in Gleann for her Highland Games,” Ann went on, “and that I couldn’t go wrong in hiring you.”

Chapter

26

While Gleann had the benefit of the northern New Hampshire mountains, an atmosphere that lent itself more to Scotland, at least the Connecticut Highland Games, held in a small town northeast of Stamford, didn’t have a giant glass box of an abandoned corporation looming over it. These smallish games, where Jen had secretly confirmed Leith was throwing, were set in a beautiful park surrounded by thick stands of trees and pockets of shade and shadow. A building of pale stone overlooked the circle where pipe bands marched in to their competition. Little girls dressed in tartan and velvet, their hair pulled tightly back, giggled and stretched, preparing for their competition. The blare of perfectly timed drums and pipes sailed toward the athletics field, and it was there Jen headed.

Unsure of how Leith would take her sudden appearance, she timed her arrival toward the end of the athletics competition in the afternoon, desperately wanting to see him throw but also not wanting to distract him. After all, he’d thrown after she’d left Gleann, and apparently her absence had changed quite a bit in him.

The day was ridiculously hot, and people huddled under portable canopies and umbrellas as they cheered on the ten or so men and one woman, all kilted up, on the athletics field.

Still a good distance away, Jen immediately picked out Leith. He’d cut off the sleeves to his T-shirt, and the navy blue thing with the white X on the front to symbolize the Scottish flag was nearly soaked through. He wore his father’s kilt and one of his giant smiles. The kind that lit up his whole body and enveloped anyone near him. God, she’d missed him.

“And now,” the announcer said, his tinny old man’s voice sputtering through the bad speakers, “the final round of weight for height.” Applause circled the towers holding the crossbar. “Competitors are Duncan Ferguson and Leith MacDougall.”

Jen grew excited. She’d arrived just in time.

Leith gave a respectable nod to the audience, but Duncan lifted both meaty arms and turned in a circle, mouth opened in a roar, begging the audience to give it up for him. They did, too. Leith just shook his grin at the ground, sweaty, shaggy hair plastering itself to his cheeks and neck. He pushed it off his face and went over to the towers and bar.

A few more onlookers straggled over to watch this event, and Jen found a place in the shade of a big tree, behind an older couple holding hands in their lawn chairs—just out of sight, should Leith happen to look up.

He didn’t, though. An intense look of concentration masked his face as he went over to the weight—a great black orb with a thick ring attached to its top—lying tilted in the grass between the towers. She’d once picked up that same kind of weight in the MacDougall garage, and had nearly toppled over under its fifty-six pounds. She remembered how Leith had laughed with her, but Mr. MacDougall had thrown out some words of encouragement, wanting her to try the women’s twenty-eight pounder instead. She’d politely declined.

“The bar is at fifteen feet,” said the announcer. “Each thrower gets three attempts to get it over using any style necessary, as long as they use only one hand. The weight touching the bar doesn’t matter, as long as it ends up on the other side. First to throw: Leith MacDougall. A fine Scottish lad.”

Leith pointed at the announcer, grinning, then positioned himself under the bar, looking up several times to get his placement just right. Giving his back to the tower, planting his feet wide, tugging the bottom of his kilt up and over his knees, he reached down and wrapped one big hand around the ring of the weight. Any semblance of a grin died. His lips rolled inward with concentration.

Knees bent, torso forward, the great muscles in his gripping arm flexed, the ligaments popping out. She watched his neck and face flush. With a heave he pulled the weight from the ground, sending his body rocking, the weight sailing once between his legs, once along the side of his body, and a third time back between his legs. When the weight came forward, he pushed his legs to straighten, let out a shout of effort, and launched the weight high up into the air.

The hefty thing sailed upward, looking way too big and bulky to get anywhere near fifteen feet. Leith stepped away, whipped around . . . and watched, teeth clenched, as the curve of the ball hit the bar, then rolled over the back side to land with a thunk in the grass.

The crowd cheered, no one louder than Jen. Leith slapped his hands together once and then acknowledged the audience. Jen ducked behind the old couple in the off chance he’d see her, but he turned to Duncan, who was showing him a jovial double thumbs-down.

Duncan gave his competitor a hearty clap on the back, then assumed his own position under the bar. He used a little different method to throwing this event—a full-body pivot and spin, more like a classic shot put throw. To Jen, he didn’t seem as graceful as Leith, being shorter and bulkier around the middle. Leith was more streamlined, a little more top-heavy, and at least five inches taller.

Duncan made fifteen feet, but missed sixteen all three times.

Leith got sixteen on the second attempt, and the crowd erupted. Duncan stood off to the side, shaking his head but grinning. When the cheering died down, Jen distinctly heard Duncan say, “Good to have you back.”

She read Leith’s lips: “Good to be back.”

“And the Scottish lad wins the weight for height!” chimed the announcer to a terrific amount of applause, even though it was apparent Duncan had been the overall crowd favorite.

Leith took a seat on a stool and grabbed a water bottle, pouring some down his throat, then squirting a healthy dose over his head and on the back of his neck. It took all of Jen’s strength not to go to him. Another competitor went over to talk to Leith. The other guy was older, clearly strong but in a softer, less defined way. It looked like he was asking Leith for advice on the weight, because Leith was showing the man a grip and gesturing to his back and legs.

This was how Leith had been his whole life. Giving. Accommodating. Generous sometimes to the point of forgoing what he wanted. When he’d revealed the bit of resentment he held for his father and for Gleann, it had shocked her at first, but now she understood. It was okay for someone like him to feel that.

“Next and final event, the heavy hammer,” the announcer said. “And looking at the score sheets, ladies and gentlemen, this event will determine the overall winner of the heavy athletic events here in Connecticut. Duncan Ferguson and Leith MacDougall vying for first place, Duncan with the slight edge. It is my understanding that Duncan won the Gleann games a few weeks ago, so MacDougall might have a score to settle here.”

Leith and the older man looking for advice went over to the edge of the field and grabbed a foldable set of chain-link fence, like what you’d see behind home plate in Little League games. They set it up behind a log painted white that they were using as the trig. Duncan brought over the hammer—a large ball on the end of a long bar weighing twenty-two pounds—and set it by the trig.

The scene was so much like Gleann, with the cook smoke drifting through the air, the kids’ area off to the side where the little ones were trying to throw minicabers, the same bagpipe song played over and over again with varying degrees of talent. And Leith, out in the athletic field, looking every bit at home as he did in his truck or . . . lying next to her. Or on top of her.

She wanted that back. She needed that back.

On the field, as though her desire had formed a whip and lashed out from her body, Leith looked up from where he was toeing the dirt behind the trig. It wasn’t like his gaze had been wandering around the crowd and then he did a double take when his eyes mistakenly landed on her. No; he raised his head, his stare making a burning line across the grass, and found her instantly.

Jen startled, pushing away from the tree, her arms falling to her sides. Her first thought sent her back in time and space to how she might have acted in seventh grade when the boy she crushed on looked her way. For a moment, she considered ducking low and crawling away. But he’d seen her, recognized her, knew she was there—there was no denying it now. And really, she’d come here to talk to him anyway.

Leith froze and just stared. Then, shaking himself out of it, he excused himself from the other competitors and stalked toward her, kilt flapping about his legs, those powerful arms swinging. A few onlookers watched him pass, skittering out of his way as though he might mow them down.

Jen took a deep breath and left the shade of the tree, meeting him on the border of the field.

She smiled at him, because he was just too beautiful and it made her heart swell with equal parts pleasure and hurt. His eyes, however, were far too wide with confusion and, yes, a little anger. For showing up? For not calling first? She couldn’t guess, but it actually made what she’d come here to do a little easier. She’d prepared for his doubt, and if there was one thing Jen Haverhurst excelled at, it was planning.

“Hi.” His twinge of anger morphed into wonder and surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, suddenly feeling the ninety-degree heat in triplicate. “I didn’t mean for you to see me until after you’d thrown. I didn’t want to distract you.”

He ran a hand through his wet hair and swept a gaze around the grounds. “I should’ve known word would get out. Aimee?”

Jen nodded. She almost said, “I wish you’d told me you’d thrown in Gleann,” but then realized that would have been the worst thing, considering how they’d parted. Instead she said, “When I heard you were throwing this close to New York, I had to come.”

His eyebrows made a V. “What happened to London?”

That fed her a little more confidence. “That’s one of the reasons why I came. I have a lot to tell you, a lot to say. Will you meet me tonight? After this is over?”

His face said that he was being cautious because she’d disappointed him twice before.

No more. I won’t disappoint you anymore, she longed to say right then and there, but knew he wouldn’t buy it. She needed him to meet her later.

“It won’t take long,” she added hurriedly, “if you have plans with the guys or something.”

He rotated each arm, signaling that his mind was divided between her and why he was here on this field. “We were all going to grab a beer in town later.”

“Please. A few minutes, is all.”

He considered her for more seconds than she thought herself capable of withstanding. “All right,” he finally replied, and she exhaled. Then she gave him the address of where she wanted him to come.

He started to walk away and she got scared over his indifference. Then he stopped and turned back around. “The heavy hammer’s not my best event. Just so you know.”

These games were larger in attendance than Gleann’s, but the grounds weren’t that much more expansive, and the athletic field was ringed with trees. There was room enough to throw the heavy hammer without compromising safety, but the light hammer, with its sixteen-pound weight and the way it cut through the air much faster and farther, couldn’t be thrown here due to space.

Out of all the heavy athletic events, to Jen the hammer was the craziest. The movement to throw it was incredibly primitive, and also looked beyond unnatural. Dangerous, even. Every time she watched this particular throw, someone’s broken back or ripped muscle seemed imminent. As she recalled from Mr. MacDougall, form was paramount.

She worried terribly that she’d screwed this up for Leith. That he’d break form and then totally break his back.

The other competitors cycled through their first attempts, including the sole female thrower who had the raucous support from the gallery. As far as Jen could tell, she threw awesomely, using a smaller hammer than the guys. Good on her.

The announcer left Leith and Duncan for last.

When Leith’s name was called, he raised an arm to the onlookers, his profile showing lips pressed tightly together. He approached the trig, divided from the audience by the fencing, his steps heavy and focused. For this event the throwers faced the audience, their backs to the open field, and loosed the hammer backward over one shoulder. They used the best of three throws.

She didn’t know why she’d been so worried. Leith was nothing but centered.

Lifting the hammer up by the long end, the ball resting on the ground, he kicked his legs out, shifting to find the perfect stance. When he got it, he tilted the long hammer to one side and wrapped both hands around the end of the bar, pinky of one hand resting against the thumb of the other. He swung the ball out far to his right so his arms were angled low in front of him and the ball was in the grass. Knees slightly bent, he shifted his weight, heaved the hammer ball off the ground and swung the thing in a great arc in front of his body. It seemed to start slowly, almost too slowly, but using his tremendous power, the hammer looped once up and around his head. Momentum and strength brought it swooping back down in front. He kept it going, around and around and around his body. Faster and faster with every turn, every second. His face reddened, his features flat with exertion.

Each loop around was punched with a crazy power that pulled out every line in every muscle of his arms. Just when it seemed like the hammer movement would carry him off his feet, he brought it across his left shoulder and . . . released.

Leith roared, fists slapping to his sides.

Jen held her breath.

The ball sailed back and back over the empty space, looking far too heavy and strange to ever be airborne. It landed hard in the grass and a kilted judge jogged over to give it a measure, but it was clear to everyone in attendance that he’d blown away all the other competitors.

Only then did Leith swivel around, and it was to great applause, perhaps none louder than Duncan’s masculine grunts of “Yeah! Yeah!”

The judge called out a distance to the announcer, who said into the microphone, “Seventy-three feet, one and a quarter inches.” As a new round of cheers went up, Leith finally smiled, his shoulders dropping in obvious relief. In clear pride. He melted into his group, and the other throwers pounded fists on his back.

Duncan threw one foot shorter than Leith on his first attempt, then six inches longer on his second.

Leith never beat his first hammer throw, but he also never stopped smiling or laughing. And Jen thought that the only time she’d ever seen him look happier was the night they’d first kissed, all those years and miles away.

Chapter

27

Leith wheeled his truck into the parking lot of the address Jen had thrown at him back at the games. It was a small, well-kept strip mall on the outskirts of the seaside community of Norwalk. He sat behind the wheel in the lot, staring at the suite number she’d indicated, confused by the dark windows with the drawn shades. A sign was taped to the glass—For Rent. Call Sheryl. And then Sheryl’s number—but Leith double-checked the address and, yep, this was where Jen had told him to go.

He got out of the truck. Even though the sun was setting, the day was finally cooling off, and he’d showered back at his motel, he started to sweat.

Seeing Jen across the field like that . . . He’d written her off weeks earlier. She’d gone to London, just as he’d predicted. She hadn’t called before leaving, just as he’d predicted. She never came back, exactly as he’d predicted.

So he’d done what any lovesick, pissed-off, heartbroken American male would do. He punched a hole in the wall of his motel and had to pay damages, then he’d gone out and gotten drunk. And then he’d tried like hell to get over her. Again.

To do that, he knew he couldn’t go back to Gleann. At least, not to live. He’d keep what few accounts he had left there, with Chris on staff. Maybe if things picked up in the town as Mayor Sue hoped, he could expand and open a full branch, with Chris in charge. While he had no set jobs to speak of in Connecticut, he did have his talent and determination. And even though Hal Carriage had nixed Leith’s best start, Leith still had Rory’s support, and she’d given him some serious leads, talking up his name in her new circle of friends. He’d made a few contacts at the games today, too, and he’d follow up with them this week. He was hopeful.

So he was staying in Connecticut. Starting over. And he was throwing again, which sent him flying high in a way he’d nearly forgotten. How could he have done that? How could he have ever turned his back on something that fed both his competitive nature and his spirit?

In a way, Jen had been right all those weeks ago. He had been afraid of not winning, thinking that second place would never fill him up like first. What a fucking moron. He’d held his own against Duncan and it had felt so, so amazing. He would make time to train now. No more excuses.

No more worrying that he’d let his father down.

But then there was the matter of Jen Haverhurst. He couldn’t describe how exhilarated he’d felt seeing her face in the crowd that afternoon. She was so damn good at that: disappearing then reappearing in shocking, dramatic ways that had his heart pummeling his ribs and his head telling him to not fall for her again.

Only he had. And this was the second time she’d come back. What was that old saying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me? Yeah, no matter what she was going to say to him in there, he had to remember who she was, her MO. He had to protect himself a hell of a lot better this time.

He crossed the short lot and tried the door. Locked. What the—

The latch clicked and the door opened inward. Jen stood before him.

“Hey—whoa.” He couldn’t hold back his verbal reaction as he eyed her strict black skirt and fitted black short-sleeved sweater with the severe V-neck that did killer things for her tits. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail and she wore those glasses, the ones he’d first seen on her through Mildred’s kitchen window.

She cleared her throat and extended her hand, not an ounce of emotion on her face. “I’m so glad you could make it, Mr. MacDougall. Come in.”

He let out an uncomfortable laugh. “Okaaaay.” As he took her hand, he noted absently that she had a great, firm handshake. But of course she did.

She widened the door to let him enter, then locked it behind him. Inside it was strangely dark, and it took his eyes a few moments to adjust. Only three pieces of furniture—two cushioned chairs facing a long, narrow table—were set right in the center of the room. On the table was Jen’s fifth limb, her open laptop, connected to a small projector. A square of bright, white light streamed from the lens and struck the empty, back office wall.

“What is this place?” he asked.

But she just gave him a polite smile and said, “Please have a seat.” She gestured to one of the chairs facing the lit wall.

As he lowered himself to the chair that smelled and felt brand new, she walked around the table. It was impossible not to notice her legs in that skirt, how they ended in towering black heels with red soles, a delicate strap wrapped around her ankle.

Focus, Dougall. Keep your head.

“So what’s up?” Anticipation mixed with frustration, and that wasn’t the best combination. Especially since lurking just underneath it, ready to stab its way through to the surface, was base lust and . . . hope.

Why are you here, Jen? Why are you back? Why?

Jen picked up a small remote from the table and stood just to one side of the square of light. “I am a businesswoman. I love staying busy. I love making clients happy. I love laying out a plan and carrying it out.”

He opened his hands. “Yes. I know.”

“And I love my phone and this computer, as you can attest to.” He had to crack a smile at that. “But what I don’t love—something I’ve come to realize over the past weeks and months—is working for someone else. I thought once that dragging as many pretty, vapid models to a product rollout actually fulfilled me, that it would be what set me on top.”

Leith held his breath and straightened in his chair.

“But I was wrong.” Jen clicked a button on the remote and the screen burst with understated, simple color.

Jen Haverhurst. Strategic Planning and Events.

“You’re sitting in my new world headquarters,” she said with a smile. “Here. In Connecticut. Not New York.”

Holy shit.

“My new company will focus on bringing suburban and rural communities, small businesses, and entrepreneurs together to put on fantastic events within their budget. I will meet with clients to strategically plan functions that enhance their brand, expand their influence, and are just plain fun.”

She spun through a series of slides, going through her marketing plan and potential clients, like he was some sort of investor. Maybe he was. Because every sentence, every word she said drove into his brain, slowly making him realize that she wasn’t running away. She wasn’t leaving him this time; she was joining him. This place was only half an hour from where he’d chosen to base his own new company.

“You were right. I didn’t love my job before. Working in Gleann, I discovered what I do love, and it’s this.”

“Wow.” He just sat there, stunned into silence, surely looking like a fool with his mouth hanging open. “I—”

“I’m not finished.” She held up a teasingly prim hand, then walked across the projector beam to the other side. As she did, the light cast her figure in silhouette—the gentle swing of her ponytail, the curve of her ass, the proud lift of her chin—and it mesmerized him.

She extended out a slim metal pointer with a balled tip.

“This”—she advanced a slide and slapped the pointer with gusto to the wall—“is why we belong together.”

On the wall, in bright rectangles of color, was one of her famous charts. He ground his molars into his cheek to keep from smiling.

On scales of one to one hundred, she’d bar-graphed the following categories: Sense of Humor, Mutual Respect, Future Goals, Sexual Compatibility, and Physical Proximity.

“Sense of Humor,” she began in that same businesslike tone. “You and I are at one hundred. It’s why we became friends in the first place, right? We laugh at the same things, make jokes no one else gets—”

“Relocate Mayor Sue’s outdoor doghouses to the lawn of Town Hall.”

“Ahhh, now there’s an idea to file away for later. Put that on our Action Item list.”

“Will do.” He leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “Go on.”

“Mutual Respect. As you can see, I’ve divided this column into two. One for you, one for me.” She turned serious, the pointer dropping as she faced him. The light from the projector reflected off her glasses. “My respect for you is one hundred, as high as it can possibly get. I want you to know that. I need you to know that.”

He couldn’t talk around the pressure in his chest.

“But I only gave myself a fifty from your point of view, because of what you told me earlier. How you thought I was compromising myself for revenge or for some reason other than what was in my heart. You were right, you know. It took me going away to see that, to know what I lost, what I wanted back, and where I want to be for good. I know it all now. It’s very, very clear to me.”

He pumped a thumb a couple of times toward the ceiling. “My number needs to go up a few notches. Like, say, fifty.”

She drew a deep breath. “Well. Then, that brings me to my next point. We have similar goals. We want our own businesses to be successful. We have dreams and I know we would support each other in those dreams.”

He nodded, completely agreeing. “What about family?” The question surprised them both. He held on to it though, grinding his teeth. He wouldn’t take it back. “I mean, you have Aimee and Ainsley, but that’s about it. I don’t have anyone.” He cleared his throat. “Would you want family? With me?”

She looked at him for a long moment. “I think we need to get our careers going first, make sure they’re nice and established.” Her expression turned wonderfully warm. “But, yes. I think I might.”

“Action Item list?”

“Given that our Sexual Compatibility score is closer to two hundred”—a slap of the pointer—“I’d say that ‘action’ is a good word for it. But I don’t even want to think about it for a couple of years. That okay?”

Pressing his lips together, he nodded. “A sound plan, boss.”

“Which brings us to the final point: Physical Proximity. As you can see, the score is at zero, but I want to fix that. All the rest doesn’t matter if I don’t, and I know your coming to New York just won’t work for your business. Once my lease runs out in the city, I do not plan on renewing it. I want my own place. Here. With an easy commute to my new work and a bed big enough for you. Maybe someplace like this. Or this. Or this.” She flashed a series of photos of homes for sale in the area.

Leaning an elbow on the armrest, he scratched at his face and then covered his mouth with his hand. If she could see how much he was enjoying this, how much he never wanted her to stop, how hard it was to hold himself back from jumping up from the chair and pinning her against that lit wall, he feared it might scare her off again.

Except nothing about her looked scared right now. She was courageous and gorgeous and brilliant, and he could not stop staring.

“Oh!” she said, setting down the pointer. “One last thing, but perhaps the most important.”

She slid right in front of the projector beam at the same moment she clicked the remote, her body bathed in light. And then her fingers rose to the buttons of her sweater. Starting at the top, between her breasts, she unfastened the first one.

A peek of a nude lace bra had him involuntarily scooting forward on the chair, his mouth first drying up, then watering.

Another button. Her lips quirked. The smooth patch of skin below her bra looked delicious. He wanted to run his tongue up and down the vertical divot between her stomach muscles.

Was that . . .? There were lines on her stomach that he thought could be letters, but were too difficult to make out. Things that hadn’t been there last time she’d undressed for him. Did she get a tattoo over there in London? He squinted.

Another button came undone. The black fabric parted even more, exposing her breasts and coming apart all the way to her bellybutton. Now he was sure. They were definitely letters on her midsection. Not tattooed, not painted, but coming from the projector.

The final button. The sweater halves separated, and then came fully off. She let it drop to the ground. Then she reached around and unzipped her skirt. Shimmied out of the tight thing and then let that fall, too. She stood there, perfectly still, with her perfect body in that perfect lace bra and underwear almost the exact shade of her skin, and he had to concentrate to absorb what he was looking at.

There, in black computerized script, written across the smooth skin of her belly, were the words, “I love you.”

He blinked at them several times.

“So that’s it,” she said, and her voice sounded shaky. “That’s my presentation.”

He ripped his gaze from her beautiful body to her even more beautiful face. “Can you say it?”

“Yes. I can now.” He loved how her body moved, unclothed, when she breathed. “I’m in love with you. I always have been, even when I wasn’t fully aware of it, even over all these years. It’s why coming back to you felt so easy, so natural. I’m not saying that we were meant to be together or destined or anything as new-agey as that, but I do think we had to grow up, that we had to figure things out on our own in order to find our way back to each other. I know that I will always love you, even if . . . even if you give me a taste of my own medicine by walking away right now.”

“Fuck.” He got to his feet. “No way I’m walking out. You did one hell of a job here.”

Now she smiled, and it was shining with relief and happiness. Her eyes were huge and glorious. She started toward him but he threw out a hand. “Don’t. Stay right there.”

He went to her, skirting around the desk to take in the whole sight of her, that gorgeous declaration written across her body just for him. Spoken just for him. He reached out and removed her glasses.

“Look at you,” he whispered, and he went to his knees.

Then he was touching those projected words, throwing them across his own fingers, mixing them together. He leaned forward to press a kiss to her skin and the words disappeared.

“I’m sorry you didn’t win today.” Her hands in his hair now. “Was it because of me?”

He laughed. “What? Didn’t you see that first hammer throw? That was a personal record. I kicked ass.” He rocked to his feet, and then walked her backward until she hit the wall, his hand behind her head. He settled into her body. “I was shit before you showed up.”