“No,” Wade said.
“Thirty-five-ish,” Sam said helpfully from the passenger seat, “in a twenty-five zone.”
Wade turned and gave her a long look.
She smiled, and he had to shake his head. Now she smiled at him like that. Nice.
“She’s right,” the officer told him. “Thirty-five in a twenty-five.”
Sam gave Wade the I-told-you-so look.
“License and registration,” the officer said again.
Wade blew out a breath. He’d left his wallet in the hotel room. He’d borrowed keys and a twenty from Matt’s brother. This was not going to go well. He flashed a quick, apologetic smile to the cop. “You’re not going to believe this, hell even I don’t believe it, but I forgot my license back at my room at the Laguna Rey Resort.”
The cop gave him an unimpressed look, then slowly narrowed his gaze. “Wait a minute. Do I know you?”
Wade smiled in relief. Once in a while fame really did pay.
“I do know you,” the cop said. “Hey, you’re big in my house.”
Okay, so maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. Wade reached into the glove box for the registration and handed it over.
The officer glanced at it and then handed it back without going to his vehicle to run it. He was smiling now. “Ah, man, this is my lucky day. My wife was pissed at me this morning, but an autograph from you will make it all better.”
“Absolutely.” Wade was perfectly willing to sign his John Hancock on a piece of paper instead of at the bottom of a speeding violation. He searched the car and came up with a pad of paper and a pen in the console. “How should I sign it?”
“If you could say ‘To Leslie,’” the cop said. “‘With love, Matthew McConaughey.’ ”
Sam snorted softly as Wade went still.
“She loves you, man. You still play the bongos in the buff?”
Wade slid his eyes to Sam, who rolled her lips into her mouth to keep from bursting out with laughter. He gave her the death-glare and looked down at the paper in his hand. He’d written the “To Leslie with love” part. And with a sudden genuine smile, he signed “Matthew McConaughey” with a flourish. “I’ve cut back on the na**d bongo playing.”
“Cool,” the officer said. “Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure,” Wade murmured as the officer walked away.
Sam gave him one beat of silence. Then she burst out laughing.
He stared at her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh like that.”
She wiped a tear from her eyes and tried to collect herself. “I’m sorry. But Matthew McConaughey?”
“What? I look sort of like him.”
She laughed again, and Wade shook his head and drove them back to the resort, feeling irritated all over again. When they were back on the grass, heading toward the hotel doors, Sam put a hand on his arm. “Can I ask a question now?”
“I’ve been mistaken for him before, you know.”
“A different question.”
“No,” he said, knowing where she was going to go. “No other questions.”
“Do you really never go home?”
“Jesus.” He drew a deep breath. “Home? My home’s in Santa Barbara, Sam.”
“Are you in contact with him? Your dad?”
Yes. Monetary contact. Monetary payback for not being able to be the son John had apparently needed in order to not pickle his liver on a daily basis. “You’re harshing my ice-cream-sundae buzz.”
“I’m sure he’s getting up there in years but maybe we could bring him out for a game some time. Give him the VIP treatment.”
Uh-huh. Problem was, the old man would rather play cards than sit through a baseball game.
“He’d probably love it,” she said.
What John would love was conning everyone Wade knew out of their pocket change. “Stop.”
“But—”
“You know what, Sam? Mark puts up with nagging from Meg, but then again, she blows him every night, so . . .”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not nagging. I’m just saying that for the past three years we’ve done a special Father’s Day event. This year we’re having it at the Railroad Museum. Think of the positive, heart-warming press—”
“Jesus, Sam. Stop working and f**king drop it already. Please.”
And then, to be sure she did, he headed back inside.
Chapter 7
Slump? I ain’t in no slump. I just ain’t hitting.
—Yogi Berra
The rest of the rehearsal dinner passed without further provocation or argument, mostly because there were so many people who wanted to talk to Wade, many of them being gorgeous women, that Sam didn’t get the opportunity to irritate him more.
She supposed that was a bonus.
Afterwards, she went back to the suite while Wade stayed behind to help clean up and carry the presents to Meg and Mark’s suite. She offered to help, but he’d given her a quick “I’ve got it” and left her alone.
Which was fine. This was all just pretend, after all. And she had plenty to keep her occupied. She had work she could do. Hell, she always had work she could do, and calls to return. She’d missed a call from her father, her uncle, and her cousin, each of whom read her the riot act by the time she got back to them.
“Why the hell aren’t you answering your phone?” her father demanded.
After years of trying, they had come to a tenuously decent relationship. He’d agreed to let her run her own life without his interference, and she’d agreed to work for the Heat. She wasn’t sure why he stuck to his part of the deal, but for her, she worked for the Heat because she loved the job. And she’d like to think that her father got something out of it, too: the best publicist in the business—if she said so herself. She was happy there, or had been until the Jeremy bullshit last season. But lately she’d had a little seed of discontent in the back of her mind, and she found herself wondering if she’d be happier running her own PR firm when her contract with the Heat was over at the end of this season.
Her father had sensed her discontent and had commented several times that she needed to get over herself. To keep the peace, they rarely spoke. They got together at holidays, birthdays, and the occasional Heat team meeting that he made it to, but for the most part, he stayed on the other side of the country running the rest of his vast business empire. “Well, hello to you, Dad.”
“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t mean to bark.”
Yes, he had, but she could forgive him since he’d apologized. Another relatively new thing with him, which she knew he’d gotten from Wife Number Five. Or was it six? If he didn’t apologize quickly and sweetly, it cost him. Usually in diamonds, and not the kind on the baseball field. “I didn’t answer my phone,” she told him, “because I was at the rehearsal dinner.”
“Well, do me a damn favor, and be more available for the next few days. We need you to—”
“Wait. Stop right there,” she said firmly. One had to be firm with her father, or risk getting walked all over. “I’m still in the middle of the last favor you asked me to do. One thing at a time. Is it business-related? Because Gage is—”
“It’s not business-related.”
“Dad,” she said as gently as possible, “you need to go to your wife for the other stuff. It’s what she wants from you, remember? Didn’t you have to go to counseling last year to learn just that?”
“Christ, don’t remind me. Listen, Sam—”
The suite door opened and in walked Wade. She braced for a continuation of their earlier fight, but he didn’t look like he was in a fighting mood. He’d shed his jacket, which was carelessly slung over one shoulder. His tie had been loosened, his shirt unbuttoned, the sleeves shoved up. His hair was a little ruffled and he had a new phone number on his forearm.
He looked at her and grinned.
Oh, boy. He was clearly inebriated, which was interesting given that in the four years she’d known him, she’d only seen him in that condition once.
That night in the Atlanta elevator. “I have to go, Dad.”
“Not yet, Sam. I—”
“I’ll talk to you on Sunday, when I’m back in Santa Barbara for the opening game.”
“Samantha Ann McNead—”
She winced as he middle-named her and shut her phone. Wade tossed his jacket to a chair. His tie went the same route. “Not very nice to hang up on him.”
“At least I call him.”
He sighed and walked very carefully over to the bed. “You have Daddy issues.”
“I think you have that backwards.”
He sank to the bed and put his hands on the mattress at his side as if he were on a moving boat and unsure of his balance. “Come here, little girl.” He grinned. “I’ll be your daddy tonight.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” He kicked off one shoe, but had some trouble with the other.
Watching him fight the laces, she sighed and went to him. Kneeling, she untied his shoe and pulled it off. Then she rose up a little and looked into his eyes. “I think you should go to bed.”
“I do, too.” He reached out and ran a finger over the stress spot between her eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong, Princess. Tell Daddy all your troubles.”
She nudged him in the chest and he fell back onto the mattress, just over six feet of sprawled-out limbs. “Whoa,” he said.
Rolling her eyes, she moved away from the bed over to the small desk. She picked up the phone, dialing housekeeping for a roll-away bed. While the phone was ringing in her ear, two big, warm hands settled on her shoulders and started kneading, and before she could stop herself, she’d let out a low, heartfelt moan.
“You’ve got an entire rock quarry in here,” he murmured, going right for her tight, tension knots and digging in as his mouth settled on the nape of her neck.
Oh God, she was melting. “Stop. I can’t talk when you do that—”
“Then don’t.” Reaching around her, he took the phone from her fingers and hung it up.
“I was trying to get a roll-away bed.”
“Roll-aways are pieces of shit.”
“But—”
“Shhh.”
His fingers were long and strong and firm, and knew exactly where to press to turn her limbs into overcooked noodles. Unable to stop herself, she sank to the chair, closing her eyes at his soft, knowing laugh.
“I make you weak in the knees,” he said silkily.
“No, your hands make me weak in the knees.”
He laughed again. “I might be buzzed, but not too buzzed to know that you are such a liar.”
And then he pulled his hands free.
She nearly cried at the loss, but got herself together. When she turned to look at him, he was headed for the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt, which he shrugged off halfway there.
She told herself not to stare but he truly had the most glorious physique. His back was all sleek, smooth, bronzed flesh, sinew rippling as he moved—“Hey!” she said as his pants dropped. He kicked free and kept walking, in nothing but black knit boxers. “What are you doing?” she squeaked, even as her gaze soaked up the fact that he had a tan line, and that the waistband of his boxers had slipped past it, revealing a tantalizing strip of paler, smooth, tight skin. “We’re not doing this, Wade O’Riley. Do you hear me? This is all pretend, remember?”
“I remember. The question is, do you?” He sent her a cheeky grin over his shoulder.
“Put your clothes back on!”
“Taking a shower.”
And then he dropped his boxers.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus.“Don’t drown,” she murmured, watching the most excellent ass in all the land vanish behind the door. She heard the shower go on and leaned back in the chair, letting out a long, shaky breath.
She was in big trouble.
All the way around.
Wade sobered up a bit in the shower. The nice alcohol daze couldn’t stand up to the pressing thoughts bumping around in his brain like bumper cars.
Mark getting married.
His father drunk-dialing him . . .
There was also a disturbing ache in his bones, suggesting his body was damn tired, and maybe, just maybe at age thirty-two, also damn old. With Opening Day less than forty-eight hours away, that couldn’t be good, but that problem would have to get in line.
He hadn’t meant to get toasted tonight, but Mark had been so goddamned happy and over the moon, and looking at him had made Wade feel just a little envious.
Mark had a life. A real life, one that went deeper than nights out with the guys and the occasional hot woman in his bed, one that went past what ESPN had to say about his athletic prowess.
One that wasn’t defined by what he did for a living.
Feeling a little off his game, he got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and opened the bathroom door.
Complete darkness greeted him.
“Sam?” He wondered if she ever felt off herself. Probably not. She had her shit together. She was cool as ice, baby, ice, and never doubted herself.
And she sure as hell didn’t want a guy like him. Because what was it she’d said? He wasn’t keeper material. “Princess?”
“Shh. She’s sleeping.”
He padded toward the voice, tripped over something, and hit the floor. Reaching out, he realized he’d fallen over his own shoes. “Marco . . .”