A Taste of Texas Page 7

  Rayne stepped back, crossed her arms and smiled. “You know, we’re old friends and we shouldn’t have to treat each other this way. It’s going to be hard to stay away from one another since our children are on the same team, isn’t it?”

  Stacy didn’t look convinced but nodded anyway.

  “I think we need to put this behind us. After all, we want our children to get along, don’t we? We’ve got to model good behavior,” Rayne continued, consciously uncrossing her arms and assuming a nonthreatening demeanor.

  Stacy’s eyebrows knitted together. She was confused by Rayne’s tactics. Rayne knew she was manipulating the woman, but she needed Stacy to play nice, the way she expected her staff to play nice. Everything under control. Everyone doing his or her part. Stacy had to feel she was doing Rayne a favor by extending the olive branch.

  “Well, sure,” Stacy said, pressing her lips together and visibly relaxing.

  “Good. I knew you were the kind of mother who understood how boys can be,” Rayne said, smiling a sweeter smile. “Now, I’ve been wanting to try a new recipe for guacamole. What do you think about adding poblano pepper instead of jalapeño, and trying out a few Texas heirloom tomatoes to balance the avocado? If I whip up a batch, would you give me your opinion? I’m thinking of featuring it in my new cookbook that’s dedicated to Tex-Mex cuisine.”

  Stacy’s eyes sparked. “I’d love to help you test it.”

  “Terrific,” Rayne said, knowing it was a bit evil to use her fame as a vehicle to make Stacy behave. She watched as Henry and Camden followed Brent from the dugout toward the pitching mound. Their heads drooped like flowers after a storm.

  Brandi sidled up to them. “You know, if you’re whipping up some food for taste-testing, I’ll bring the tequila.”

  I bet you will.

  Stacy clapped her hands together. “Yes. We’ll have a girls’ night to welcome Rayne Rose back home. Perfect. When can we do it?”

  Rayne sighed inwardly. The only side effect of manipulating people was overdoing it. Looked as if she’d be making dips and taking sips with Oak Stand’s soccer moms…the same women who’d likely stood by years ago while girls like Brandi and Stacy hacked Rayne to shreds. “Sure. I’d love to.”

  The women excitedly talked about who to invite and where they should have the girls’ night. Rayne listened with half an ear as she watched Brent talk to his team. Occasionally, they’d all nod their little heads and shuffle their cleats in the dusty mound. Then they all put their hands together and Brent counted, “1-2-3…”

  “Warriors!” the boys shouted in unison.

  They scattered like beetles, scrabbling left and right, snatching up batting bags and tossing their gloves into the air. All but Henry. He followed Brent into the dugout, like a miniature version of the man picking up paper cups and tucking a clipboard into a gym bag. Henry had the same physique. Broad shoulders, trim waist, muscular legs, but it was more the swagger in his walk and the lift of his chin that spoke of the same self-assurance.

  And yet he was not Brent’s child. He was Phillip’s child. Even if the only things Henry shared with his dead father were his flat feet and dimples.

  Now Henry was hers alone and had been for the past few years.

  Weight descended upon her, and she wished for the umpteenth time Phillip was here to share the burden of raising a strong-willed, scared little boy with her.

  Phillip had always been a good partner, a good friend and a good advisor. And he’d been a fantastic father, taking Henry to karate, on fishing trips and to the zoo while Rayne worked. She missed him. Especially now when she felt so incompetent, so confused about what direction she should take. Their five-year plan was at its conclusion, and she didn’t know which way to go.

  Henry appeared at her elbow. “Come on, let’s go home, Mom.”

  For now she went with her son.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BRENT STARED AT THE BLANK page and wondered why the words wouldn’t come. He’d outlined the chapters, knew his main character down to his SpongeBob undies and had a deadline looming. But, obviously, those things weren’t going to help him meet his daily word count. The page mocked him with its perfect blankness.

  “Hell,” he muttered rubbing a hand over his face and pushing his rolling chair across the wood floor toward the massive bookshelf behind him.

  Apple’s nails clicked on the floor as she responded to his curse. Thankfully, no pillow or similarly fluffy item dangled from her mouth. Not that he had many fluffy items left. Apple had wreaked havoc on socks, slippers and his memory foam neck pillow the first week his parents left. All he had left were a few feather pillows he’d tucked in the top of a linen closet. She ignored the rubbery dental bones he’d bought.

  Just like a woman. Didn’t know what was good for her.

  Immediately Rayne came to mind. He suspected she was the reason his usually energetic muse had abandoned him. Raine was like his flighty muse—fickle, teasing and infuriating without meaning to be so.

  He still couldn’t figure out why she was in Oak Stand. Sure, the inn needed some spiffing up, but it seemed odd Rayne would take the time out of her busy schedule and pull Henry out of school to splash some paint on the old house. Something more was going on at that bed-and-breakfast. Too much activity and he sensed it had something to do with Rayne’s newly acquired fame.

  And here he was, yet again, mixing himself up in thoughts of Rayne. The sensible part of Brent knew he should have found someone else to do the work on the house. Should have kept his nose out of the baseball business with Henry, not to mention he shouldn’t have fetched one of his books for the kid. But something niggling in the back of his mind told him he’d done the right thing by Henry. The boy, as capable as he looked, had a vulnerability about him that made Brent want to take care around him.

  Just like Rayne.

  She seemed capable as hell. So unlike the girl he’d once known. A girl with a silly grin and romance in her soul. This woman was so different he almost didn’t know her. The Rayne he’d known stopped to smell the flowers and got lost in them. This new Rayne would have cut the flowers, arranged them into an acceptable bouquet and displayed them on a weathered farmhouse table next to a perfect round of brie. Efficient, tamed, controlled. It was almost too much of a change. Almost enough to make him want to stay away from her. But he suspected the old Rayne, the dreamy, romantic waif, was somewhere inside this new woman.

  So his heart wasn’t buying the notion of keeping Rayne Rose at arm’s length. In fact, his heart wanted her close. Very close.

  He pushed his chair toward his desk, tugging with him the book he always grabbed when words defied him. It was a beaten, ragtag textbook full of American poetry. He’d bought it his junior year of college when he’d signed up for a poetry class. It was the semester after he’d ridden the pine through most of the football season, the season he’d disappointed everyone. Something about the words he’d read in the tome had allowed the fetters of his life to fall away. He’d felt emboldened and full of conviction in a way he’d not felt since those hours he’d spent with Rayne reading Longfellow and Poe, playfully trying his hand at crafting internal rhyme or drawing caricatures of their teachers. Doing things his father said were “girly things.” But they were things Brent had found value in.

  He thumbed through the dog-eared pages past the words of masters, opening to the page that held the crumpled paper. He lifted and unfolded the much-handled poem. The handwriting was spidery with periodical fanciful loops. A small red heart sticker had been affixed to the upper left corner of the page. His finger traced the title “The Courage to Be He.”

  He smiled and tucked it back between the pages, hiding it as much as he hid himself. Closing the book of poetry, he stared at the blank page on the monitor before fingering the mouse. Maybe some research would motivate him. Or not.

  A knock interrupted his lack of progress.

  Brent glanced at the clock. It was well after nine.

  He padded barefoot into the living area, drawing together the strings of his pajama pants.

  Rayne stood outside, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. She’d been showing up on his porch way too often for comfort. This, too, was a new habit of hers. The old Rayne hemmed and hawed, ducking behind trees and hiding behind curtains. This new Rayne invaded.

  He unlatched the French door. “Hey.”

  Her gaze hit his then dipped to his bare chest. She swallowed and redirected her gaze, but not before he caught the interest that flared in the warm depths of her eyes. “Hey.”

  A frisson of awareness skipped up his spine. She’d looked at him as though he was the last scoop of ice cream in the tub of rocky road. It made his body tighten with anticipation even though he knew it wasn’t a good idea. Screwing Rayne wouldn’t get him what he wanted. Well, it would get him something he wanted, but he wanted more than sweaty sheets and sexual satisfaction. He wanted a piece of what he’d once had with her…and that had nothing to do with lust. He stood a minute waiting for her to say something. She didn’t. “Rayne?”

  “Huh?”

  “You knocked.”

  She blinked. “Oh, yes. Sorry. My mind has been wandering lately.” She paused, as if to give herself a mental shake. “I wanted to say thank you.”

  He wanted to invite her inside so he could turn the glimpse of desire he’d seen into something full-fledged and worthy of bleary eyes in the morning. But that sort of behavior was his standard way of operating. Rayne wasn’t just any girl. He couldn’t go there with her. At least not yet. Or maybe never. He pulled logic in front of his libido and propped a hand on the doorjamb, blocking the entrance.

  The scent of Rayne’s perfume skated on the night breeze. Vanilla. Her scent was almost enough to make him fling logic to the corners of the earth and throw open the door. “Thank me for what?”

  “For taking Henry to task for the…incident at the ballpark. And for giving him a ride. I didn’t get a chance to thank you again before you left the parking lot.” She caught her lower lip with her bottom teeth and fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. She blazed into his yard, interrupted his writing, for what? This woman clung to her dislike of him, yet here she was. Talk about a big ol’ bag of mixed signals. Maybe she was tempted to treat him like the man she thought him to be. A sure thing. Yeah. Maybe Rayne wanted to cash in on her old lustful feelings.

  Any other time he’d let her. But not now. Not when he was actually committed to looking for something more than a glass of whiskey and a quickie in the backseat. He wanted that something more with her, even if the whole idea of pursuing Rayne for a permanent sort of relationship seemed ludicrous.

  “You came here at—” he checked his wristwatch “nine twenty-six to thank me for something anyone would have done? It couldn’t wait?”

  She straightened. “What?”

  “What do you really want?”

  After the comment she’d made the last time she stood in his house, he was wary of asking what she wanted. She’d said barging in on him while he was naked was cliché, but there was a spark of desire that had ignited when she’d looked at him two days ago. And there was one now. She kept turning up at odd moments. Such as when he was naked or half-dressed. With contrived reasons.

  Rayne propped her fists on her hips. “Okay. Fine. I used it as an excuse. Are you going to invite me inside?”

  He shook his head. “We almost made trouble the last time you came inside. I nearly dropped the blanket and threw you over my shoulder.”

  She gave him a wry smile.

  “Me ape man want pretty girl.” Nothing like humor to put her back at arm’s length.

  “Didn’t stop Tamara Beach from stepping inside earlier,” she said, with a lift of her shoulder.

  Ah. He almost smiled at her obvious female reaction. “I’m used to making trouble with Tamara.”

  A frown gathered and something flashed in her eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not Tamara.”

  He smiled. “No, you’re not, are you? Tam’s reliably uncomplicated.”

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” she quipped, crossing her arms and lifting her eyebrows. Something about her pose softened him. Rayne was a woman. And all women wanted to be desired. If only she knew how badly he longed to show her, to spread her on his bed and memorize every new hill and valley he’d noticed beneath those tight aprons she wore.

  He stepped back and motioned for her to enter. “Okay, but when you’re raking your nails down my back, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Her head jerked and the foot she’d been about to put inside his house hovered midair.

  “Kidding,” he said, shepherding her inside the small living area and closing the French door behind her. “No matter what people say I’m not a sex-crazed nymphomaniac.”

  “How disappointing,” Rayne said snappishly. She turned and tossed him a smile. It was a smile he’d never seen before—an I-got-this-under-control smile. “Doesn’t matter. I know karate.”

  “Do you?” he asked, shuffling aside a sports magazine he’d left on the couch. “You seemed to have learned a lot since you left Oak Stand.”

  She tugged the hem of her shorts down and perched on the cushion. “Yeah, lots to learn out in that big, bad world.”

  Silence descended. Rayne’s irritation over Tamara seemed to vanish as quickly as it appeared. A mask of control was in place. Once again he marveled over the coolness she brought to the table. Or living room if he wanted to be literal. The second hand of the clock in the short hallway leading to his bedroom and office ticked off fifteen seconds.

  “So?” he said.

  “I wanted to ask— Well, this may sound strange.” She seemed to weigh her words. “You spend a good amount of time around boys Henry’s age through your coaching, and I wondered if you thought Henry was normal.”

  It was his turn to feel caught off guard. Henry, normal? Why the devil would she ask something like that? “Yeah. He’s like any other kid, I guess.”

  Her shoulders sank a bit. “I know, but he’s been having trouble sleeping and he’s terrified of being left behind or forgotten. I haven’t been around boys much. I don’t know how obvious it is that he suffers from anxiety issues. Did you notice if the other boys sensed his unease?”

  All other emotions between him and Rayne faded to the background. He’d sensed something in Henry, but nothing of this magnitude. “I haven’t been around him enough to render a verdict on how he handles his fears, and I’m not qualified to give you an opinion. To me he seems as normal as any kid. Are you sure you aren’t overanalyzing it a bit?”

  Rayne shook her head. “He has horrible nightmares. He panics if I leave him alone. We saw a therapist after Phillip died, and I’ve been doing everything she suggested, but he’s not any better. He still has nightmares and crippling anxiety. He masks it well, I guess. And he seems ultracomfortable with you. But I wondered if the boys on your team had picked up on it. Wondered if maybe they teased him because he acted scared or nervous.”

  “Darling, he popped off to Camden Harp, and that kid is the unofficial leader on the team. Henry seems to hold his ground well enough. He practices with good effort, has a firm knowledge of the game and seems cool with the other kids. He’s not chatty, but neither is he antisocial. Totally normal.”

  Rayne sighed. “Good. I know I’m probably being overprotective. I haven’t had a chance to talk with his teacher about it yet. I thought you could give me some perspective before I meet with her next week.”

  Brent couldn’t stop himself from sinking on to the couch beside her and taking her hand. Once again, warm vanilla tickled his nose. “Rayne, why are you in Oak Stand?”

  Rayne pulled her hand from his. He knew he’d likely overstepped the bounds of their tentative relationship. His thoughts were confirmed when she stiffened like a soldier at attention. “That’s none of your business.”

  “You made it my business when you came to me about this. Why would you take a kid who’s having trouble from the normalcy of his everyday life?”

  “What if his life isn’t normal anymore? What if mine isn’t, either?”

  “So you’ve quit your other life? Your career?”

  “No,” she said, relaxing slightly and looking out the large windows into his parents’ yard. Her mind was turning cartwheels. He was certain of it. “I’m still running the restaurant, albeit from here, and I have a new project, a new cookbook. Lots of fantastic things going on in my professional life. More on the horizon.”

  “So this is personal?”

  She sat there for a moment, looking absolutely lost. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know why you came to Oak Stand?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, yes, I do. The inn is my newest venture, but it was mostly to take a break. I needed to take a break.”

  She looked at him and her eyes were naked. It was almost as if she sought to convince herself. He rose and put distance between them, mostly because his hands itched to touch her, to soothe her. “A break?”

  “Yes, a break. Since Phillip’s death, I’ve been struggling to keep my head above water. Not financially. Just mentally. He was my partner, kept everything under control so I could be creative. With him gone, I—”

  She lifted her hands. “Why am I telling you this? I haven’t even talked about this with my therapist. It’s not your problem. Really, I wanted to ask you about Henry. That’s all. Not dump all my doubts and troubles into your lap.”

  “Isn’t that what friends are for?” he asked.

  The moment broke. Rayne leaned forward, setting her elbows on her knees as her chin jutted forward. She slid her gaze to him. “But we’re not friends. We’re not anything. We’re two memories of a friendship.”

  He stilled at her words. “Memories. Yeah, I guess that’s what we are.”

  Silence once again reigned over them.

  He watched her as she struggled to find something to say. Something not as harsh as implying he meant nothing to her. The words hurt, and the flicker of hope he’d held earlier that day waned. Why had he thought there could be something more between them? His yearning was of the heart not of the reality of the world. She’d always done that to him. Made him believe in things he had no sense in believing. Things like beauty, honor and purity. Things no one would associate with the man he was. Brent was sex, sin and cowardice. He lived a lie because he was a lazy chickenshit. Was there any good reason to change now? Surely he could live the rest of his life screwing, drinking and hiding behind a secret identity.