Throwing Heat dad-3 Page 10

  The news had no doubt put him in a sour mood.

  Still it stung her to be ignored by him. He mattered to her more than she wanted him to. Whatever. Still, Peter not answering her texts or calls was frustrating. All she had been trying to do was see if he was okay. Just like back at the clubhouse.

  Why did men do that? When they got upset, why did they go and hole up like badgers? Talking about feelings was a good thing.

  Closing the door behind her, Leslie kicked off her heels and nearly groaned when her feet stretched out in relief. She really needed to find a better footwear alternative. Even if her shoes were damn sexy.

  Scooping up the red heels by their ankle straps, she padded upstairs and felt the day’s stress leave her body with every single step. It was amazing that his house could do that for her. Even her apartment—which she adored—didn’t have the same energy. But Peter’s house was almost as good for her as reggae.

  Go figure.

  During the drive home an early-season snow had started to fall gently, causing the temperatures to plummet. With that in mind she changed out of her work clothes and put on a pair of yoga pants and the Rush hoodie from earlier that day. Then she slid into her fuzzy slippers and headed back into the hall.

  A light at the bottom of one of the doors drew her attention. At first she thought it was Peter’s room, and then she realized that his was at the very end of the hall. She realized she’d never actually been inside it before. Maybe it was a bathroom?

  Thinking that he must have left a light on, Leslie moved down the hall and quietly pushed the door open. Inside she found a library with music on softly and Peter in a chair with his back to her, sitting silently. He made no movement when she stepped inside, and she thought that maybe he’d fallen asleep there by accident.

  Books lined built-in bookcases from floor to ceiling and wrapped all around the large space. Two oversized, comfortable-looking chairs sat in the center on a large taupe-colored rug. In the far corner was a cabinet with glass doors. Inside she could see a set of samurai swords covered in an exquisitely designed sheath. A half dozen ninja stars were displayed in there as well.

  Leslie took another step into the room and froze when Peter let out a muffled sound and shifted in his chair. Then he started snoring softly, making her smile. Poor guy. The doctors had probably given him some potent painkillers.

  Not worried now about startling him, Leslie relaxed and walked into the room, taking it in and narrowly avoided a large bamboo plant. It was so lush and full that it was like a small jungle in a pot. How did he keep it alive? She killed everything with leaves. The one in her office was sort-of-living proof.

  Stopping in front of a bookcase, she noticed that although most of the shelves were crammed full of books there were a few decorative objects scattered about as well. Who’d have thought that the guy was into tchotchkes? One in particular caught her attention and she went to it, pulled like a boat to a lighthouse beacon.

  How interesting, she thought as she looked at it, her fingers itching to pick it up. At first glance it was a small beautifully carved wooden seal, all glossy gray and plump. But when she leaned closer and squinted she could just see human features morphing its sweet face. What the—?

  “It’s a selkie.”

  Startled, Leslie spun around to find Peter looking at her with sleepy, slightly glassy eyes. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s all right,” he mumbled, his voice gravelly from sleep and the pain meds.

  He looked terrible. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin was pale and drawn. Peter looked like a man in the middle of grieving, not one who’d simply been knocked out of the postseason.

  Giving him a thorough once-over, she took in his navy blue basketball shorts and white Jimi Hendrix T-shirt, noting that he wasn’t wearing a sling. “How are you feeling?” she asked. Even looking like hell he was still damn sexy. Soulful, edgy athlete. The mix was intoxicating.

  Peter, still slouching in the chair, closed his eyes again and yawned. “Like shit.”

  “Yeah?” Her heart went out to him. Getting injured at this stage in the season just sucked.

  He opened his right eye a crack and zeroed in on her. “Yeah.”

  Though she told herself to drop it, she blurted out anyway, “I tried to call you.”

  The pitcher just shrugged and then sucked in a breath sharply. Part of her felt bad for him. The other part, the part that was still miffed at her texts being ignored, didn’t feel so bad.

  “I didn’t feel like talking, Leslie. It’s been a pretty crappy day for me if you haven’t noticed.” He stared at her, his eyes sulky and a little sad.

  It made her feel bad. All of her. So she dropped it and changed the subject. “The selkie’s an Irish creature-thing, right? Where’d you get it?” she inquired, pointing over her shoulder, a little surprised she knew what it was. Sometimes that jumble of random trivia in her brain actually was useful.

  He rubbed a hand over his face, yawned again and began massaging the back of his neck. “I made it.”

  Surprise darted through her. “Really? When?” Since when did he carve wood? God, what else didn’t she know about him?

  “When I was sixteen. The selkie myth and her singing is all I remember of my mom.” His expression clearly stated that he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. But she thought it was touching and sweet that he’d carved and painted a seal to remind him of his Irish mother. And now she knew where he got his love of music too. It was probably the only good thing she’d given him, judging by what little of her he’d mentioned.

  “Was whittling wood what you gave up bad poetry for?” she joked, hoping to get a smile from him. And it worked. It got a small lopsided one out of him. Good. Peter just wasn’t himself without his devil-may-care smile. “I mean, I can see why. It’s so much more manly than haiku.”

  “Yeah, that’s when I started to get all the chicks. They couldn’t resist my wood.” Even though he was trying to make light, she could see the strain it put on him. His normally sparkling eyes were flat and a bit unfocused. Whether it was from the meds or whatever was eating at him she didn’t know.

  Still, she missed the sparkle. “Well sure. What girl could?”

  “You.”

  Ouch. “Says who?” He was right but she was still trying to make him feel better. But he wasn’t nearly as right as he thought he was.

  He gestured to his lap, the movement slow and kind of sloppy from the painkillers, and her gaze went straight to his crotch. “It’s all yours, princess.”

  “Tempting as that is, I’m going to have to pass.” In the condition he was in right now he wouldn’t be able to put it to good use anyway.

  His head fell back against the padded chair. “See?” Peter sounded so dejected about it that she was swamped with sympathy. He’d had such a crummy day that she could at least throw him a bone.

  The only light on was a floor lamp in the far corner. Leslie was on the other side from it in the shadows and took a step. Moving toward Peter intent on giving him a sound kiss to sooth his battered ego and body, she stepped next to him and stopped short when he jolted. “Damn, Leslie. I didn’t see you. Why you gotta sneak up on me?”

  His voice was getting all slurry and she could tell that he was getting sleepy again—but sneak? She hadn’t done anything of the sort. She was five-ten and a solidly built, for crying out loud. Sneaking about wasn’t in her vocabulary.

  Brushing it off because his weird behavior was probably just a side effect of whatever the doctors had put him on, Leslie dropped a kiss on his scruffy cheek. “Next time I’ll stomp like a herd of elephants. How’s that sound?”

  “Better,” he muttered and she got sidetracked by the heat and masculine scent of him.

  Desire began to stir inside her and she pulled back to put distance between them. Jumping him was the last thing he needed right now. What he needed was his bed and a whole lot of rest.

  Thinking she should convinc
e him to make his way to his bedroom so that he wouldn’t fall asleep sitting up again, Leslie placed a hand gently on his uninjured arm and said, “Why don’t you go to bed, darlin’? You look beat.”

  In the space of a heartbeat Peter rounded on her, reaching out with his good hand and snagging her around her waist. Before the squeal made it all the way out, he had her in his lap, his mouth fused to hers. And he had wood. Boy did he have wood. Her ass landed on it.

  And she was right; it was irresistible to the girls.

  Because he’d caught her off guard and her defenses were down, Leslie didn’t have time to do anything more than react and feel. And good god he felt amazing. All hard, sculpted, lean muscles and hungry, turned-on man.

  She couldn’t get enough.

  Falling into the kiss, she shifted in his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. Opening to him, she moaned softly when his tongue rubbed against hers impatiently. As much as she knew she’d regret it later, there was no stopping. Something lightning hot and just as dangerous flashed between them.

  It was incredible.

  “Christ, woman,” he growled when he broke the kiss. “Tell me you feel this.” He fisted a hand into her straight blonde hair and held her captive. “I need to know you feel it too.”

  Of course she felt it too. Every single time they touched. It was electric. “I feel it, Peter,” she whispered.

  He groaned and his mouth was on her throat, devouring her, teeth nipping sharply. The shot of pain was quickly replaced by something a whole lot hotter, his tongue soothing the tender flesh. His agile mouth teased her sensitive skin, the feel of his stubble exquisite torment. She didn’t want it to stop.

  Running her hands through his thick, wavy hair, Leslie tipped her neck to the side to give him better access. His firm mouth was on her in an instant, his tongue tasting her there. She moaned and found his mouth with hers, opening greedily for him.

  He shifted beneath her, his erection pushing into her ass. Groaning, Peter let go of her hair and his hand stroked boldly, possessively down her body until he found her full breasts and squeezed through her sweatshirt. She gasped and tore her mouth from his. “Oh God,” she breathed, wanting more, wanting his hands all over her bare naked skin.

  “Take it off,” he demanded, his voice rough with arousal. “Take off your sweatshirt so I can see them.”

  Lost in the moment, Leslie ripped off her hoodie and tossed it on the floor behind her. She shook back her hair and looked down into his face, desire pulsing heavy in her veins. Thick black hair had fallen over one of his brows and when she brushed it to the side his eyes fluttered closed for a second like her touch was something special and almost euphoric.

  Then they opened again, crystalline pools of desire. His hand was on her waist and streaking over her back. When he came to her bra strap he grabbed it and flicked it open with one smooth movement, causing her breasts to spill free.

  Damn. He had moves.

  “Perfect,” he whispered and slid a large, calloused hand up her rib cage until he was cupping her breast, his thumb flicking gently across her puckered nipple.

  Leslie gasped.

  “Yeah, you like that?” he asked and flicked his thumb over her sensitive peak once more.

  It set her on fire. And it made her so, so wet. Even now she could feel moisture pooling between her thighs. “Yes,” she said in a moan.

  “Come here.” His eyes were heavy-lidded with passion as he issued the command.

  She leaned forward, breathing unevenly as lust permeated her body. There was no way she could have refused even if she wanted to. Her body craved his touch.

  Peter’s hand on her breast stopped teasing her as he softly kissed her neck. Against her ear he breathed in and whispered, “Your scent drives me crazy.”

  That was good to know. “Coconut?”

  Warm, moist breath caressed her earlobe and a shiver ran down her spine. God, he had a mouth. Sensual and erotic and so very talented.

  Peter gave the skin just beneath her ear a gentle open-mouthed kiss, his tongue tasting her, and she began to throb for him. “Yeah, coconut. It’s in my dreams.” His mouth trailed slowly over her jawbone and his voice became drowsy. “You’re in my dreams.” His hand stilled and his head fell back against the chair, his breathing slow and deep. He whispered roughly, “You haunt me.”

  Breath caught in her lungs. It couldn’t be. “What?”

  He started to snore.

  Damn him for falling asleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE NEXT MORNING Peter was awake and downstairs before the sun had risen. His shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch and every time he bumped it searing pain dug into his flesh like a fire poker and poured down his arm. He had a massive headache.

  And his life as he knew it was officially over. Way preterm. Well not that preterm, but before he made it to the World Series, and most definitely not by his decision.

  He’d been forced into retirement early. And it sucked. It sucked because he’d wanted to end this thing on his terms, not have them dictated to him.

  Kicking the refrigerator door closed angrily, Peter slapped the milk carton down on the counter and splashed drops all over some half-written sheet music. He swore and scrubbed a hand over his scruffy face. Why did life never go the fucking way he planned?

  Everything, every single decision got derailed. It never failed, which was why he had eventually given up making decisions altogether and learned to just go with the flow. Until his eye problem had gone and screwed it all up, forcing him to think about the future and make long-term plans. Who the hell wanted to do that?

  Goddamn Retinitus Pigmentosa.

  The genetic disease that was ruining his life and the selkie myth were the only things his mother had ever given him. Thanks, Mom.

  Moody and in a foul disposition, Peter poured a glass of organic whole milk and downed it in one gulp. Then he refilled it and sat down at the kitchen table. The impact jarred his shoulder and he hissed. Great. Just frigging great.

  Not only was his life over, but he had a painful reminder about it if he happened to forget. Not that there was much risk of that. No way.

  Two more weeks. Why couldn’t his shoulder have held out two more weeks? Then he could have taken the World Series by storm, earned his spot in the Hall of Fame, and retired quietly with that notch in his belt.

  Peter scrubbed a hand over his face again and dislodged his eyeglasses, almost knocking them off and jamming the nosepiece into the corner of his eye. “Ouch. Shit.” Stupid-ass glasses. He was still getting used to wearing them. He’d nearly taken out his eyeball.

  Feeling cross, he righted the frames and muttered, “Not like my frigging eye is good for me now anyway.”

  Knowing that he was sinking deeper into a funk, Peter shoved away from the table, his full glass of milk forgotten. Being Irish and Ukrainian, he could get a damn fine brood on if he wanted to. It was in his genetic makeup to fall into a really dark hole of depression and stay there for a while.

  He hated that about himself because it was just like his old man. At least he wasn’t drowning his sorrows in Wild Turkey. That was something.

  Emotions swirled inside him, growing bigger and more intense by the minute, and he knew that if he didn’t find an outlet for it all very soon he would explode. Anger, despair, sadness, grief. All of it swirled in his gut like a hurricane, building momentum.

  “Damn it!” Peter slammed his left hand on the table and scowled. He could feel the dark settling over him, into him. Whatever it was—his pop’s legacy, his artistic temperament, or just plain emotional problems that caused this side of him to exist—he didn’t care. All he knew was that it was like a black hole inside of him.

  “I have to get a grip,” he mumbled almost desperately. “For fuck’s sake, it’s just a sport.”

  Besides, he wasn’t completely out, as much as his melodramatic side wanted to wail. There was still a chance of playing if they made it to the World Series
and he took care of himself. The fat lady hadn’t come out singing just yet. He had to remember that.

  Bolstered a tiny bit by the thought, Peter went upstairs and quietly grabbed his guitar, hoping not to wake Leslie. His place was big enough that she wouldn’t hear him play from down in the kitchen.

  He needed his outlet.

  Padding barefoot down the stairs, Peter noted that the sun was just starting to break the horizon, the blackness of night melting into the grays and shadows of pre-dawn.

  Once he was back in the kitchen, he could see the few inches of snow on his back patio through the French doors. And it was still coming down. Squinting, Peter could just make out fat snowflakes as they drifted steadily to earth.

  Normally the first snow of the season was a happy time for him. He loved it, and the way it made everything look clean and peaceful. Plus the whole world seemed to go quiet. That part he liked a whole lot.

  But this morning the new snow didn’t help his mood.

  Sighing, Peter set his Gibson down next to him and raked a hand through his disheveled hair. Nothing was calming him because he’d never experienced this mixture of feelings before. He was standing on a precipice of a world completely unknown to him, and it was making him panicky.

  Turned out that knowing he was going to have to stop playing ball soon and actually not playing were completely different things. The former he’d handled with finesse. The latter was making him a fucking mess. He felt ungrounded and directionless.

  Grabbing his guitar, Peter went to the table and pulled out a chair. For the next hour or so he lost himself in his music, able to strum the instrument gently enough that his shoulder didn’t object too terribly. And it helped. It helped a whole lot to find his center in something that he loved.

  But he was still feeling moody when the phone rang at just past eight in the morning. Pinning the Gibson to him with his bum arm, Peter reached across the table and snagged his cell. “Hello?” he asked, wondering who could be calling him so early.