Нора Робертс - The Perfect Hope

“You’re making that up.”

“You could search the Internet for it.”

“How’d you win if you lost the talent?”

“By sweeping the rest. I killed the interview.”

“I bet you killed the swimsuit deal.”

She smiled again, that slow, sultry look. “You could say so. Anyway, long time ago.”

“I bet you still have the crown.”

“My mother has it. More important, I got the scholarship. That was the goal. I didn’t like the idea of putting myself and my parents into debt. They already had two children going to college, and moving to grad school. Winning made a big difference, and I earned it. Those pageants are brutal. Still, I earned and I learned.”

“Sing something.”

“No.” Flustered and amused, she shook her head. “I’m eating. The steak’s perfect, by the way. Hey!” she made a grab, but he was fast, and pulled her plate up and out of reach.

“Sing for your supper.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I want to hear you, judge for myself.”

“Fine, fine.” She thought a moment, then gave him a couple bars of Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep,” since it had played in her car on the drive over.

Throaty, sexy, rich. He wondered why he was surprised. “You can sing. Keep going.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I don’t have a piano.” He set her plate in front of her again. “But you’re definitely going to tap-dance after dinner.”

Her eyes narrowed when he tossed a bite of steak to the dog. “Your mother taught you better than that.”

“She’s not here. What else can you do?”

Hope shook her head again. “No. Your turn. What can you do besides what I already know?”

“I can kick.”

“I saw you kick for your mother’s dog.”

“That’s nothing. I kicked the game-winning field goal my senior year—championship win.” Long time ago, too, he thought, but still. “Sixty-three yards.”

“I’m guessing that’s impressive. The yardage.”

“Sugar, as far as I know, the longest ever kicked in high school ball’s seventy yards.”

“I’m impressed then. Did you keep it up in college?”

“The scholarship helped. There were three of us, too. College wasn’t my thing, but I gave it a shot.”

“Did you ever consider going pro?”

“No.” No passion for it, he thought now. No gut-deep drive. “It was a game. I liked it. But I wanted what I’ve got.”

“It’s nice when that works out. When you get what you want. We’re both lucky there.”

“So far.”

The light softened toward dusk as they finished the meal, lingered over wine. She rose to clear as the first fireflies winked in the green shadows.

“I’ll get them in the morning,” he told her.

“I’ll get them now. I can’t relax if things like dishes aren’t done.”

“Maybe you need therapy.”

“When things are in their place, the world’s in balance. When they’re done, you can take me to the movies. What are we watching?”

“We’ll find something.” For now he liked just watching her. “You want popcorn?”

“There’s that balance again,” she said as she loaded the dishwasher. “Movies. Popcorn. One without the other is just wrong.”

“Butter and salt?”

She started to refuse, then gave in. “What the hell. It’s my night off. And I’m going to have a fitness center in my backyard before too much longer.”

“Do you have any of those little outfits?”

She slanted him a look from under her long, spiky bangs. “I do. But the opening will give me an excuse to buy new. Right now nobody sees them but me when I find time to put on a workout DVD.”

He put the bag of popcorn in the microwave, glanced at her. “You’re going to want the corn in a bowl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. And a plate for the brookies.”

“Just more dishes to deal with.”

“It’s a process, Ryder. Maybe I should check in with Carolee before we settle into movies and popcorn.”

“Does she know where you are?”

“Yes, of course.”

“She’s got the number if she needs anything. Put it away.”

“I’ve been doing that very well. I just had a tiny relapse.”

He smiled at her. “You’re good for the inn.”

“Thanks. You didn’t think I would be.”

“I didn’t know you.”

Her eyebrows arched under the bangs. “You thought, city girl in a fancy suit with fancy city ideas.”

His mouth opened, shut again.

“You did!” She poked at him. “Snob.”

“I figured you for the snob.”

“You figured wrong.”

“It happens.” He ran a hand over her hair, surprising both of them. “I like the hair,” he said and barely resisted stuffing the hand in his pocket. “Shorter than mine.”

“You need a haircut.”

“I haven’t had time.”

“I could cut it for you.”

He laughed. “No, you fucking won’t.”

“I’m good at it.”

He pulled the popcorn out, dumped it in a bowl. “Let’s go watch a movie.”

“I even have the right tools.”

“No. Do you want more wine? I’ve got another bottle.”

“I’ve got to drive, so no. I’ll switch to water.”

“Grab those chocolate things. Big-ass TV’s downstairs.”

She followed him down, gaped, grinned.

“This is wonderful!”

“I like it.”

She supposed he thought of it as a man cave, but there was nothing cavelike here. Glass doors opened to the outside, giving it a sense of more space. He’d used color again, sharply, nothing soft, nothing pale, mated it with dark glossy wood, a lot of leather.

Delighted, she wandered, studied the alcove where he kept weights, an old-fashioned water bubbler, the punching bag boxers used—what was it? Speed bag, she remembered.

She peeked around and into the small, Deco-inspired black and white bath.

He had games—the Montgomery brothers seemed to love them. Pinball machine, an Xbox, even one of those touch-screen games Avery had at Vesta.

But the best was the bar—carved and compact, and the retro refrigerator, the glass shelves with old bottles.

“Is this a reproduction or the real thing?” she asked.

“It’s the real thing. I like old things.” He opened the old Frigidaire, gave her a bottle of water.

“It’s like the fifties meet the now. It’s great.” She admired the antique poker table, the old-style pinball machine.

“You must have great parties.”

“That’s Owen’s deal more than mine.”

“I should say you could have great parties.” Her party-planning brain already organized themes, menus, decorations. “And that is, without question, the biggest TV I’ve ever seen.”

“Might as well have big. That cabinet’s for the DVDs. You can pick what you want to see.”

“I get to pick? That’s very considerate.”

“There’s nothing in there I won’t watch, so you can pick.”

She laughed and, before she did, walked over, wrapped her arms around his waist. “See, you didn’t have to say that. I’d’ve believed you were considerate.”

“It is what it is.”

“I like what it is.”

“So do I. Ah, what’s that thing called before the movie?”

“Previews?”

“No, the old-fashioned thing. Before they played the movie.”

“The overture?”

“Yeah, that’s it.” He scooped her off her feet. “It’s time for the overture.”

She laughed as he rolled them both onto his black leather couch.

WHEN THE WOMAN YOU HOOKED UP WITH WORKED long, weird hours, you started living that way. He didn’t mind. It freed up his own off-time, left him choices. Work, TV sports, a long easy spell over a beer. He could mooch dinner off his mother or one of his brothers.

Or, like tonight, he could enjoy a night at the ballpark with his brothers and nephews.

Nothing hit the bell, to Ryder’s way of thinking, like minor league baseball. Sure, a trip to Camden Yards to watch the O’s play in the colorful cathedral of ball equaled a hell of an experience.

But minor league offered the intimacy, the drama and the simplicity of what the summer game was about. And when you added three young boys to the mix, it genuinely kicked ass.

He sat, munching a loaded dog, drinking a cold beer—since he and Owen had voted Beckett the designated driver—and enjoying the hell out of himself.

The crowd booed, cheered, catcalled the pitchers—including their own. The Hagerstown Suns, down two runs in the fifth, took the field. The mid-July heat that had steamed through the afternoon calmed with the hint of a breeze as the sun dropped west.

Ryder watched the pitcher fan the first batter, glanced over where Harry devoured the action, elbows on his knees, body tipped forward, face intent the way only a devout baseball fan could understand.

“Picking up some pointers, Houdini?”

Harry grinned over as the next batter stepped up to the plate. “I’m pitching Saturday, Coach said.”

“I heard.” He’d make time to be there, to watch the kid strut his stuff.

“I’m practicing my curveball. Beckett showed me how.”

“He’s got a pretty good one.”

Ryder settled back to watch the next pitch. At the crack of the bat, he moved instinctively, hauling Liam up, shooting the boy’s gloved hand in the air. He angled, and felt, as Liam did, the ball smack the sweet spot of the glove.

“I caught it!” Dumbfounded, thrilled beyond measure, Liam gaped down at the ball in his glove. “I caught the ball.”

“Nice.” Beckett sent Liam and his brother a mile-wide smile. “Pretty damn nice.”

“Mr. Hoover sucks it up. Let’s see it,” Owen demanded, and six males examined the ball as miners might a vein of gold.

“I want to catch one.” Murphy held out his glove. “Can you help me catch one?”

“They have to hit it this way. We had a high-flying foul that time.” Ryder knew better than to add they’d gotten lucky. “Keep your eyes peeled and your glove hot.”

“Ry! I thought that was you.”

The pretty blonde owned a sexy river of hair and generous curves snugged into tiny shorts and a tight T-shirt. She squeezed in beside him.