bookstore until you get back.”
“She’ll hate that.”
“She’ll gripe but she’ll come through. It’s only until you finish this book. Right?” her mother asked, needing reassurance.
“Yes.”
Her mother exhaled audibly. “Good. Then you have time to consider if writing this book is what you really want to do. And you have plenty of time to find the right roommate, the right house. There’s no need to rush into something you might end up regretting.”
But she didn’t need time. As much as her family loved her, or maybe precisely because of how much they loved her, they would never take her seriously until she struck out on her own. Accepting Rowdy’s job offer was her first step toward independence, and achieving her heartfelt dream of being a writer. She was about the endeavor, she was fully committed to this path.
No matter what.
But up in her room, as she was slipping into her nightgown, getting ready for bed, she stopped and opened the hope chest she’d moved from the bookstore to the foot of her bed. She knelt, took out the cheetah-print scarf, ran her fingers over the silky smooth cloth, read the quote on the box.
Two pieces split apart, flung separate and broken, but longing for reunion; one soft touch identifies the other, and they are at last made whole.
“One soft touch identifies the other,” she whispered.
When she and Rowdy touched this scarf, they felt the same thing. Extreme softness. How could that be? And what did it mean?
The sensible part of her scoffed, unable to believe the way she and Rowdy had connected so instantly. How he looked at her as if she were truly something special. How that look in his wild eyes, the amazing blue of an East Texas summer, had twisted her up inside.
She put the scarf back in the box, put the box back in the trunk. Closed the lid. Read the other inscription.
Treasures are housed within, heart’s desires granted, but be careful where wishes are cast, for reckless dreams dared dreamed in the heat of passion will surely come to pass.
The impact of those words fully struck her. She had wished on the hope chest and her wish had come true. And, if the old woman who’d sold her the trunk could be believed, the wish could not be undone.
The prophecy was a clear warning. Suggesting bad things could happen with unwise wishes. Her mind hopped to the obvious risk. She could so easily fall in love with him.
And there was only one way that could end, with her nursing a broken heart. Had she indeed been reckless with her wish?
CHAPTER 8
The pitcher has to find out if the hitter is timid.
And if the hitter is timid,
he has to remind the hitter he’s timid.
— D ON D RYSDALE
On the following Monday Breeanne drove to Rowdy’s place, her mind atwitter. She’d barely slept, kept awake by disturbingly hot thoughts of the blue-eyed pitcher who invaded her dreams.
And her body, well, it was behaving quite badly. Warming up in all the wrong, or maybe all the right places, depending on how you looked at it. Wrong places, the good girl in her scolded. Getting all hot and melty over Rowdy Blanton was a stupid idea any way you sliced it.
She had to keep this relationship on a professional keel. At least for the six months she needed to write the book and get the final draft turned in.
Feeling like the queen of the manor, she hit the remote control and opened the front gate. Rowdy had given her the remote after she accepted the job. Pressing it into her hand the way he’d pressed the baseball into her palm more than a dozen years ago on the teen ward at the children’s hospital.
She shook off the memory, tucked her notebook computer under her arm, marched to the front door, and rang the bell just before nine a.m.
The door opened.
She expected to see Warwick, and was caught off guard by a sleepy-eyed Rowdy rocking the bed-head look, snug Levi’s, a tight black T-shirt, and delectably bare feet.
Air stalled in her lungs at the sight.
Nut bunnies.
She
“She’ll hate that.”
“She’ll gripe but she’ll come through. It’s only until you finish this book. Right?” her mother asked, needing reassurance.
“Yes.”
Her mother exhaled audibly. “Good. Then you have time to consider if writing this book is what you really want to do. And you have plenty of time to find the right roommate, the right house. There’s no need to rush into something you might end up regretting.”
But she didn’t need time. As much as her family loved her, or maybe precisely because of how much they loved her, they would never take her seriously until she struck out on her own. Accepting Rowdy’s job offer was her first step toward independence, and achieving her heartfelt dream of being a writer. She was about the endeavor, she was fully committed to this path.
No matter what.
But up in her room, as she was slipping into her nightgown, getting ready for bed, she stopped and opened the hope chest she’d moved from the bookstore to the foot of her bed. She knelt, took out the cheetah-print scarf, ran her fingers over the silky smooth cloth, read the quote on the box.
Two pieces split apart, flung separate and broken, but longing for reunion; one soft touch identifies the other, and they are at last made whole.
“One soft touch identifies the other,” she whispered.
When she and Rowdy touched this scarf, they felt the same thing. Extreme softness. How could that be? And what did it mean?
The sensible part of her scoffed, unable to believe the way she and Rowdy had connected so instantly. How he looked at her as if she were truly something special. How that look in his wild eyes, the amazing blue of an East Texas summer, had twisted her up inside.
She put the scarf back in the box, put the box back in the trunk. Closed the lid. Read the other inscription.
Treasures are housed within, heart’s desires granted, but be careful where wishes are cast, for reckless dreams dared dreamed in the heat of passion will surely come to pass.
The impact of those words fully struck her. She had wished on the hope chest and her wish had come true. And, if the old woman who’d sold her the trunk could be believed, the wish could not be undone.
The prophecy was a clear warning. Suggesting bad things could happen with unwise wishes. Her mind hopped to the obvious risk. She could so easily fall in love with him.
And there was only one way that could end, with her nursing a broken heart. Had she indeed been reckless with her wish?
CHAPTER 8
The pitcher has to find out if the hitter is timid.
And if the hitter is timid,
he has to remind the hitter he’s timid.
— D ON D RYSDALE
On the following Monday Breeanne drove to Rowdy’s place, her mind atwitter. She’d barely slept, kept awake by disturbingly hot thoughts of the blue-eyed pitcher who invaded her dreams.
And her body, well, it was behaving quite badly. Warming up in all the wrong, or maybe all the right places, depending on how you looked at it. Wrong places, the good girl in her scolded. Getting all hot and melty over Rowdy Blanton was a stupid idea any way you sliced it.
She had to keep this relationship on a professional keel. At least for the six months she needed to write the book and get the final draft turned in.
Feeling like the queen of the manor, she hit the remote control and opened the front gate. Rowdy had given her the remote after she accepted the job. Pressing it into her hand the way he’d pressed the baseball into her palm more than a dozen years ago on the teen ward at the children’s hospital.
She shook off the memory, tucked her notebook computer under her arm, marched to the front door, and rang the bell just before nine a.m.
The door opened.
She expected to see Warwick, and was caught off guard by a sleepy-eyed Rowdy rocking the bed-head look, snug Levi’s, a tight black T-shirt, and delectably bare feet.
Air stalled in her lungs at the sight.
Nut bunnies.
She
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