Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Olivia POV
I steered my car along the smooth Texas roadway. The black stretch of asphalt provided a sharp contrast to perfectly painted yellow lines. No potholes, or chewed up concrete projectiles, or trees or hills. Just houses and well-kept buildings. Lots of sand.
It wasn't a long drive to the senior living center. But it did give me a quiet moment to remember Curt had texted earlier in the day. I hit the call button next to his name. It didn't ring long before I got a: “Hey, how's the heat in Texas?”
I rolled my eyes. It was early October and still flirting with triple digits some days. “Hmph. How's Arizona U looking?”
“You asking as my unofficial bag carrier or a reporter for Victory Tech?” Curt's voice dipped and he spoke a little slower than usual. I tried to laugh it off. Was this an unfair advantage? Having a baseball scout for a brother?
“I thought I was your official bag carrier, coffee runner, and pencil sharpener extraordinaire. A-K-A unofficial intern.”
A gross-man grunt sounded on the other end of the phone. How was it that men like my brother and Dad could just be, I dunno, so bleh? When there were real men in baseball uniforms that could make sweating look sexy?
It's not like I wanted to find my brother— Ick, abort . I was glad, really really glad, Lucy put up with him and his scruffy facial hair, bad smells and grunting. Gross.
“Dad's gonna find out one of these days and kill me.” Curt huffed out a sigh. I could picture him, with his head bowed, and his fingers rubbing his temples.
“But I'm good at this. You know I'll be good at scouting. I'm interested, attentive, I can hold facts and figures in my head—in your words—to a frightening degree. I?—”
“You also can't sit still, get too invested, and are boy crazy on top of it all.” Curt grumbled.
“I'm not boy crazy.” My stomach pitched. I scanned the road ahead, looking for my turn. “I've only had like three guys I've even dated. Maybe one . . . and a half rose to the level of boyfriend status.” I stuck my tongue out at the phone. Jerk.
”And a half? What the hell does that—No, don't. I don't want to know. Seriously, never tell me anything about your dating life. You are forever that seven-year-old kid that became my responsibility the day Mom left.” Curt's voice softened to something wistful.
I sighed, but the pang that used to come . . . Wasn't there. “The first time.”
“Yeah, the first time.”
A green sign said Pinehurst Avenue was a quarter mile ahead. MapApp concurred. The silence from my brother's end of the phone made me wonder what he was thinking.
“I'm serious about scouting.”
“You have four years of college to be sure. If you're still hounding me like this when you're a senior, we can talk about it. But you know Dad?—”
I groaned. “Furston “No Baseball for Olivia” Milline? Yeah, we've met. A few times.”
“I know you think it's extreme, but he does have his reasons. I understand why, but it doesn't change anything, ok?”
I turned into the parking lot and steered into a space, making sure to park under one of the lights—since it was finally starting to get dark before ten o'clock at night. What would change? Did that make sense?
“Um, sure. Dad's 'only trying to protect me', yeah whatever. And the whole 'I'm an adult', thing doesn't seem to matter.” Anger sloshed in my abdomen, but this wasn't the time. “I wanted to talk about the exhibition game. Our roster's starting to take shape.” I checked my reflection in the mirror and realized my long-lasting lip color hadn't lasted all that long. I opened my bag and dug out my on-the-go essentials.
“I'm not going to get another call from Coach that you're underfoot again, am I?” Curt said in a tone that was somewhere between teasing and warning.
“Me? Underfoot?” I ran berry-red tinted lip balm over my lips. “Doesn't sound like me. At all . You're clearly misinformed.” I eyed my hair in the tiny mirror. Pulled at some strands in an attempt to arrange my always-flat hair into 'messy chic'. “I'm an amazing asset to the team. Just ask . . . anyone.” Except Coop—because his attitude is total trash.
“Don't make a nuisance of yourself just because you have a last name that means something right now. It won't always be that way. And you're not entitled, Liv.”
Seriously? “Curt.” I drew out his name in exasperation. “Why do you act like I'm some kind of over-privileged pseudo-Kardashian pendejo?”
“I know you mean well, but you're a bull in a china shop when you get going. You don't think about how anyone else's life is impacted by your decisions. Even some of the things you say.”
What the hell? Another lecture? I opened the door and stepped out of my car—holding the phone away from my head.
“You go after what you want, which is admirable. But there are times when the collateral damage is . . . It just didn't have to be that way. If you'd stop, consider, maybe try to collaborate sometimes?”
I slammed the door to my car. “And when do men stop, consider, and collaborate? The ones at the top don't. They go after what they want, no holds barred. But because I'm a woman, I'm supposed to be nice about my ambitions?” I gestured at the phone like he could see me. Ugh. “And where would that get me when I have a father who tries to decide my entire future without my input and a brother who barely listens? No.”
“I try to listen. But, in my experience, the ones who are cutthroat don't get to claim victory for long.”
“You think I'm cutthroat?” I stopped in the middle of the parking lot and gaped at my phone.
“No, that's not what I'm—I just want you to stop and think from time to time. Or you're going to learn some of these lessons the hard way.”
I wanted to hang up. I needed to get to my interview with Dorotea. Is her name three syllables or four? The director lady had referred to her as Mrs. Schreiber.
“Just stop being in such a hurry to prove something. Enjoy this time. You'll never have another chance to be this young, and this free. After college, it's work and bills and adulting. I gotta wear pants every day.” Curt's big brother lecturing voice had long-passed 'endearing' and was edging close to 'on my last nerve'.
“Pants?” My stomach turned as the image of naked hairy man butt flashed through my brain. “Um, yes, please, always wear pants. Never take them off.”
He chuckled. “Used to walk around my dorm naked in the off season every Sunday. Just because I could. There's no naked days, now. Every day requires pants.”
And on that note . . . “I'm going to go, now. And be sick. Somewhere else. Oh, but I want the scouting report on Arizona.” I leaned against the full-length window next to the sliding entrance doors marked: Silverado Senior Living Center.
“I don't scout the team,” he said in a stern voice.
“You scout the players on the team , and they're coded by university. You could run a roster report if you wanted.” I tried to make my voice sound sweet.
“I don't scout for Texas State Tech.”
Hmph. He wasn't going to budge. “What about twenty questions?”
“Three players. Pick three and I'll answer next time.”
“Deal. Tell Lucy I said hi and thanks for putting up with you.” I laughed.
“Uh-huh. Love you, too,” he said with a huff.
“Thanks, Curt.” I disconnected the line and hoped he realized how much I meant it.
I made my way to the front desk, arriving right on time for my seven-thirty appointment. I should have been here a few minutes earlier. I glanced around at the muted colors and tile floor. A bustling nervous center of energy, this place was not. An atrium-like area sat off to the side of the front of the main building. I'm sure the sun made it bright and warm during the daytime hours. Once the desert fireball relented, the night curtained the area in shadows. Looking at it, the space seemed . . . chilly.
Potted plants, a large water fountain, I bet it was nice—and soothing. A yawn overtook me. Geez I was tired. Stayed up too late editing reels for the Strikers baseball social media accounts.
I blinked my eyes and wished for some coffee. Mrs. P had taken to hounding me every day for my Founders’ Day pitch. If I didn't do what I'd promised, my grade would suffer. And with the exhibition game playing on Founders’ Day, there was no doubt in my mind that my performance on this Founders’ Day article and my hopeful assignment to the baseball beat were inexorably linked. Something I hadn't actually known when I made the agree?—
I stopped short and stared at the figure behind the desk. I blinked and tried to refocus. My brain had clearly spent too much time editing baseball reels. Because my eyes were currently telling the over-tired brain residing between my ears that one Breslin Cooper was sitting behind the front desk.
“Not possible.”
His head lifted. Those dark midnight eyes found my gaze. I gasped and turned toward the Ficus tree. My stomach did a series of flips as I held out my hand to cup a leaf in my palm. A rubber one. Yep, I am here, examining the leaves of a fake plant. Why why why? I scrunched my eyes closed and lifted my head. Maybe it was a doppelganger? An evil twin. Or was the baseball player evil and maybe this one was nice. “If this is a nightmare. Please let me wake up.” I hissed under my breath at my new plant bestie.
“Why are you here?”
Nope. Not a dream and not the nice twin. I pulled my face into what I hoped looked like a smile that dripped acid as I approached the desk. “No comment.”
He rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair. “I don't really care. They make me ask. And in your case, I could have security escort you out. Probably should. Reporters are?—”
“Lying snakes in the grass? Yep, heard it. Really should find some new material. You've never been very amusing.”
“Yeah, we're not on campus. This is harassment. I'm calling security.” His hand on the phone almost looked convincing.
“I have an appointment.” The words rushed from my lips.
He glared at me. “No, you don't.”
“I do. With Dorotea Vachon, er Schreiber. I'm writing a Founders’ Day article on the founding family and I'm here to interview her. She's expecting me, just ask her.”
“She goes by Dotty.” Those hands, large and rough and masculine closed the book on his desk. I made a face at the evil ECON textbook.
Seriously has all the makings of a nightmare.
Our eyes met for a moment. Those dark irises held flecks of gold. Long eyelashes framed a hooded stare. I could seriously get lost in— Nope.
I blinked and forced my gaze away from his face—and that chiseled jaw peppered with a dark bit of tantalizing scruff.
He cleared his throat. I looked at him again. He held out a pen.
“What?” I shuffled back a step.
“You have to sign in.”
I gripped the strap of my bag with both hands. “Isn't there an app?”
He dropped the pen on the counter. “No. You have to pick the thing up and hold the pointy end against the paper like a normal person.”
“I think I liked it better when all you said was 'no comment'.”
One eyebrow lifted.
I took a shaky breath and signed my name on the form.
“You have ID?” A little smirk toyed with his lips.
I frowned. “Seriously?”
“I have to check ID.” He sat back and tucked his hands behind his head.
I shrugged. Not like I gave a shit. I pulled my student ID out and held it up. He didn't look at it. “State or federal.”
I stared at the card. “It's issued by a state institution.”
“Nope. Needs to be a State of Texas issued ID card, drivers' license or federal passport.” He was full-on smirking. Like he'd won. Hah.
I dug into my purse for my wallet. “You're not getting rid of me.”
“I will outlast you. I promise?—”
I slapped my drivers' license on the counter. He opened his mouth to say something, then his eyes fell on my hard-won and very official Texas drivers' license. Spent a whole, bland daytime television day in Lubbock County to get it.
“You actually?—”
“Yeah, Cooper. I got a Texas drivers' license.” Adrenaline turned my blood hot and my acrobatic stomach flipped into a pool of simmering stew. “Figured I was going to be here for four years, and it's not like I have anyplace else I'd call home.”
He frowned and pushed the license back at me. “Fine. Go find your interview.” He fixed me with razor-sharp look. “Try being human.”
I seethed. “Look who's talking, ass.”
“Bite me.”
“No thanks.” I snagged my license. “I hear you're poisonous.” I called out over my shoulder as I walked away.
Ugh! How could one person be so aggravatingly obnoxious and-and! Irritating, smug, a total asinine jerkwad. I got to the door, yanked on the handle with a huff, but it wouldn't open. I tried again, but it didn't budge. I took my temper out on the door for a half a second, pulling and jiggling and mentally willing the blasted thing to magically open.
I turned and puffed hair out of my face. “Do you need to unlock the door or something?”
“I'm on my lunch break.” His mouth twitched. He gestured at an apple perched on the edge of the counter, then picked it up, studying it. “You'll have to wait. Or you could leave.” He bit into it.
Another time I might have admired those thick, juicy lips practically kissing the pinkish-tan flesh of that fruit. His tongue darting out of mouth as he bit into juicy, crispy appleness. My stomach growled, when did I last eat?
He dropped his head toward his shoulder as he chewed. His eyes had the nerve to twinkle as he stared. And my traitorous skin flushed hot all over.
I wanted to wring his neck, take his apple and kiss him—into next week.
Or just wring his neck. Argh!
Instead, I smiled through pressed lips and batted my eyelashes. “I can wait. It'll give us a chance to spend more time together.” I shrugged and took a few steps toward him. “I'll just pull up a chair and keep you company while you eat.” I grabbed my phone from my purse. “Or, since I can't meet with Mrs. Schreiber, I could just, you know, interview you, Cooper.”
His Adams apple bobbed in his throat. “No comment.”
“Stop being a child and let me in.”
He took another bite of apple and chewed.
God, I hated him. He left me no choice but to do exactly what I'd threatened. I moved to grab a chair from against the wall. As soon as I picked it up, a buzzing sound rung out. The click of a lock. Ah-ha! I turned and shuffled toward the door. I grasped the handle, and?—
Ca-clack. I pulled. Locked.
“It only stays unlocked for a few seconds.” He made a 'tsk' sound. “Guess you missed it.”
I closed my eyes, took in a deep breath. He'd done that on purpose. “Would you please open the door, again?”
“You had your chance.”
Fine. If that was the way he was going to play it. I'd lettered in track in high school as a sprinter. The door was likely on a ten, maybe fifteen second delay. I could still win this.
I dropped my bag on the ground by the door—then unbuttoned the two top buttons on my blouse and adjusted…things. I pulled the scrunchy from my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders. I spun around, hiked up my skirt to mid-thigh and did my best Dublin Serra, runway model, impression—toward him. “You know, I never properly thanked you.” I lowered my lashes and swung my hips as I walked.
Cooper sat up in his chair. I glanced at the counter and found the button for the door, then met his eyes. “Your shirt, I love to wear it when I'm alone.” Did that sound sexy? I felt rather idiotic, but his gaze traveled lower as I continued my saunter. Maybe this was working? I needed to distract him, just for a fraction of a second.
He cleared his throat. His chair spun to face me. Those powerful thighs in scrub pants curved over the edge of the seat. His legs shifted as I grew closer, moving further apart. His shoes perched on top of the casters. Perfect.
He met my gaze as I leaned over him, placing one hand on the back of his chair. His pupils dilated. I dipped closer—into his very personal space. “I sleep in it at night.” I breathed against his ear. “ Your shirt, Breslin.”
His breath hitched. Something thudded onto the floor. His mouth opened and his tongue licked at his bottom lip. “And only . . .” Something magnetic pulled at me, urging me closer.
My heart thudded wildly. The heat from his skin, his woodsy, masculine scent, the faint sweetness of the apple I could likely taste on his tongue. If I just . . . moved . . . a bit closer.
He filled and overran my senses. I almost gave in to it. So tempting . . .
Almost.
I lurched backward, spinning his chair with a hard shove. I slapped my hand on the unlock button, then launched myself toward the door. I sprinted the length of the hallway, shoes slapping at the tile. Air whipped and crackled around me. I snagged the door handle and pulled. It flew open, crashing into the wall with a heavy thud. I stood there in the doorway for a few seconds, gasping for breath.
I snagged my bag from the ground and shot Coop a hopefully hate-filled glare.
He stood, leaning against the edge of the counter, arms crossed, lips twisted in that exasperatingly sexy, smirky look. I flashed him a grin and raised my middle finger.
And then the darndest thing happened: Breslin the Storm Cooper smiled.
I pulled the door shut behind me.