Whatever smartass retort I might have prepared went up in flames.
It’d been years since I’d gone farther out of town than Corpus. The long stretches of highway with nothing for miles in every direction but grass and crops and cows felt cosmic—as if there was nothing beyond any of it but more of the same, forever. And then we’d go through a town so small that if you blinked you’d miss it, or I’d spy a big decrepit barn set back from the road—roof half caved in, paint peeling—and I’d think, Somebody used to keep livestock in there and now they’re all gone. Did they move? Die? Did they live a good life, out here in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?
We stopped for gas and barbeque in Wharton.
“Still not going to tell me what we’re doing in Houston?”
She took a huge bite of her turkey sandwich, a bit of barbeque sauce running down the side of her hand. “Uhn-uhnn.” She licked the sauce off her hand—her pink tongue darting out to catch it before it got far—and I contemplated my potato salad like I was trying to figure out the recipe. Goddamn.
I took a bite of my sandwich. Took a sip of iced tea. “There’s a game at Minute Maid Park tonight.” I grinned. “Pirates are in town for a four-game series.”
She scowled. “Dammit, Boyce!”
I lowered my sandwich. “Are you serious? We’re going to a baseball game?” I couldn’t stop my voice’s inflection from climbing sky-high right at the end.
Her scowl melted and her words went soft. “Yeah. That was the surprise.”
I shook my head. “What’s that thing Mrs. Thompson used to say when one of her kids startled her, bringing unauthorized critters in the house… Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit!”
Pearl chuckled. “I didn’t think actual people said that.”
“Oh hell yeah—when Randy dragged a baby possum into the kitchen one time, she blurted it right out. That thing like to gave her a coronary on the spot.”
“Oh… my… God.” She laughed until she snorted.
“I’m serious! I’m surprised—so bonus points for that. Not that you’ll need ’em.” I winked. “I aim to show you my sincere appreciation any damn way you want it.”
She swallowed. “Just to remind you…” She leaned closer so the couple at the next table wouldn’t hear. “It’s broad daylight outside, and the parking lot is really small and crowded.”
“Guess you’ll have to wait, then.”
“Guess you will, too,” she said, all wide-eyed innocence, sucking down the last of her iced tea through a straw I was suddenly very jealous of.
Pearl
Boyce was like a kid at Christmas—though as soon as I had that thought I couldn’t bear to think what his Christmases must have been like.
When I pulled up to the valet at the Magnolia, he mumbled, “Holy shit,” before he got out. I handed the valet the keys and Boyce grabbed the bags from the trunk. “S’ok, I got ’em,” he told the impeccably uniformed porter who attempted to carry them to the front desk. He stood silently as I checked us in and didn’t speak another word until I opened the door to the room. “Holy. Shit,” he repeated, making no move to enter.
I walked in, heading for the window, and he followed. “Thomas and Mama always stay at the Magnolia whenever they’re in Houston. I’m using their points for the room. This building is almost a hundred years old, and Minute Maid Park is”—I opened the drapes wide—“right there.”
He came to stand next to me and we stared at the park.
“They let you do that? Use their points to stay with me this weekend?” He was still holding both bags, as if he might bolt right back out of the room with them.
I took them from him and set them aside. “They didn’t want me staying at some seedy motel in the middle of Houston.” I took his hands and leaned to put my chin on his chest. He stared down at me. “So… have you noticed the bed?” I asked. “The one right there behind me?”
His gaze flicked over my shoulder to look at it. “It’s big.”
I bit my lip at that straightforward observation and the way his eyes darted around the plush room. I wondered if he’d ever slept in a king-sized bed. Or seen one. He reminded me of Mama in New York on my parents’ honeymoon—a bit overawed.
Distraction—that’s what he needed. “We’ve got an hour until dinner reservations at an awesome steakhouse between here and the ballpark. Just don’t wrinkle me.”
His arms slid around my waist, dragging my hands behind my back, and that dark red brow angled up. “How do you propose I keep from doing that? Especially when I aim to toss you right in the middle of that bed in a couple seconds to build your appetite for round two later tonight.”
I turned to hide my smug smile and pulled my heavy ponytail aside, and he slid the zipper down my back at an agonizingly slow pace. “I did say we only had an hour, right?”
He sped it to the bottom and spun me around to pull the dress down my arms. “I aim to please, ma’am.”
“I believe you.” I leaned up to kiss his scruffy chin. “So do I.”
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
Over dinner, Boyce told me what Thomas was doing for him. I was so stunned and grateful and happy I started crying.
The waiter hovered politely out of earshot and Boyce leaned closer. “Why are you crying?”
“I just… You were going to leave town, and now you’re not, and… I don’t know. Because I’m happy?”
He shook his head. “So because you’re happy, you’re crying?”
I laughed once and patted my napkin under both eyes. “Yeah.”
“Women do understand why men get confused over these kinda responses, right?”
“Of course not,” I said. “We give you all the clues. You just have to read them.”
He angled a brow. “That right there is a trap.”
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
When I came out of the bathroom, Boyce had switched off all the lights but one. He sat in the middle of the bed in boxers and a gray tee, watching me cross the room. “Thank you for tonight,” he said. “Nobody’s ever done something like this for me.”
I shook my humidity-defeated hair loose from the elastic and slid the band onto my wrist. Boyce’s green eyes flared. I might lament my hair’s irrepressible nature, but he liked it. He liked the glasses I was wearing too. Liked removing them, as if they were one more item of my clothing he was confiscating. I pulled at a coil of hair and twisted it around my finger, and his mouth tightened.
“I’m glad you had fun,” I said. “Sorry they lost, though. At least it was just one point.”
When he smirked, the action always came from his left side. Left eye crinkled at the corner. Left corner of his mouth angled like it was pointing at something. One barely-there dimple in his left cheek. He ducked his chin, staring, and my whole body strained forward, needing his touch.
“A one-run loss is aggravating, but they lose a lot. Us diehards are conditioned to it. Watching that game live and in person—being there with all the other fans—it was fucking awesome. I don’t even care who won.”