chapter 20
DAVE DEMBINSKI LOOKED utterly loaded for bear, glaring at everybody with a tight face as he strode through the plate glass doors of the team HQ. Ignoring Taylor and the other AGM’s, he growled a curt order to his secretary before slamming shut the inner door to his office.
That’s what losing three of four in Atlanta will do to you.
Taylor gave a little prayer of thanks that she hadn’t had to make that road trip. The early morning plane ride home must have been pure agony. Not only had the Patriots returned with only one win in four games, they’d basically given away the last one, thanks to Ryan’s eighth inning error. She’d watched that play in horror at her apartment, on the verge of throwing up as the Atlanta superstation replayed his wretched throw again and again. Though Ryan had tried to maintain a stony expression, Taylor knew his features so well that she could see his heart was in shreds. Above all else, Ryan Locke was a team man, and he’d let his team down.
Again.
As much as she longed to console him, she hadn’t called him after the game. He would have been surrounded the whole time by players, coaches and other staff, first in the clubhouse and then on the team bus and airplane. Anyway, she figured he needed time to digest what had happened, and wouldn’t want her or anybody else pressing him to talk about it. He’d have hunkered down with a get the hell away from me stare that the other players would have understood and accepted as a normal reaction to a brutal performance.
Still, Taylor couldn’t help a few flickers of disappointment that Ryan hadn’t called her. Yes, she got that players needed time to think and absorb, and that he’d have been so exhausted by the game and the early morning trip home that he was probably still in bed at this hour. But deep down she’d hoped he would call. She still hoped he would.
She kept telling herself she was being silly and unprofessional. But that didn’t make it any less real, or leave her with any less of an ache inside.
Dembinski’s obvious rage had to be at least partially directed at Ryan, and likely at her, too. Though the rest of the players hadn’t exactly covered themselves in glory in Atlanta, Ryan had been the architect of yesterday’s loss. Only a week into the experiment of shifting him to first base—the experiment she’d convinced Dembinski to go along with—it was already unraveling. Ryan’s defense was costing the team runs, and his weakness in the field had started to affect his production at that plate, too. And if Ryan couldn’t get on base and score, the Patriots would be better off handing the job to the light-hitting Ramiro Cruz. At least Cruz wouldn’t butcher plays in the field.
Taylor knew her credibility was on the line more than ever. She and Ryan Locke were entwined—in more ways than one.
Her intercom buzzed. Taylor picked it up instantly, her heart thudding because she had no doubt who was on the line.
“My office,” Dembinski spat and hung up.
Taylor sighed as she picked up her leather-bound folio. She felt like she was back in high school, summoned to the principal’s office for smoking in the rest room.
“Close the door,” he said after she gave a quick knock and entered his spacious domain. Unlike his unassuming Clearwater hole in the wall, the general manager’s office at the Patriots’ home park befitted the chief executive officer of a high-profile corporation. From the expansive view of the river to the rich hardwood of the furniture and the plush carpet, Dembinski’s five hundred square foot lair spoke of pure power. The power to dish out over a hundred million dollars in player salaries. The power to determine the fate of every player and coach. The power to fire her ass.
Forget that for now. Just get out of here alive.
Taylor dreamed of occupying this same office one day, sitting in a high-back chair similar to the one Dembinski had just swiveled around to face her. She sat down in one of the cushioned chairs across from his enormous, paper-littered desk.
“I presume you watched the game last night,” Dembinski said with no greeting. He was leaning back in his chair, looking totally corporate today in a dark three piece suit she hadn’t seen before. He’d probably managed only four or five hours sleep, though you couldn’t tell from his eyes or the way he presented himself. Hard-ass, tough guy all the way.
Taylor nodded, balancing her folio on crossed knees. Without her computer in front of her, she always felt a little naked talking to her boss. “Of course. Hell of a tough loss.”
“No kidding.” His frown intensified. “Taylor, what the f*ck’s going on with Locke? Jack can’t get anything out of him, and we’re both so pissed we’re about ready to dump the guy after last night’s fiasco.”
Startled by his blunt language, Taylor stifled a gasp before she instinctively lifted her shoulders in a shrug.
“Oh, don’t go giving me one of your famous shrugs,” Dembinski snapped. “You and Locke talk. Everybody knows that. And if anybody can figure out what’s going on with him, you can.”
Hell, what does he know? Taylor had been so careful. Was he extrapolating from what had happened at the reception?
“All I know is that he’s a little troubled by his daughter’s situation,” she said, her nerves doing a demented dance through her body. “The girl’s in a private school in New York state, and she’s suffering a lot of bullying. It’s really getting to him.”
In truth, though, Taylor wasn’t convinced that Devon’s situation was even close to a full answer to what was causing Ryan’s rotten play. Sure, it was affecting him deeply, but the types of mistakes he was making struck her as inconsistent with the patterns she’d seen during all her years of intently studying player performance. If it was simply a matter of stress and worry, she thought it would be affecting all aspects of his game. And yet his glove work remained exceptional and, until the last few games, he was still getting on base with his usual efficiency.
No, unless she’d suddenly turned stupid, Taylor feared that Ryan had contracted the nightmare disease that had stalled or even ruined the careers of several major leaguers over the years. And if she was right about that, time was no cure. Nor was hard work. There was a specialist who’d had some success in helping several players, but even that was far from a guarantee that all would be well for Ryan in the end.
After last night, Taylor knew one thing for certain—she had to get Ryan to acknowledge the problem and get treatment. For both their sakes.
“Jesus have mercy, is that it?” Dembinski thundered. “A guy’s making seven figures, and yet his game goes all to hell because his kid’s having a little trouble at school? There’s got to be more to it than that. Locke’s a veteran, not some snot-nosed kid.”
Taylor knew she should she tell him about her sickening theory. But an affliction like that would call into question Ryan’s future in the game, and she couldn’t talk to her boss about it before at least trying to get Ryan on board for seeking treatment.
So, as much as she wanted to be completely honest with Dembinski, all Taylor’s instincts told her to keep her disturbing theory to herself for now.
“Dave, you know he’s a single parent, and that’s got to be incredibly hard for a ballplayer to deal with. Now, he’s had to switch teams and learn a new position, all the while trying to cope with a situation involving his daughter that he obviously finds very troubling. He’s going through a big adjustment, and I think we’re going to have to be as patient with him as we possibly can.”
Dembinski sat up straight, leaning his arms onto the desk and scowling. “Screw patience. We’re a lousy four and four after eight games, and that sure as hell wasn’t the start of the season our ownership and our fans wanted. And Locke’s cost us too many runs already. I’m going to talk to Jack again this morning, but I don’t see that we’ve got any choice but to bench the guy soon unless he gets his shit together. Hell, I don’t know whether we should even give him one more start, but I’ll let Jack make the final call on that.” He shook his head in obvious disgust. “This trade’s starting to make me look like a jackass.”
Waves of nausea rolled through Taylor’s stomach. What could she say?
“And if the shit sticks to me, Taylor, believe me, a ton of it is going to attach itself firmly to you, too. Every coach and scout in the organization knows the Locke trade was your idea, and there are a lot of guys who’d like nothing better than to see you have to wear a disaster like this. Rightly or wrongly, you’re not on that many Christmas card lists around here.”
She stiffened, practically feeling the shiv go in between her shoulder blades. Rightly or wrongly? What did that mean?
Although Dembinski was pretty much old school, Taylor had always thought he didn’t share the Neanderthal attitudes of many of the team’s staff. That had been a big part of the reason why she’d agreed to make the move to the Patriots in the first place. But now it sounded like he was backing off his support for her, and fast.
The prospect of starting out her first season with the Patriots by making a costly mistake left her dizzy and weak, groping for words and finding none that she could say in her own defense. Dembinski was right. She’d effectively bet the farm on Ryan Locke, so blissfully sure of her facts and figures that she’d glossed over the possibility that something could go tragically wrong with the human being behind the statistics.
As it so often did in baseball.
Dembinski’s tight jaw twitched as he stared at her. “F*ck, are you all right? You’re as white as a sheet all of a sudden.”
Taylor shook her head, digging down deep to find some strength. “No, no, I’m fine. And I hear you, Dave. You and Jack have got to do what you’ve got to do. I still think Locke will snap out of it, because there’s nothing but pure character in his history. But if he’s going to keep hurting the team, he shouldn’t play. End of story.”
The words had come up out of her throat like a procession of razor blades, each one slicing and wounding. But as much as it tortured her to say them, she had to think like a general manager of a professional baseball team, not a prideful analyst intent on seeing herself proven right. And certainly not like the lover of the man in question, God help her. She’d created the mess by pushing Dembinski into the trade, and then she’d made it a hundred times more complicated by getting involved with Ryan, against every ounce of her better judgment.
“Well, with the day off today, we’ve got twenty-four hours or so to think about what we’re going to do tomorrow.” The GM took another noisy slurp from his cup, then sighed. “But Taylor?”
His dark eyes couldn’t have been any more steely. “Yes?” she managed.
“I know you won’t say anything to Locke about this conversation, because the last thing we need is any disruption in the clubhouse. If we have to bench him, we’ll do it right before game time.”
The fact that her boss felt he had to make such an obvious point was tantamount to sticking a knife in Taylor’s heart. How had she fallen so far in his estimation in such a short time? And what could she do about it?
Taylor summoned up every bit of grit she could find in her body and brain, returning his stare with equal intensity. “Dave, I would never do anything that isn’t in the best interests of this baseball club. If I haven’t proven that to you yet, I assure you I will.”
When Dembinski locked her in a frosty gaze, it turned into something of a staring contest. Taylor knew she had to let the GM know right then and there that she was not only loyal, she wasn’t going to let herself be intimidated. Not even if that was exactly how she felt at the moment.
He finally snorted and shook his head. “You do that. Now let’s get to work.”
* * *
TAYLOR ALWAYS LOOKED sexy. Drop dead sexy, even at those times Ryan had spotted her in jeggings and a team windbreaker with her hair pulled through the back of a knock-off team cap. But tonight, he could only describe her as completely mouth-watering. Her short black dress, tailored to perfection, afforded some very sweet views of creamy breasts and beautifully toned thighs and made it impossible for him to take his eyes off her, even for a few seconds.
Though Ryan felt like the world was about to fall down on his head, it seemed a brighter place because of the woman sitting across the linen-covered table from him. The soft candlelight bathed her in a warm yellow glow, highlighting and adding even more richness to her silky, blond hair. Her skin, so smooth and perfect, made him remember how it had felt under his fingers and his lips last week when she shared his hotel room bed. It seemed so long ago, but the memory couldn’t have been more vivid.
The road trip had been hell on wheels, and missing Taylor had made it that much worse. At least tonight he could look forward to her lying in his arms once again. She’d probably bail out early, as she’d done last week, but even a few hours with Taylor Page would be a much-needed antidote to his baseball funk. He’d take whatever time she could give him, and gladly.
In fact, every time he looked at her he could barely keep himself from dragging her out of the restaurant and doing her right in his SUV, tasting every inch of her sweet body that he could get his mouth on before f*cking her as if their lives depended on it. Yeah, it was a total caveman reaction but, hey, it wasn’t like his relationship with Taylor was just some kind of meaningless sex-fest. He cared about her, too—a hell of a lot. Every time he saw her, he realized that more and more.
“Wonderful food, wasn’t it?” Taylor murmured after the server took their dinner plates away. “Well worth the little drive.”
She’d suggested Susanna Foo’s restaurant in Radnor, a Main Line suburb of Philadelphia just west of the Villanova University campus. A bit out of the way, but featuring maybe the best Asian Fusion Ryan had ever tasted, it had been a perfect choice. It didn’t thrill him that Taylor wanted to keep their relationship on the down low, but he understood her reasons. Who knew where things between them would end up, so why should she take any risk of ticking off the Patriots’ upper management?
“The only thing better than the food was the view,” he said with a grin.
Taylor glanced past a forest of restaurant greenery in big ceramic pots and out the window at a dark and completely unremarkable parking lot. The sun had dipped down over the horizon a half hour ago. “I’d say the view is definitely not one of the place’s attractions.”
Ryan raked his eyes over her again. “I wasn’t talking about that view.”
He thought Taylor actually blushed, apparently appreciating his sincere compliment. She’d seemed tense and reserved earlier, but had gradually started to loosen up after the meal and a second glass of wine. They’d managed to avoid talking about baseball, mainly because he’d rebuffed a couple of forays she’d attempted in that area. The last thing he wanted was to rehash the Atlanta trip, which he thought of as his zombie series since he’d certainly played like one of the spastic undead. But the time had passed quickly, anyway, as they chatted about the apartment he’d found, Taylor’s weekend adventures with her mother, and things of little consequence.
He had to wonder, though, if Taylor had heard how badly Jack Ault had ragged his ass after the last game—in private, thank God, not in the clubhouse—telling him to “just f*cking well relax and stop thinking about making a bad throw.” The skipper might as well have told him to stop breathing, for the chances of it happening were about the same. Ryan could barely think of anything else but how his arm was betraying him. Every time a throw veered away from its target, he wondered how something so simple could go so terribly wrong. Little kids could throw a ball straight. It came naturally to everyone other than the terminally uncoordinated. And a professional ballplayer—barring extreme circumstances like having to really rush or throw on the run—should be able to fire a baseball around the diamond with pinpoint accuracy.
But Ryan’s pinpoint accuracy had degenerated to pure, gut-turning wildness.
Taylor pursed her glossy pink lips for a moment then exhaled a little sigh. “Since you haven’t mentioned Devon all evening, can I assume you haven’t heard from her?”
“No, I haven’t,” he said, shaking his head. He chose not to elaborate.
That was the other subject he didn’t want to talk about. Ryan had been sorely tempted, given that it was an off day, to drive up to Edenwood and try to get to the bottom of what was going on with his daughter. But the movers had been at his new place today. In any case, he’d decided to let Devon be for a little while yet since she’d resent him even more if he showed up in the lobby of the dorm like one of those overbearing helicopter parents. Yeah, she was fine—at least according to the school—but that didn’t make her silence any easier to take. He’d even left her a message today telling her that he was getting set up in his new apartment, so she should think about coming to Philly and spending the weekend with him.
“I’m afraid she sounds like a bit of a grudge holder,” Taylor said with an apologetic grimace. “It’s her way of punishing you when you don’t do what she wants. My brother used to do that with my dad.”
He shrugged, but Taylor had actually summed it up fairly well. Ryan was the first to acknowledge that Devon had been dealt a damn tough hand as a kid, and he took his share of the blame for that. So, he could never bring himself to stay angry with her. Not for very long, anyway. Still, he’d always refused to baby her in any way. The best gift he could give her was to help her travel the path to becoming a strong, confident and self-sufficient young woman. If that meant he’d continue to be on the receiving end of grudges and silent snits, well, that was a price he’d keep paying.
“I’d like to meet her when she comes down here,” Taylor said.
“If she comes down here, you mean,” Ryan said sardonically.
Taylor gave him a patient smile.
“Sure,” he said, regretting that he sounded like such a negative a*shole. “Of course you’ll meet her. Unless I get sent down to the minors.”
So much for not being negative.
He forced a grin. “Forget I said that. It must be the wine talking, though I think you’re ahead of me on that score.”
Taylor didn’t look amused. “Yes, that was just crazy talk. Besides, you know you can’t be forced to go down to the minors. Not with your service status.”
No, but the Patriots could put me on waivers. God knows what would happen then.
Ryan tried to banish those useless, stupid thoughts. Taylor’s quick comeback had eased his worry on that score, anyway, because she’d know if there was any discussion about sending him down. But, then again, would she tell him?
“Yeah,” he said as he poured what was left in the wine bottle into Taylor’s glass.
Taylor shifted in her seat, crossing her legs and suddenly looking uncomfortable. Ryan thought her hand trembled slightly as she picked up her glass.
“Is something wrong, Taylor?” he asked.
She shook her head but kept her eyes averted, as if she was staring at somebody behind him. Then she sighed, as if having made a decision. “Ryan, it’s obvious you don’t want to talk about what’s been happening on the field, and I understand why. But it’s like an elephant in the room, demanding attention. We’ve both been tense all evening, and I feel like if we don’t talk about what’s going on, things could start sliding downhill pretty fast.”
Her eyes told him she found the subject as painful as he did, so he didn’t doubt her sincerity. But he couldn’t help reacting defensively. He’d never gotten out of a slump in his life by blabbing about it. In fact, he’d found that focusing on the problem had always made it even tougher to overcome. What was happening to him was weird, but it would pass in time, like every other slump had.
Because it had to, or he was screwed beyond all hope.
“You’re right,” he said curtly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Taylor inhaled sharply. “Then I’ll just say what I have to say and hope you’ll listen. Because I have to.” She gave him an almost pleading look. “And I have to because I care about you, Ryan.”
What was that supposed to mean? Ryan liked the fact that she’d admitted she cared about him—though that seemed pretty obvious after what had happened in his bed last week—but why did caring about him mean she had to make him dwell on how he’d been screwing up on the field? That sounded like some kind of weird chick stuff to him. But what was he supposed to do, walk out on her? That would be an even worse option.
“Okay, let’s get it over with,” he said. He caught the waiter’s eye and made a hand signal to bring another bottle of the same wine. He figured he was going to need it.
* * *
TAYLOR LIKED TO think she could always dig down and find courage when she needed it. Yes, sometimes a little fortification was required, like the two glasses of wine she’d allowed herself tonight. But one thing she’d learned in her thirty years on the planet was that not talking about something, be it personal or business, didn’t make it go away. It would just grow or fester.
Sleeping with Ryan remained as bad an idea as ever. She’d known it that day in Sand Key Park, and she’d known it when she fell back into his brawny arms the following week, pathetically incapable of staying away from him. She kept thinking about the old saying—the first step in getting out of a hole is to stop digging. But whenever she thought about having to stop what she was doing with Ryan, her shovel came back out of the shed with a vengeance.
How could she not want to race straight to his bed every night? No one but him had ever made her body vibrate with anticipation at every touch of a big, calloused hand, or made her damp with desire even after a simple look or a crooked smile. She wasn’t much of a fan for romcoms or romance novels, but she’d thought that sort of crazy physical reaction happened only in supermarket fiction or the movies. While sex with other men had been okay, what she and Ryan shared was as different from those casual experiences as Little League ball was from the major leagues. Even now, about to embark on one of the most difficult conversations she’d ever had, Taylor felt flushed, desperately wanting the man whose leg kept brushing hers under the table, sending prickles shivering through her body.
It took no courage to ignore the elephant in the room, and that was exactly what her body was demanding she do. But Taylor wouldn’t let her brain and her good sense give up that easily. Ryan had to confront the issue square on, and it was clearly going to be up to her to get him started.
“You know you’re far from the first player that this has happened to,” she began, forcing herself to lock her gaze on his. “Crazy stuff, like sudden and inexplicable loss of control. Throws that go anyplace but where you want them to.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed a little, but otherwise he showed no reaction.
“Extra practice doesn’t help,” she continued. “Tricks don’t help. More concentration, less concentration, more relaxation, more positive thoughts, blanking it out—none of it works, right? Everybody tells you to try something different. Everybody thinks they’ve got the answer. But it doesn’t matter what you try, the problem doesn’t go away. It just gets worse.”
He gave a dismissive snort. “It’s not like I haven’t had a lot on my mind for the past while, have I? Thanks to Devon and especially thanks to that trade you engineered, blocking me from going to the AL.”
Ouch.
His voice wasn’t bitter, but the edge was unmistakable.
Taylor shook her head. “Sure, stress and change can trigger slumps. But you know this isn’t like that, Ryan. You know this is bigger than some ordinary slump. A slump doesn’t make you forget how to throw a baseball, does it?”
He gave that rhetorical question a couple of seconds thought before shaking his head. “I don’t know anything,” he said stubbornly. “Other than that talking about it is going to make it worse.”
“I think it depends on who you’re talking to,” she countered.
Ryan didn’t respond, taking another drink instead.
Taylor forged ahead, determined to press him. “You remember these names—Steve Blass, Steve Sax, Mark Wohlers, Rick Ankiel? Just to name some of the more prominent guys who had the problem? Well, they probably reacted about the same when it first hit them.”
Ryan’s jaw dropped, almost like she’d punched him hard in the gut.
“You’re comparing me to those guys?” He shook his head contemptuously. “They were all pitchers, except Sax, and he worked through his problem.”
Taylor thought his protest sounded forced. If she didn’t miss her guess, he’d been thinking along those lines already, too. “A few guys do get over it on their own, but it can take years. You don’t have that kind of time.”
He gave another snort. “Wow, what a cheery outlook. Thanks for that bit of sunshine, babe.”
The look on his face spliced her heart in two, but she couldn’t stop now. “I’m sorry, but you know it’s true. Ryan, it’s not something you can do on your own. You must realize that.” Taylor wanted to grab him and shake him out of his stubborn refusal to acknowledge the truth. If he didn’t get help, she was convinced his career was in jeopardy.
And hers, too, because the two couldn’t be separated.
If Ryan failed, it would be a disaster for them both. For better or for worse, from the day she convinced Dembinski and the rest to make the trade for Ryan, their fortunes were tied together. If he went down, she might well go down, too. At least in the sense that her aspirations for the GM position would take a potentially fatal hit. The Patriot players would stay focused and loyal to their teammate—they always did. But management, coaches, scouts, and media relations staff had zero loyalty to any player, or to any manager other than the GM. In fact, Taylor knew that skeptical, questioning comments had already started to make their way around the team offices.
“I figure I just need a couple of more days off from playing first,” he said with no discernible conviction.
You may get more than a couple of days of rest, pal.
“You need to talk somebody with expertise in this field,” she countered.
Ryan’s eyes widened, then his mouth contorted into a grimace. “A shrink, right? Or some sports psychologist? Oh, hell, why not find a medium and conduct a séance? That would be as good as drowning me in some bullshit psychobabble.” His voice had started to rise in tandem with the color creeping up his neck. “I tried that crap once, years ago, when I was in a long slump. It may work for some guys, but it didn’t do a damn thing for me.”
Frustrated, Taylor decided she had to dial it back a notch if she had any hope of getting somewhere with a typically pig-headed jock. “I know a little about this problem, Ryan, because I went through something along these lines in L.A. with Kevin Saint. A doctor in New York by the name of Farley helped him a lot. I can get you his number—and I really think you need to call him.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Ryan said. “Let it go, Taylor. I can deal with my own problems. I always have.”
Taylor could see Ryan was in no mood to be pushed. The grim cast of his features made it clear that if she kept at him, the night would be over in the time it took him to drop her off at her apartment.
Maybe it would be over no matter what she said at this point.
But she had no real choice but to push him more, because he was wrong. She knew that as well as she knew every statistic about him. Players were rarely if ever able to spontaneously overcome the type of throwing disease Ryan appeared to have contracted.
“I’m afraid that this time you can’t,” Taylor said. “You need professional guidance, and not from one of the team shrinks, either. You’ve got to listen to me, Ryan. Please, I know what I’m talking about here.”
His eyes narrowed, cold as chips of ice. “What do you know about actually playing baseball, Taylor? Sure, you can spout statistics and probabilities until people’s heads spin off their necks, but when was the last time you stood in a batter’s box and tried to hit a ninety-five mile an hour fastball? Or tried to throw all the way across a baseball diamond with power and accuracy? Never, that’s when. So, don’t try to tell me you know how to fix my problem.”
Taylor’s stomach contracted into a hard little ball as she studied Ryan’s disdainful, almost contemptuous expression. Yes, he was pissed off at her, but his eyes betrayed more than that. A lot of hurt was there, too.
What must he be going through inside? With his livelihood on the line, his body and his mind were failing him almost every time he gripped a baseball. Something which had once been as easy and natural as drawing breath had become impossibly difficult. The transformation was so sudden and shocking that it was no wonder he remained in denial.
Taylor steeled herself not to flinch in face of his anger, because she knew she wouldn’t be able to look into a mirror tomorrow if she wimped out now.
“You’re right. I’m no big league player, and I can only guess what you’re going through. But is that a good excuse for dismissing what I have to say?” The pitch of her voice was rising, so she slowed down, taking a couple of deep breaths. “You of all people know how precarious your situation is. Do you really want to trust that time and hard work will make everything right again? Can you really look me in the eye and tell me that’s all you need to do?”
Ryan lowered his eyes, as if studying the wine glass that he gripped tight in his fingers. For a few seconds, he remained silent, but then he raised his gaze to meet hers. “Please don’t make me have to tell you again to drop this, Taylor.”
Swamped by waves of both frustration and hurt, Taylor exhaled a sigh that seemed to come all the way from her toes. She was about to lash out with a bitter reply, but fortunately managed to bite back the words that might have turned out to be the last he’d ever let her say to him.
“Ryan,” she said after schooling her features, “please just call Dr. Farley. One telephone conversation, that’s all. If he isn’t able to convince you to give his approach a try, then I’ll never say a word about it again.”
Talk about giving a hostage to fortune. Could I really make good on that promise when our careers are at stake?
Ryan averted his gaze and waved at their server for the bill. “This evening is over,” he said as he turned his gaze back to her.
He might as well have built a towering stone wall between them.