Reaching First Read online

  Anna continued, as if she were impervious to the sinful waves of attraction washing off the ballplayer in front of her. Which, come to think of it, she probably was, with her own true love watching attentively at her side. “The team thinks it’s important, Tyler, for your community service to be highly visible. We need you helping the citizens of Raleigh, showing that you have the best interests of your new home in mind. I’ve asked Emily here because she has a project that meets all of our needs.”

  Anna flashed her a broad smile, gesturing with one open hand as if to say, “The floor is yours.” Emily barely resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose, to roll her eyes, even to stick out her tongue. Wasn’t it just like Anna to put her on the spot like this?

  But truth be told, Emily had played plenty of her own manipulative games in the past. Just a few weeks ago, she’d forced Anna and Zach into a conversation that neither of them had wanted to have—and look how things had turned out there! She might as well embrace the opportunity Anna was giving her.

  Easier said than done. Her cheeks were on fire. She wanted to run her fingers through her hair, but she knew that would make her look like she was five years old—the curse of having shoulder-length blonde curls. She’d give anything for something to hold in her hands, something to keep her fingers busy.

  But three pairs of eyes were on her. She could ignore Anna and Zach. But not Tyler. He might be the one person who could help her achieve her dreams. She took a deep breath and forced herself to look directly at him as she explained.

  “About a year ago, my Aunt Minerva passed away,” she said. “Aunt Minnie was…a strong-willed woman, bless her heart.” She paused, to see if Tyler understood that Minnie had been an unrepentant pain in the ass.

  He nodded, his lips twitching. And suddenly she wanted to keep on talking, to ramble on forever, if that’s what it took to make him smile again.

  “Long story short, Minnie wanted her fortune to help veterans and their families. She left me her house and her bank account, but only for one year. After that, her executor will decide if I’ve used her legacy sufficiently. If I haven’t, I’ll have to move out of the house, and any remaining funds are forfeit to a rescue program for cockatiels.”

  “Cockatiels.” He stretched the word with a soft drawl she hadn’t noticed in the flurry of their introduction. “Doesn’t sound like she was serious.”

  “She was deadly serious,” Emily assured him. “She owned one of those birds, loved it more than her human family. The damn thing terrorized me every time she let it out of the cage.”

  “So, she was trying to motivate you.” There was that hint of a smile again, causing something to spiral loose deep inside her.

  “And it worked,” she said, reminding herself to focus. Anna might have dragged her here against her will, but she’d be a fool to let this opportunity go by. The sexy, wayward baseball player in front of her just might be the key to meeting Minnie’s impossible demands. “I’ve spent the past year trying to figure out what to do with the money. I meet with Ethan Samson, Minnie’s executor, once a month, every month. First, I was going to open a day care center, but Mr. Samson ultimately decided there were plenty of options for child care on and near the base. Then, I was going to open a library, but Mr. Samson shot down that idea, saying Wake County’s public libraries are more than sufficient for our veterans’ needs. For three months, I was going to build a health care clinic, but there’s the VA hospital right here in town.”

  Emily let some of her frustration wash into her words. She’d worked hard on each proposal, done her research about the community, about its needs. Mr. Samson was a fussy old man with as much imagination as a stick.

  “Sounds like you’re running out of time,” Tyler said.

  “I am. And I’d almost be willing to give up, to walk away from the whole damn thing, except I finally hit on an idea that works. Mr. Samson signed off on it last month.” She took a deep breath, still not used to sharing her concept with strangers. “I’m converting the building into Minerva House. It’ll be a clearinghouse for veterans’ spouses, a one-stop center to get the support they need. We’ll have a resource room with computers and a separate classroom space, for group training sessions. We’ll have a lending library for all sorts of specialized books—everything from cost-efficient household management to non-traditional education to mental health care. We’ll have quiet rooms, where people can meet with others in similar situations, a safe space to talk about the challenges everyone is facing. And we’ll have a room for kids, with educational toys and projects, all sorts of things to keep kids interested while their parents take advantage of everything else we offer.”

  “So, basically, you’re taking all the individual things this Samson guy wouldn’t accept and combining them into one. You’re doing a day care center and a library and a health care clinic.”

  He was laughing at her. Her cheeks heated and she glanced at Anna and Zach, but she kept her voice even as she said, “If the shoe fits… I’m trained as a social worker. I know how to work systems, how to get people the individual care they need. Minerva House will give me a base of operations, a jumping-off point for everyone.”

  “Sounds like you have your work cut out for you.”

  “I do. I have seven weeks left before Aunt Minnie’s deadline.”

  “Seven weeks before everything goes to the birds.”

  Yeah. He was definitely laughing at her. But she forced herself to shrug like she didn’t really care. “Because Mr. Samson dragged his feet for so long, I can’t get a reliable contractor to take on the job in the time that’s left.”

  “And how am I supposed to help?”

  “I have a handyman who can do most of the work. But he needs another pair of hands for a lot of it. The house is a gorgeous old colonial, but Aunt Minnie didn’t put much into it for…decades.” Ever, she thought.

  Emily had been living in the house for a year, and she was used to its eccentricities. So what if it took the water fifteen minutes to heat up for a shower? What if a strong north wind sliced through the gaps between the windows and their sills, forcing her to sleep beneath a pile of blankets in the king-size bed on the second floor?

  She continued. “There’s a lot of straightforward physical stuff that needs to be done—upgrading the electricity, reworking the plumbing. The floors need refinishing, and the house has to be painted top to bottom.”

  “And you think I’m the man for the job.”

  She thought he was the man for some job. She bit her tongue to keep from making that utterly inappropriate suggestion. Instead, she nodded toward Anna and Zach, who had observed their entire exchange with palpable amusement. “They think you’re the man for the job. If things were left to me, I’d hire a second handyman.”

  Anna waved off her skepticism. “Tyler owes the court one hundred hours. He has three months to complete his service, but there’s no penalty if he wraps things up early.”

  * * *

  That was Tyler’s cue to say how hard he was willing to work. But instead he found himself saying, “Sorry. Sounds like you need someone else to do the job.” He saw Ms. Benson frown, and Ormond looked pissed, but they’d have to get over it.

  Sure, Tyler could do the handyman crap. He’d learned all that and more, working with his daddy. One advantage of having a hard-ass father who made him do his chores before he could get out of the house for practice, day in, day out, the entire time he was growing up.

  But what would happen after the painting was done? If he still owed time, she’d ask for help setting up the computers. Putting books on shelves. Doing a hundred things he couldn’t do.

  Shit. If he was going to fuck up, he might as well do it right now, instead of letting six weeks go by. Instead of letting Emily Holt get to the very edge of her deadline, then telling her she was screwed.

  Because suddenly, inexplicably, he really didn’t want to disappoint Emily Holt.

  Not when she was standing there, looking like he’
d just taken away her favorite stuffed animal. Not when her eyes were welling up with sudden tears, when she was staring straight ahead with an obvious determination not to blink. Not when her lower lip was trembling.

  And that was a damn sexy lower lip. He could picture himself reaching out to touch it with his forefinger. Her mouth would be warm, hot, like her palm had been when they’d shaken hands.

  Community service was supposed to be a punishment. He knew that. It would force him to take time away from the ballpark, from the team, from settling into his new life in Raleigh.

  But community service didn’t seem nearly as bad, if Emily Holt was his jailer.

  There. She was pulling herself together. She barely took a heartbeat to press her manicured nails right beneath her eyes, obviously forbidding herself to cry. She licked her lips—damn!—and she raised her chin with a look of defiance that was only underscored by the shake of her blond curls.

  “Mr. Brock, I understand if you’re not interested in helping out with Minerva House. It really wasn’t fair for Anna and Zach to put you on the spot this way.”

  There was fire beneath her words. Pride. She was blushing again, and the color looked good on her cheeks.

  Shit. He’d just have to make sure the hundred hours ended before the physical work was done. Shoving down his own nerves, the flash of cold fire that ate away at his gut when he thought about all those computers, all those books, he said, “Shoot. I’ve got to do something to satisfy the court. We can make this work. Just don’t call me ‘Mr. Brock.’ I’m Tyler.”

  Her sudden smile caught him by surprise. She wasn’t just some random woman who could sign his papers and get him out of jail, free. She was beautiful. Beautiful enough that his jeans suddenly felt too tight. Eager to disguise his cock’s version of being a reliable worker, he stepped forward and offered up a handshake. “I’m game, if you are.”

  * * *

  Game. Emily’s girl parts jumped at the word. But she was building castles out of a scattering of words. Tyler wasn’t inviting her to play. Not in the way her pounding heart wanted to, anyway.

  She had enough presence of mind to shake on the deal before she turned back to Anna’s desk and accepted the paperwork Zach handed her. There was a log to monitor Tyler’s hours, and a draft affidavit to submit to the court, along with half a dozen other forms.

  Anna frowned as Emily started signing the official pages. “I don’t want things starting off on the wrong foot,” she warned Tyler, sounding every inch the team owner. “Just last year, Rick Thomas got community service after his DUI. When he failed to complete his hours, he ended up in jail. For his full sentence.”

  “That won’t be a problem here,” Tyler said.

  “Your new contract is contingent on your completing this service.”

  “I will,” Tyler said, his voice tighter than before.

  “We’ll have to satisfy a judge, once you’ve finished all one hundred hours.”

  Tyler swallowed hard, bowing his head and looking humble. “You don’t have to worry, Ms. Benson. I won’t embarrass you or the Rockets in front of any court.”

  Emily heard the promise, and she saw Anna nod in tight acceptance. All the while, she kept thinking, one hundred hours. One hundred hours, to spend in the company of the most gorgeous man she’d seen in ages. One hundred hours, to get her own life back on track, to finally put her lay-off behind her and get back to her social work career. One hundred hours to finish Minerva House.

  It seemed like all the time in the world. And like it could never be enough.

  CHAPTER 2

  This was bullshit.

  Tyler was lost in the middle of Raleigh, even though he’d done exactly what he’d always done in Texas. He’d listened carefully when Zach Ormond gave him Emily’s address. He’d repeated it back, setting it in his memory. He’d spoken it into his phone the first chance he got, clearly and precisely, and he’d watched the map spin out across the Raleigh metro area.

  And he’d gotten hopelessly lost driving the goddamn surface streets to goddamn Aunt Minnie’s goddamn house. He’d stopped at a gas station for directions, then asked some woman who was walking along the sidewalk with a baby stroller that looked like it had a better chassis than his crappy rental car. When he finally pulled up in front of the house, he was fifteen minutes late.

  Way to make a great first impression.

  He swore and parked behind a white panel van. Rolling out of his car, he squared his shoulders and checked out the place. It needed a lot of work. The windows were canted in their frames, and all the exterior paint was peeling. He reached for the doorbell and found a bunch of curling wires, tipped with filthy plastic caps that looked like they’d been there for twenty years. He picked up the heavy brass knocker instead and let it fall a few times.

  The door flew open, and he was face to face with Emily. She was even prettier than he remembered from Ms. Benson’s office. Her blond hair was tangled, like she’d just climbed out of bed a few minutes before. Her green eyes sparked the instant she saw him. She caught her breath in a little sigh, and he could just make out the white line of her teeth as she caught her bottom lip. That plump bottom lip. That extremely kissable bottom lip.

  He grinned and gave her a mock salute, saying, “Tyler Brock, reporting to duty.”

  “You’re late,” she said.

  So much for kissable. She was pissed off. Well, kissing was a bad idea anyway, when the woman in question had control over his entire future. It was better to play by the rules. He’d show up, put in his time, be done with the damn community service and back to what mattered—baseball. Even if his dick had a distinctly different idea of how he should spend his first few days in Raleigh. Shifting to ease the distinct pressure he felt down below, he shrugged. “I got lost. Haven’t learned my way around town yet.”

  She sighed and stepped back. “Well come in. There’s no reason to air condition all of Raleigh. We’re working in the living room.”

  He stepped inside the dark foyer. A massive staircase hulked in front of him, spinning up toward a second floor lost in shadows. He could make out four large rooms on the ground floor, two on either side of the hallway. The closest ones had windows facing the street. They were gloomy with faded wallpaper. Each had a dusty hardwood floor, marred with scuffs and dull with age.

  But a man stood in the room to his right—Emily’s famous handyman, by the look of his spattered T-shirt and jeans. The guy was snapping a tape measure back into its plastic housing as Emily guided them into the room. “Tyler Brock,” she said by way of introduction. “This is Will Martins.”

  Will looked startled; he clearly recognized Tyler’s name. Next would come the pleased smile, then a couple of questions about the game. That’s how these conversations always went.

  Emily broke in before Will could say a word, explaining to the handyman, “Tyler will be helping out around here for a few weeks.” The guy shrugged. He seemed used to taking orders from nervous, temperamental homeowners. Emily nodded tersely and said, “I’ll let the two of you get to work. I have some things to take care of back in my office.”

  “I’ll holler if I need anything,” Will said. His easy North Carolina drawl did nothing to raise a smile on Emily’s face. Tyler wondered if it was possible to raise a smile on Emily’s face, at least today.

  She’d certainly seemed willing enough back in Ms. Benson’s office. Probably still would be, if he hadn’t screwed up getting to the house on time.

  Before he could decide whether it was a good idea to follow her to the back of the house, whether he really should offer another apology or if his cock just wanted another chance to make its demands known, the painter said, “What sort of woman gets a professional first baseman to work as her handyman?”

  Tyler offered up the easy shrug he’d rehearsed in his own mind. “We’ve got a mutual…acquaintance. Emily needed some help, and I have some spare time, so… How can I help?”

  Will looked like he wasn’t buyin
g the story, but he wasn’t about to pass up a chance to shoot the shit with a real ballplayer. He gave a cursory nod to the sagging millwork on the far wall. “We’re tearing out those cabinets. Not saving anything, just taking ’em to the dump. Come on. You can help bring in stuff from my truck.”

  The heat and humidity slapped Tyler in the face the instant he stepped out on the porch. Apparently oblivious to the North Carolina summer, Will led the way to his van. He keyed open the back door and started to shift a collection of pry bars into a five-gallon bucket.

  “So, they weren’t lying on the news,” the painter said. “You really were in a bar fight.”

  Tyler shrugged, rubbing his hand across the painful bruise on his jaw in reflex. “You should see the other guy.”

  Will laughed. “They putting you on the disabled list?”

  “No DL for me. Have to work for a living, like every other honest man. God, it’s hot out here. And a lot more humid than Texas.”

  The painter reached into the truck and tugged on a cooler, sliding it even with the bucket. Pushing back the lid, he fished around in some ice water until he found two bottles of water. “Here,” he said. “Demo’s thirsty work.”

  Tyler grinned as he cracked open the bottle, saluting Will as if he’d just bought the first round in a bar. Both men moved around the side of the van, finding the deepest shade while they drank.

  Will shook his head. “Tyler Brock… You really got screwed in that last game against San Francisco. There’s no way you were out at third!”

  “The ump sees what the ump sees,” Tyler said, trying to sound philosophical. But Will was right. The call had been crap.

  The painter launched into a spirited discussion of the piss-poor job the umpires had done all season. Half a dozen games had already turned on bad calls in late innings.

  Tyler agreed. “The real problem is the guys who can’t get it into their heads that the game isn’t about them. They’ll toss a player for looking the least bit sideways at a crappy call. Won’t even let you ask if a pitch was a ball or a strike.”