Chapter Eight

He felt like a shit, and he was an aroused shit. The kiss had scared Amara. He knew he shouldn’t have kissed her, or at least he should have eased into it more deftly, but she’d been in his arms. Eyes closed, lips parted, chest rising and falling. Right there with those liquid brown eyes and kissable lips.

And damn his neglected libido. Between his job and this contest he’d been volunteered for, he hadn’t been on a date in over three weeks. That was a record for him. After he’d broken two dates with Yolanda, she had told him to buzz off.

More accurately, her words had been, “Go to hell.”

He had never forced his affections on a woman because his mother would have tanned his hide. Every woman deserved respect, and Amara would get an in-person apology from him at their rehearsal the following evening.

But she’d been right there in his arms because he stumbled and pulled her off balance. And now he sat in his cubbyhole of an office, as off balance as he’d ever been. And hard. He had felt that coming on as he left the dance studio, and rather than risk her seeing it, he’d paraded out of the studio barefooted like some thief in the night. And wasn’t he a thief of sorts since he’d stolen that kiss?

He hadn’t gone into the dancing gig with anything other than direct orders from his boss to do it. The attraction to Amara was unexpected, though not unrealistic. She was drop dead gorgeous, and who wouldn’t be attracted to her at some level?

Most likely she had a boyfriend. Whoever he was, the lucky bastard got to experience that kiss, and more, on a regular basis. Her lips had been warm, soft, full. Kissable.

And right there in—

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” Cutter Valentine’s voice broke through the silence. “Nothing wrong, I hope.”

Ryan shook his head. “Nah. Just catching up on some, uh, paperwork.” He reached for one of the half dozen pens scattered about his desk. “I can’t let being Twinkle Toes get in the way of my job,” he joked.

“How’s that going, by the way? You’ve been at it now, what, two weeks or so?”

“Great. It’s going great.”

Cutter gave him the thumbs up sign and grinned. “Maybe you’ll win. Wouldn’t that be something?”

It would be something all right, though in his short career in the majors, winning had never been a maybe. As a closer, he lived with the continual pressure to perform. He was expected to rally for the win, or at the very least, maintain the status quo and not give up any runs.

He glanced at the newest set of papers Amara had given him at practice. Maintaining the status quo had left him unable to fully comprehend them.

Being unable to read hadn’t been all that bad during his playing days. His agent read his contracts and advised him. The catcher’s signals were visual. Hell, not being able to read had spared him a lot of his own bad press.

He’d found ways to get others to read things for him. “My eyes are tired after pitching into the sun” or “Read this and tell me what you think” had been his go-to responses.

And whichever woman he was dating at the time was more than willing to oblige the great and powerful Whiz Kidd when he asked her to read something. Oblige and enable. Without meaning to, everyone around him had helped keep him unable to read.

“Yeah, that would be something, all right,” he answered.

“I’ll let you get back to it,” Cutter said. “All three of the owners and their wives plan to attend the contest by the way. They’re excited about the team being represented.”

Ryan’s heart sank. Wasn’t that just terrific? His big bosses would be in the crowd. He had met only Elliot Becker and Zeke Nicholas, and only once when they attended a game. Naughty Nate Ivory hadn’t been to Mimosa Key since Ryan had arrived on the scene a year before, although from what he’d heard, marriage had changed Nate from naughty to nice. Ryan was ashamed to say the same negative adjective had been applied to him in the past.

Okay, it still was, but not as often as in his playing days. After his career tanked, he’d been hell on wheels for a while – drinking too much, driving too fast, trying everything from skydiving to a bungee jump in an effort to dull the emotional pain. None of it fixed his shoulder so he could pitch again, and the bungee jump damn near left him with soiled underwear.

Now he was more settled with only the occasional helmetless ride on his Harley or a kitesurfing session in the Gulf of Mexico to let off some steam. The Baseball Annies passed him up now for the young players who still had a crack at a Major League Baseball contract and a millionaire’s lifestyle.

The closest he’d get to that now was dancing at Casa Blanca Resort & Spa in two weeks – if he could figure out this latest batch of choreography Amara had given him. The text-to-speech app on his phone had its limitations. It didn’t function well with the ballroom dance abbreviations that accompanied the diagrams. He raked his fingers through his hair, making a mental note that he desperately needed a haircut.

Maybe Doc was right. Maybe it was time for him to look into the adult literacy program on the island. He had let his ego rule the roost for too long, and Doc made a good point about him being able to make a real difference with what was left of his fame.

He grabbed his phone, opened a search engine to look for information on the program and seconds later he had the time the class started. Perhaps it was providence that the class started in twenty minutes. He had just enough time to drive from the stadium to Hope Presbyterian Church if only he would take the plunge and do it.

He glanced at the papers again and they might as well have been Greek. Cutter’s comments about winning and about the owners popped to the forefront. He shoved away from his desk and stood.

“You’d better be right, Doc,” he mumbled to himself as he sprinted to his car and then sprayed gravel as he sped off.

With minutes to spare he eased into a parking space at the church. Its yellow stucco walls and red clay roof blended with the surrounding architecture in the area. He angled out of his car and headed toward an add-on building in the rear. The website had indicated that’s where classrooms were. Ryan tugged open a heavy metal door and entered. A man in black pants and shirt with a white clerical collar turned around at the sound of the door.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh…yeah. The class?” Ryan asked, his nerves already kicking into high gear.

“Go right down this hall. It’s the last room on the left.”

Ryan thanked the man and walked briskly to his destination. As he approached the room, he heard voices chattering in English and Spanish. Then an authoritative voice cut through the din and asked everyone to sit.

An authoritative voice that sounded exactly like Amara Perez. A voice that halted him dead in his tracks. She had told him she taught high school English, but had never mentioned this.

He did an about-face and retraced his steps. He would find some place on the mainland or an online program he could take from home.

But no way was he going to admit to this woman that he was unable to read. As he neared the exit, he passed the minister again.

“Is anything wrong?” the man asked.

Ryan shook his head. “No, sir. Not a thing. I remembered another commitment, that’s all,” he said, feeling a pinch of guilt over lying to a clergyman.

When he reached his car, he sat in the church parking lot trying to process the latest wrinkle in his life. Amara didn’t know he had been headed to her class, and she never would. But he knew, and he needed time to think this through.

He tugged his cell phone from his back pocket and punched in Amara’s number. After four rings, it rolled to voice mail.

“Hey, it’s Ryan. I’ve had something come up tomorrow evening.” Another lie, something he’d done a lot of lately. “I’ll have to miss practice. Sorry, but it can’t be helped. I’ll see you Saturday night. Okay? Well, bye.”

He disconnected, threw the car in gear and roared out of the parking lot. At the intersection of Center Street and Harbor Drive, he turned toward Naples. He had to take his mind off this turn of events.

And a trip across the causeway sounded like a great way to do precisely that.