“I love Arkansas,” she said, not even daring to voice her real reasons for staying close to home.
The music ended and he didn’t move a muscle, but the tension in the room seemed to tighten with each breath Jane took. Lenny Paxton sure wasn’t the chatty type, and so far she’d shared more with him than she had intended. Which only made Jane want to question him. But she held her ground, smiling up at him with what she hoped was a serene demeanor.
He came toward the table then leaned down to plant both his big hands across the faded linoleum, his buff body hovering inches from her. Then he smiled, another real honest-to-goodness smile, but his tone was low and drawling, his eyes bright with a dare. “A southern girl. I like southern girls. And I especially like home-grown Arkansas girls.”
Jane pulled back. He was too close, way too close. She did not like people getting in her face. Or her space. “Could I have some more water, please?”
He pushed off the table, poured the water then turned to watch her. “See, I told you…even though the wind is cool, that sun is still hot. I think it addled your brain. You look flushed.”
“I’m fine, really.” Sweat poured all the way down to her toes, but she didn’t dare tell him that, especially with him looking at her as if he’d just met his next conquest and he’d already won. “My trip across the state was a bit rough.”
“All the more reason for you to not be here,” he replied as he handed her another glass of water. “Want a piece of peach pie?”
Jane’s stomach lurched at the mention of food, and at the way he’d changed from disagreeable to debonair. “No, I…I have a delicate stomach. I think something at the truck stop—”
“You should never eat truck stop food.”
“I didn’t. I skipped breakfast and lunch, but I grabbed a cup of something that resembled coffee and I had half a Luna bar in my car.”
“Some coach you are,” he retorted, reaching for a loaf of what looked like fresh-baked bread. “I’m gonna butter this and toast it for you and you’re gonna eat, okay?”
“Okay.”
She wasn’t used to being ordered around, but she was hungry. She should have eaten. Low blood-sugar and all that. But she was surprised by his abrupt need to feed her. Was it part of his obvious compulsions, in the same way his hoarding things around him seemed to be? Deciding to test that theory, she said, “Could you put some cheese on it? I need some protein and calcium.”
He gave her a perturbed look and then busied himself with cutting the bread, buttering it, laying the cheese down in precise order and finding a broiler pan, his actions methodical and organized. “You’re too skinny.”
“Thank you so much.”
“I’m just stating the obvious.”
At least they were making polite (well, polite on her part, anyway) conversation. She would have to build his trust one affirmation at a time. The man was notorious for his skepticism. And he had an ego the size of Texas. He had ticked off coaches and reporters across the country with his glib attitude and his blunt retorts, and he’d infuriated women on a global level with his definite lack of commitment. A tough case.
So why the need for perfection with the grilled cheese sandwich?
“You don’t have to put too much butter on the bread.”
He glared at her, looked back at the sandwich and then looked at the trash can.
“Don’t throw it away,” she said, knowing he wanted to do that very thing. “I’m too hungry to wait for another one.”
One compulsion won out over the other. He finished cooking the sandwich, but he kept lifting it with the spatula to stare at it.
Jane was sure she could handle anything this man tried to dish out. But she couldn’t help but admire his backside as he buttered that bread and crisped that sandwich.
About an hour later, after one perfect grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of sweet lemonade, Jane felt refreshed, but sleepy. That surprised her. She didn’t require much sleep. Maybe it was just the way the breeze moved through those lacy curtains, or the way Boy sighed in his doggy slumber at her feet. Or maybe she needed to rest and try to get her brain back on task, instead of wondering why Lenny had hidden himself away behind clutter here on this remote farm for eight months, when the world was waiting for his next move.
Pace yourself, she thought. You just got here. Plenty of time to get inside his head. If she could get past all that indifference and male-speak.
The good news—Lenny stayed with her while she ate. The bad news—he was reading the paper and listening to more Steve Miller—“Jet Airliner” this time—instead of talking to her. Although she couldn’t be sure if the issue he was reading was current since the small table was full of all types of publications.
She glanced through the arched kitchen opening toward the hall to the right into a formal dining room/living room combination, wondering why this house was part dainty organization and part mixed-up male. “Tell me about your grandmother, Lenny.”
LENNY LIFTED HIS GAZE toward her, then checked his watch. Exactly fifteen minutes. That’s how long she’d stayed quiet. He’d almost expected her to fall asleep right there at the table. No such luck. “Who wants to know?”
Shaking a finger at him, she said, “Well, I do. She had a lot of things from what I can see. Was she a collector?”
Deciding he’d best make hay while the sun was shining and answer some of her annoying questions, he said, “Yes, she collected antiques and junk and…dolls.”
That was an understatement. This old house looked like a flea market. Lenny knew things looked bad. Okay, worse than bad. But he just didn’t have the energy to deal with that right now. And he didn’t have the energy to get to the bottom of his new anxieties either. So he let all the collected things sit, neat and tidy, while he kept piling his messy things all around them. The clutter brought him a small measure of comfort. The questions from the perky woman across the table did not.
“What was her name?”
“Bertie.” He went back to pretending to read the paper. And put up a solid wall around his pent-up emotions.
“And how long do you plan to keep all of her things around?”
“Forever.”
Jane leaned forward, his noncommunicative mood seeming to bounce off her like sun rays. “Why did you walk away after losing the Super Bowl, Lenny?”
He looked up at her and saw the earnestness in her eyes, but Lenny put on his game face. At first, he didn’t answer. Then he said, “I was tired.” That admission seemed to make him feel a whole lot better about things. Maybe he did need therapy, after all. But who would believe him? The whole world had given up on Lenny Paxton.
“You look tired now. You have dark circles under your eyes. Do you sleep at all?”
Lenny’s brand of tired creaked all the way to his bones. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep. “I get by,” he said. “But I suppose you can help me find some new energy?” Exploring the possibilities of that proposition did intrigue him. Analyze a little bit; flirt a little bit. See which one of them caved first. That tactic had always garnered him a pretty woman on his arm. But then, maybe he didn’t have the energy to even flirt.
“That’s part of the therapy, yes.”
He watched as she started stacking magazines, clearing away the section of the table she had somehow managed to take over. “Even if you think you’re too old for football, even if you don’t get this current contract dispute settled, you could be a commentator or a spokesperson. Your agent says you’ve got offers all over the place, endorsement deals, movie offers—”