“Where did he play? College ball, right?”
Straightening, his lips curved into a knowing smile. “Why do you care, Tana? He’s a licentious blackguard, come to execute great deeds of evil. According to the gossip, he’s got a different woman on his arm every night—young, old, blonde, brunette, redhead. No need for you to get mixed up with a man of his caliber.”
He tugged on her ponytail, flicking the end against her chin. “According to you, no need to get involved with anyone.”
Fontana ignored Jaime’s familiar jibe and shifted her gaze. The licentious blackguard offered a charitable smile as Tammi, former cheerleader and the proud owner of the only hair salon in town, sashayed over from her usual spot behind the dugout and wrapped him in a hug.
Why did she care?
Odd. But for some reason, she did.
Perhaps it was intrigue. Fontana hadn’t been intrigued by a man in so long, she felt strangely awakened.
Unable to look away, she watched as Campbell tousled Kit’s hair when his brother approached, then sent him back into position with a smack to his bottom. Flashing a tight smile, he tossed the bat to Henry, who caught it with a backhanded snatch.
A beat passed—tense, unspoken. A silent assessment between two men, then Campbell moved away.
Prowled, if she were forced to be more precise.
“What happened?” she asked as Campbell yanked a navy cap from his back pocket and fit it snugly on his head, closing himself off while the entire town stared. “In this park? With his father?”
Jaime’s amusement dried up like moisture on hot pavement. “His family history is dicey. His father was a real piece of work. His mother, not much better.” He paused, then added, “Maybe you should ask.”
She tried to ignore the loose threads skimming the back of Campbell’s thighs as he stalked away, denim molding to each flex of muscle. “I’m not talking to him.”
Not with women already trailing in his wake.
Not after he’d mentioned never being denied by them.
Jaime sighed, exasperation evident in the sag in his posture. “Come on, Tana. I saw him glance up here before he hit the ball.”
She fiddled with a button on her shirt, unsure if Campbell’s dark perusal meant anything.
“Sloppy flannel must be a turn-on, a solid attention-grabber.” He tunneled his hand through his hair. “I’m not sure why the blonde thing hasn’t helped me. Do you think I should go dark again?”
Fontana stood, dusting off her jeans to avoid looking at her friend.
She knew where this conversation was headed. Her pathetic sex life had become a weekly topic of debate.
“Maybe he’s hot for you. Maybe you’re hot for him. Hell, maybe the whole damn world, except for dear old me”—he jabbed a thumb in his chest—“is on the brink of having thrilling, passionatesex.”
“You’ve got to do something this weekend, Jame. You’re as excitable as a caged dog.”
“Horny, darling, it’s called horny by everyone over the age of fifteen. A perfectly normal response for those of us who enjoy sporadic climaxes.” Dropping his head, he collapsed back with a huff. “I’ve gotten tired of my own efforts.”
Silent, Fontana loped down the bleacher aisle, her cheeks flushed. She enjoyed climatic episodes as much as the next girl—she simply preferred themalone.
“Good luck,” Jaime called. “All our sad hopes are pinned on you, darling!”
Good luck.As if she were doing anything but going for a pop. Stretching her legs, working the stiffness from her back and hips, she sidestepped a row of nylon folding chairs occupied by chatty grandmothers and verbose veterans. She headed for the Snack Shack, hands stuffed in her pockets, shrugging off the discomfort. Caution, she thought, was simply making up for a youth spent on a train bound for nowhere. Making up for the twenty-six times her father had told them to pack up and leave.
New city, honeypie.
New city, same abuse.
She didn’t need a therapist to identity her issues—though, for a brief while, onehadhelped. She was tired of reliving her childhood, and therapy had become a never-ending cycle of regurgitation.
The queasy, insanely fearful feeling she’d woken to this morning.
