The Bad Boy Bargain(4)

The living room was empty, but she heard a thump and laughter upstairs. She climbed up slowly, dreading this conversation. How mad would he be? Would he cause a scene, or let her go? Vi was right-he didn't take well to blows against his ego. She'd seen that during football season every time he fumbled a catch.

All the upstairs doors were closed. Faith stood in the dim hallway staring at them. How awkward was this? What if she went into the wrong one? The last thing she needed tonight was walking in on a hookup.

A male voice rumbled behind the guest bedroom door at the end of the hallway. It sounded like Cameron. And it sounded like he wasn't alone. What was he up to?

She strode to the door and wrenched it open, then jumped back so fast, she hit the wall behind her. "You … you … "

Cameron looked blearily up at her. Holly Masterson rushed to drag a sheet over herself. Neither one of them was dressed-not at all-and Holly's blond hair stuck out wildly, like she'd been caught in a wind tunnel.

Anger sparked an inferno in Faith's chest. "Wow, Holly. You might want to redo your hair before you go downstairs. Then again, Cam always overuses his hands. That's why he fumbles whatever he catches."

Cameron's face turned bright red. He dragged a pillow into his lap and sat up. "As if you'd know. We never made it past second base. I got sick of waiting."

Disgusted, she turned to go. "Screw you. Or better yet, screw her. We're done."

She slammed the door behind her and stomped downstairs, managing to make it to the guest bathroom before she burst out laughing and crying at the same time.





Chapter Five


Kyle

Kyle's alarm went off early. He'd promised Mrs. Gladwell he'd come over around ten, but he had two lawns to mow first. He must be the only dumbass getting up at seven on the first day of spring break.

He shoved back the covers, marveling at the bruise on his right side. Dennings's pitching speed was getting much better, but his control still needed work. That little love tap yesterday left a mark.

After rolling from bed, he staggered through a shower, then dressed in old cargo shorts and a T-shirt. By the time he made it downstairs, Grandpa already had coffee going, and Dad was reading The Wall Street Journal-a paper copy.

"Dad, are you ever going to get an electronic subscription? I bought you an iPad for Christmas, remember?" Kyle asked, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. "You're killing trees, buying that thing."

"Electronic newspapers don't read the same." Dad never looked up from the stock pages. "You off to work?"

"Yep, and I'm seeing a new customer this morning." He snagged a cinnamon oatmeal muffin from the plate Grandpa had set out before heading to the table. "That makes twelve."

"Really?" Dad put his paper down. Pride sparkled in his eyes. "I'm impressed."

"You should go to landscape design school after you graduate," Grandpa said in his craggy voice. "Traditional college isn't for you."

Dad sighed, but Kyle felt a surge of gratitude. The idea of getting a degree in business or finance, or even general studies, sounded so daunting when held up against his dyslexia. Taking the SAT had made him feel like throwing up, and his score wasn't good for anything but laughing at. No, college wasn't for him. Especially when he didn't need a degree. "I like the sound of that."

"But-" Dad started, but Grandpa waved him off.

"Dean, I know you think college is the way to go, but I didn't go to college and I built up a multimillion dollar company with a band saw and some elbow grease. I built this kitchen table, and a thousand more just like it. Let the kid do what he's good at." Grandpa chuckled. "Lord knows he needs an honest living. Those young people who do nothing but party and spend up their parents' money their whole lives irritate the shit out of me."         

     



 

Kyle laughed, especially when his dad gave Grandpa a sour look. The three of them, around the kitchen table, looked like a past, present, future picture of one man. Dad had inherited Grandpa's dark hair, blue eyes, and height-and Kyle had inherited his Dad's. One now completely gray, one silver-streaked, and one as dark-haired as the crows cawing in the backyard. Despite that, they were pretty different people. Grandpa was an old-fashioned businessman who could sell you a handful of illegally picked bluebonnets. Dad was the finance whiz, investing the money after Grandpa sold the company, making them a fortune his grandkids couldn't outspend.

Some days Kyle wasn't sure where he fit in that picture.

His good mood soured a little. "I better get to work."

"Home by seven? Rosanna left us a King Ranch casserole for dinner."

He waved as he went out the garage door. Their housekeeper always made them food for the weekends, worrying that "her men" would eat Chinese takeout if she didn't provide.

She was probably right.

Ever since Mom and Grandma died, the house had slowly unraveled into a bachelor pad, and Rosanna had her work cut out for her just trying to stem the tide. Kyle had only been three when they'd gotten in the car accident and he didn't remember much about it, taking his life with Dad and Grandpa totally for granted.

Maybe that's why he found it hard to talk to girls-he hadn't been around any at home for a long time.

The pickup had a little trouble starting, but he got it rolling and drove to his first job. Even at 8:00 a.m., a strong, warm breeze blew in from the west, and it was humid enough to make his back sweat in the early morning sun. By the time he finished his second lawn-an acre sea of spring green that needed to be mowed down short to allow the new growth to take hold-he had dirt, dead grass, and flecks of pollen stuck all over his legs and arms. Great, not the best first impression for the Gladwell job.

After brushing himself off as best he could, he drove to their house, the Toyota rattling like a dying animal when he cut the ignition. Mrs. Gladwell was already on the porch. Tall, slim, with a long neck, she looked more like a retired dancer than the president of a charity. She waved at him, smiling, when he got out of the truck.

"This way," she called, heading around the side of the house. "We'll go on back."

He followed her into their backyard, then grunted in sympathy. "You weren't wrong."

"I know." Her voice had an exasperated edge. "The landscaper told us all this … .vegetation would create an classic environment. Instead, we got-"

"A jungle. I hate when those companies overdo it. Less is more with a backyard sometimes," Kyle said. "Okay, the first problem is your oak needs pruned, badly. The bald spots in the lawn are where the Bermuda isn't getting enough sun. It's a high-sun grass, and all this shade is killing it."

They walked around the backyard, and he pointed out places where he'd take out half the ornamental bushes, prune others back, and where he'd need to put in some new sod. "Mrs. Gladwell, this is a pretty big job. I can get a good start this weekend, but it's going to be kind of expensive."

"That's fine," she said in a rush. "This luncheon … I have a former governor's wife coming, along with a number of very wealthy donors. I'm willing to spend whatever it takes to fix this."

He shrugged. "Okay, then. How about I get started on pulling out some of these bushes today and tomorrow, then Monday I can go to the nursery and pick up whatever else we need."

"You're a lifesaver, Kyle." She gave his shoulder a quick pat. "If you need to come in and get a drink of water or use the facilities, feel free."

He nodded, knowing full well he'd never track his dirt all over their house. There was a gas station a block away if he needed anything. "All I need is some extra trash bags."

Once she dashed off, he looked around the backyard again, feeling equal parts excited and apprehensive. This would be the biggest job he'd ever done, and a governor's wife would see it. It had to be perfect.

Nodding to himself, he pulled on his work gloves and went to grab a shovel and his hedge clippers.





Chapter Six


Faith

"One, two, three … one, two three," Faith sang to her little charges. "Second position, backs straight. One, two, three."

Hannah, the world's cutest six-year-old, smiled and showed off the gap where her two front teeth should be. "Miss Faith? Can we do hip-hop now?"

Faith almost laughed at the innocent tone in Hannah's voice, and barely kept it in. "Just a few more minutes of ballet first, okay? One, two, three. One, two, three."         

     



 

The little ones paid attention for another sixty seconds before wiggling like crazy, so Faith relented and put on "I Like to Move It." Squeals of delight went around the studio and the first graders hurried into place to start their hip-hop routine. Through the observation window, Faith saw the parents whip out cameras to snap pictures of their little darlings. She wished they loved ballet as much as she did, but this was the fun part for all of them.

"Okay! Crisscross. Clap, clap, clap!"

Once class was over, Faith went to the barre and did some stretches. She had an hour before the next class came in, and Madame Schuler let her use the studio to practice after she was done teaching for the day. Lifting her leg onto the barre, she bent her body from side to side, arm up and curved over her head. Her back loosened up and her calves stretched in a satisfying way. For the first time since catching Cameron last night, she felt a little less wound up.