Chapter 7

Ryan didn’t like puzzles. He liked straight lines, cut and dry, black and white. His ex-wife had been a heart-stomping riddle in one low-cut dress after another. Basically, he didn’t like complications. After his sexy neighbor assured him she was could handle the three kids she’d found in her house, including the one with a block of cement on his shoulder, he’d gone home.

Tiny flecks of grey splattered on his hands, and probably his hair, when he pushed the roller up the wall. This was the final coat for his bedroom. The master bedroom had been one of the key features he’d loved about the house. Open, with two sets of French doors, one leading to a small outdoor balcony and another leading to a kick-ass bathroom. The shower had four showerheads and plenty of space. He’d had the same type of jetted tub in his house with Victoria but this bathroom had the added bonus of heated ceramic tile, and no Victoria. In other words, it was perfect. Stretching up on the balls of his feet, he swore when the roller tapped the ceiling. Painting wasn’t providing the distraction he needed. His mind kept wandering to his adorable, and surprisingly kind, neighbor. He shook his head, frustrated that all of his thoughts led back to her when the last thing he needed was a woman. What he needed was to make this house his own and figure out who he was outside of baseball.

“Getting there,” he muttered, stretching out his neck as he rolled. After this wall, his plans included a beer and an evening on the couch flipping through ESPN. He needed to hit a grocery store but didn’t feel like going out or having to socialize, even if it was just to pick up some food.

He was tired of being pissed off. Carter’s bad attitude had been like having a mirror shoved in his face, but at least the kid had a reason be angry at the world. Life could be a hell of a lot worse than kicking around a gorgeous house with enough money in the bank to last him a lifetime. But still, the restlessness got under his skin like a sliver and he’d been walking around with a storm cloud over his head since he’d left L.A. Even with the suspension and the shit that had rained down with it, he didn’t have it so bad.

What would he have done if he’d found homeless kids in his house? Jesus—three of them. He couldn’t imagine having three of his own, never mind the three strays Frankie had found in a damn closest. He’d thought she was joking when she’d told him. When he realized she wasn’t, he’d been caught between disbelief and admiration. He couldn’t believe she’d let them stay. She was crazy to do so, but he had to give her credit for doing right by them.

As AC/DC pounded out of his docking station, he finished up the wall. Before he could get things cleaned up, a habit his mother had ingrained in him, he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Ryan left the paint tray he’d been cleaning in the sink and went to the door. He was greeted by Carter’s pubescent, angry face.

The kid was almost as tall as Ryan, his hair shaved so close you could see his dark scalp peeking through. His clothes were as baggy as his attitude was bad. Ryan said nothing. A cool breeze wafted inside as the kid took his time. Carter looked down at his worn-out shoes and then back up, meeting Ryan’s eyes.

“I wouldn’t hit no woman,” Carter finally said. Or maybe grunted was a better word. He looked back at his shoes, smacking the toe of one foot onto Ryan’s porch as he added, “‘Specially not Frankie.”

Ryan waited until Carter looked back up. “That’s good to know. I’m sorry I thought otherwise.”

“Yeah well, I just wanted to say that.” Carter turned and started for the stairs.

“Frankie send you here?”

Carter turned back slowly. “Hell, no. I don’t gotta do what she says anyway.”

Ryan nodded and started to shut the door. Rethinking it, he took a barefooted step out onto his porch so he was toe-to-shoe with Carter. “You’re living in her house?

The kid shrugged his shoulders, his hands tucked in his pockets.

Unsure where the desire to look out for Frankie was coming from, Ryan was surprised by his own words. “You’re living in her house. She’s doing right by you and your brothers. You damn well better do what she says. Got that?”

Carter’s eyes widened. Ryan wasn’t a jerk. Most of the time. He hadn’t let fame go to his head. Max would have sucker punched him if he had. He didn’t want to be involved in Frankie’s business or with this kid’s. Hell, he didn’t need another mess to be caught up in. But he didn’t like the idea of Frankie living over there by herself with three misfit kids she didn’t know. Not his business, but since he wasn’t a complete ass, he had to say something.

He straightened up a little higher than normal and pushed his shoulders back to make it clear that he was bigger and badder. He was impressed when the kid didn’t shrink back. Carter held his own, again reminding Ryan of himself as a headstrong kid with a few chips of his own denting his shoulders. Carter held Ryan’s stare and then finally nodded his head and gave a muffled, “Yeah.”

Ryan stayed on the porch, despite the chill, and watched Carter stroll back to Frankie’s property. He didn’t want friends. He sure as hell didn’t want new battles to fight. He’d come to the middle of nowhere for the express purpose of finding simplicity—in his life, in his head, in his relationships. Frankie Vaughn was gorgeous. She was obviously strong and capable. She was easy to talk to and funny, even when he hadn’t been a shining example of a good neighbor.

But she was a walking, talking entanglement, and even though it had been too long, he didn’t need a woman bad enough to wrap himself up in someone else’s problems. He leaned on the porch post, fighting the urge to go talk to her and see how things had settled with the little guy. Instead, he went inside, grabbed his keys, and decided maybe getting out wasn’t such a bad idea.

Ryan parked his SUV outside of the AM/PM Food Mart. He nodded his head toward the teens eyeing his truck, skateboards in hand. He held the door for a good-looking brunette and pissed himself off by immediately thinking about a certain better-looking blonde.

Inside, he found the biggest cup he could and filled it with Pepsi. As he waited in line to pay, he wondered what people did for entertainment in such a small town. Maybe there was a men’s league for sports or a YMCA. He could ask, but that would require conversation. Ryan stepped up to pay the kid behind the counter, a pimply teen with too-large glasses and too-long hair.

“You’re Ryan Walker,” the kid said.

Ryan blinked. Heaviness settled in the pit of his stomach. Max’s words flitted through his head: That’s not gonna last. Nothing ever did. Everyone had TVs and he was the former face of America’s favorite pastime. At one time, being recognized had filled him like a fucking balloon, made him full to bursting with pride. But now, when people thought of Ryan Walker, they didn’t just think baseball.

He firmed his lips and nodded, trying to wait the teen out. The typical questions he got were: Were you mad when they suspended you from the league? Hell yeah. Did you punch Cal Messer in the face when you found out what he did? Double hell yeah. And, will you ever go back? Hell no.

“Dude, you have one of the best batting averages in the league. They’re going to induct you into the hall of fame,” the kid said.

Ryan usually found it amusing when people told him statistics about himself. Like he didn’t know every one of them. Right now, standing in the mini-mart, with a few people turning to look at him, it wasn’t funny. The back of his neck got warm and he wanted to tug his cap down over his eyes. At least the kid had brought up something good.

The kid had a strange look on his face and when he spoke, he drew out the words, letting them hang in the air. “Your wife is hot.”

The heat spread from Ryan’s neck to his face as the older woman behind him stepped a bit closer. Big towns, small towns—didn’t matter—everyone loved gossip. Everyone loved a screw-up as long as it wasn’t theirs.

“Ex-wife,” he muttered. At least part of the story should be kept straight.

“Young people give up too easily these days,” the woman behind him said, tsking. Jesus. He put the two dollar bills on the counter and pushed them toward the kid, who still hadn’t rung up his purchase.

“Is that enough?” Ryan asked, gesturing to the money. Know-it-all-granny tugged on his sweater. Ryan looked over his shoulder.

“Did you try counseling?” She tilted her head, waiting for his answer.

Ryan’s heartbeat sped up. He just wanted a goddamn soda. He shifted from one foot to the other, pulled another dollar out, and threw it on the counter. Three bucks for a soda had to be enough. If not, they could arrest him. Jail had to be better than getting grilled by granny.

A short guy in a suit stood behind Grandma Nosy, milk and chips in his hands. “Why would he? Bitch cheated on him.” He nodded at Ryan like they were united.

Ryan wished he’d worn his ball cap. “I just want my drink.”

He couldn’t get back to his truck fast enough. They were still talking about baseball stats and cheating wives when he walked away. The kids who had been outside the store were doing tricks on their boards and for one minute, he remembered what it had been like to be a kid. To be wishing something, anything, would change. He’d finally become what he had always wanted to be: a baseball player. But looking at those boys now, he wished he could go back to a time before he learned that even if he reached all of his goals, things might not turn out the way he’d expected. Or hoped.

Grateful for the tinted windows, he put the truck in drive, took a large gulp of his soda, and headed back toward the solitude of his house. He sighed, gripping the steering wheel as the road opened up in front of him. The solitude probably just hit its time limit.