Swing (Landry Family #2)(11)

“I’m sure you would,” she says breathily. “But you know, I also have strengths.”

“I bet you do,” I breathe.

“One of them is the same as yours.”

“I have little doubt,” I nearly growl, the bag crunching under my fist as I squeeze it in anticipation.

“I’m prepared . . . to have you escorted out of here.”

My face falls.

Hers lights up as she laughs at my reaction. “I’m just kidding,” she says, scooting her chair back and standing. “You can stay. But only because I said so.”

“Oh, is that how it is?” I laugh.

“Uh-huh. I call the shots. This is my domain.”

“Hey,” I say, holding my hands in the air, “I’m fine being dominated. I think it’s sexy. However you want it.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she laughs, but the ripple in her breathing betrays her. The candy apple red silk shirt stretched over her breasts nearly pops the buttons on the up-rise. It’s hot as hell. “I have to say, I’m impressed you came.”

My brows pull together as I try to make sense out of that comment. “Why is that?”

She smiles softly, her features relaxing. Gone is the little vixen that gives me shit. This is another side of her, one that will probably be harder to forget. Vixens are a dime a dozen. This side of her? It’s not.

“We have celebrities in here often, making promises to the kids,” she tells me. “Most don’t follow through. I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

Her words are full of a pain I can’t identify. But it’s there. That I’m sure of.

“I’m not sure what most people do,” I tell her, “but I honor my word. Thank you for letting me come by today.”

“You didn’t give me a choice.”

“True,” I grin. “But you could send me away, and you aren’t.”

She starts to speak but catches herself. After reassessing her words, she smiles. “You’re right. I’m not. But can you answer something for me?”

“Sure.”

“Why are you here, Lincoln? You just come by and tell a child you’ll be here the next day like you have nothing else to do. I know what your schedule must look like, and I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that you showed up.”

Shrugging, I laugh. “Maybe I don’t have anything better to do.”

“I doubt that.”

“Maybe I like kids.”

That makes her smile, which makes me smile.

“Maybe I wanted to see you too,” I offer cautiously.

Instead of responding, she walks by me, indicating with the crook of her finger for me to follow. A few minutes later, I find myself sitting at a table across from the one and only Rocky. He starts jabbering away about the Muggies, and before I know it, I’m wearing a streak of white paint and Danielle is nowhere to be found.

We paint for almost an hour, joined off and on by other little people. The kids are a riot, but I keep looking for Danielle. She never appears. Finally, after painting every farm animal I can think of, I’m relieved to see Rocky’s eyes get heavy.

I hold up his last picture, a blob of red and yellow. If I had a few beers in me, the thing in the center might be a baseball. Maybe. But probably not. Looking at my new buddy out of the corner of my eye, I grin. “You think I could have this? It would look awesome in my house.”

“I don’t know,” he says, yawning. “My mom really likes my paintings. I don’t want to make her sad.”

“You know what?” I stand and place the paper in front of him. “Always take care of your girl. And your mama is always your girl.”

His big eyes peer up at me. “Do you have a mama?”

“You bet. And even though I’m a grownup myself now, technically, anyway, my mama still takes care of me.”

Rocky stands too, his face smoothing out in an attempt to stay composed. It’s a look I could identify anywhere, a guise I put on often to keep everyone from reading what I’m thinking. Once I was drafted into the league, I learned real quick you have to keep up your guard. Keep shit, like feelings, to yourself or be exploited.

“You’re a baseball player. Your mom still does stuff for you?”

“Man, you better learn this now,” I say, chuckling. “You will always need your mom. Even when you’re a grownup and have your own house, sometimes your mom is the only one you can count on when you don’t know how to make microwave macaroni and cheese. She’s the only girl you can count on, so make sure you take care of her.”

His yellow-sock-clad feet shuffle against the linoleum. “The doctor said I might not get to be a grownup. The stuff inside me is fighting the medicines.”

The wind knocks right out of me, the same way it does when my brother, Ford, is being an ass and tackles me when we’re playing touch football at family barbecues. Only this time, there’s no hand to pull me up. Just a little boy looking at me, wanting me to say something. To be the adult.

“Rockster, I . . .” I crouch to his level, certain he can spy the lump in my throat. He reminds me of Huxley, my brother Barrett’s soon-to-be stepson, with the way he looks at me like I can fix the universe. If only I could. “Doctors don’t know everything.”