Tacker (Arizona Vengeance #5)(25)

Brooke is Bishop’s fiancée and Coach Perron’s daughter. Pepper is Legend’s fiancée. I suspect the only reason Blue—Erik’s girlfriend—isn’t here is because she’s a flight attendant on the team plane, which means she travels with them.

“We’re having a cookie-baking party,” Regan says, latching onto my arm and pulling me into the kitchen. “You can help.”

Trying to backpedal, I throw my thumb over my shoulder toward the door. “Um… actually, I have to—”

“Hey, Tacker,” Brooke chirps. The next thing I know, Pepper wraps an apron around my waist and spins me so Regan can tie it in the back.

“I-I really can’t stay,” I stutter, totally horrified I’d crashed a women’s party, which is the last place in the world I want to be.

“Sure you can.” Regan laughs, tugging me over to the counter. “You said you had time on your hands. We’re baking cookies for Pepper’s church. It’s for charity, so it’s good for your soul.”

“Plus… we get to eat cookies at the same time,” Brooke says with a grin. “Why wouldn’t you want to stay is the real question.”

Fuck. I sigh heavily… resigned to stay for ten minutes at the most, then I can report to Dax that his woman is more than fine and I’m never doing another favor for him again.


Two hours later…

“Pay attention to what you’re doing,” I order Pepper, gesturing to the dough she’s dropping onto the cookie sheet. “They’re not uniform in size.”

Regan snorts from her perch at the kitchen sink where she’s washing what seems like a never-ending supply of dirty bowls.

“Admit it,” Brooke teases from her seat at the kitchen table. Apparently, she’d gotten tired of making cookies and had popped open a bottle of wine. She’s currently on her second glass. “We’re fun to hang out with.”

Sadly, I have to admit it’s true. “Only because you ladies know hockey and other sports and didn’t discuss PMS or the Kardashians.”

Airily, Brooke waves her wineglass. “We’d already covered those subjects before you got here.”

Pepper pulls a batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven, and my stomach rolls a bit. I’ve eaten more than my fair share, and I feel like I need another workout. She puts three on a small plate, brings them to the table, and sets it in front of me.

Fuck. I should decline, but they’re too good. I reach out and nab a hot one, moving it from hand to hand as it cools.

I glance up at Pepper, noting the healthy color of her skin and the smile in her eyes as she watches me. “How are you feeling? Recovery going good?”

Her brow lifts in surprise, even though I’ve been engaging with all the women in constant conversation since I got here. I guess it’s still a bit shocking to them that I actually know how to talk.

“I’m doing really good,” she says, glancing at the engagement ring on her finger with a soft smile. Legend had given it to her in the hospital after she’d been shot by his ex-girlfriend. It scared the fuck out of him…the prospect of Pepper dying.

I remember that feeling all too well. That same sick, twisted pain deep in the pit of my stomach I’d felt after the crash when I had to sit there for hours and watch MJ die beside me.

A rush of panic hits me, the urge to lurch out of my chair and run for the door overwhelming.

Then Nora’s words filter in through the buzzing in my ears. “Take a deep breath, Tacker. Let it fill your lungs, expand your belly. Hold it for three… two… one… and let it out slowly.”

She’d done that hippie-dippie shit on me Thursday at the end of our session. Wanted to teach me a few meditation techniques, then had encouraged me to use it whenever I felt a negative emotion.

I suck in air through my nose, trying to be unobtrusive in what I’m doing, but the closing of my eyes probably gives it away. There’s total silence around me as I fill my lungs, my stomach… then hold the breath and let it out. I do it again, slowly as Nora urged, and then once more for good measure.

When I open my eyes, Brooke and Regan are at the sink, chatting away, but Pepper watches me with sympathy. My face flushes, but I hold her gaze.

Her hand comes to my shoulder, and she gives me a short squeeze. “I meditate, too. It really helps, especially if I wake up from a nightmare.”

“From when you were shot?” I ask.

She nods, adding in a matter-of-fact tone, “It also helps to practice throughout the day. Just a few times, whether you need it or not.”

“Okay,” I reply sort of dumbly. It’s hard to believe that in just a week, I’ve managed to reconnect with my teammates and my best friend, opened up in therapy in ways I never thought I would, and attended a girls’ only party to bake cookies, where I’ve gotten advice on how to meditate.

My world has turned fucking upside down.

A chime from my phone distracts me. I nab it from the counter, setting the cookie I’ve yet to eat back on the plate.

It’s a text from Dax. Have you been by the house yet? How’s Regan?

Suspicious now, I glance around the kitchen at the women, realizing this was a setup. Dax knew damn well this was going on, and he’d sent me right into the midst of this gaggle of female hormones.