Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(116)

Her eyebrows rose ever so slightly. He turned back to the women, ready to strangle the information out of them if he needed to, only to discover he had no anger left. He lifted his hands, shocked to see they were unsteady, but not as unsteady as his voice. “She’s…I—I have to make this right. I can’t stand knowing she’s…That I’ve made her suffer. Please…”

But they had no hearts, and one by one, they looked away.

He walked blindly out of the house. The wind had picked up, and a blast of chilly air cut through his jacket. Mechanically, he reached for his phone, hoping against hope that she’d called, knowing she hadn’t.

The Chiefs were trying to reach him. So were Bodie and Phil Tyree. He set the heels of his hands on the hood of his car and bowed his head. He deserved to suffer. She didn’t.

“Are you sad, Pwince?”

He looked back toward the house to see Pippi standing on the top step of the porch, a monkey under one arm, a bear under the other. He fought a wild urge to pick her up and carry her around for a while, to tuck her under his chin and hold her close, just like one of those stuffed animals. He drew in a little air. “Yeah, Pip. I’m kind of sad.”

“You gonna cry?”

He pushed his response around the lump in his throat. “Naw, guys don’t cry.”

The door behind her opened, and Phoebe emerged, blond, powerful, and merciless. She paid no attention to him. Instead, she crouched at Pippi’s side and adjusted one of her pigtail stubs, speaking softly to her. He reached in his pocket for his keys.

Phoebe headed back into the house. Pippi dropped her stuffed animals and scampered down the steps. “Pwince! I gotta tell you something.” She ran toward him, pink sneakers flying. When she reached his side, she tilted her head back to gaze up at him. “I gotta secret.”

He crouched next to her. She smelled innocent. Like crayons and fruit juice. “Yeah?”

“Aunt Phoebe said don’t tell nobody but you, not even Mommy.”

He glanced toward the porch, but Phoebe had disappeared. “Tell me what?”

“Belle!” Pippi grinned. “She went to our campground!”

A surge of adrenaline shot through his veins. His head reeled. He pulled Pippi off her feet, drew her against him, and kissed the hell out of her cheeks. “Thanks, sweetheart. Thanks for telling me.”

She cupped his jaw and pushed him away with a frown. “Scratchy.”

He laughed, gave her another kiss for good measure, and set her back on her feet. He’d forgotten to turn his phone off, and it rang. Her eyes widened. He automatically reached for it. “Champion.”

“Heathcliff, I need an agent, man,” Dean barked, “and I swear to God, if you hang up on me again—”

He thrust his phone to Pippi. “Talk to the nice man, sweetheart. Tell him all about how your daddy’s the greatest quarterback who’ll ever play the game.”

As he pulled out of the driveway, he watched Pippi heading back to the porch, his phone pressed to her ear, her pigtails twitching while she chatted away for all she was worth.

Inside the house, the front draperies moved, and through the window, he glimpsed the most powerful woman in the NFL. Maybe it was his imagination, but it looked like she was smiling.





Chapter Twenty-four




Heath reached the Wind Lake Campground a little before midnight. Only the watery glow of the Victorian streetlamps on the commons and the single porch light at the bed-and-breakfast shone through the rain-swept darkness. His wiper blades beat at the Audi’s windshield. The unheated cottages sat empty and shuttered for the season. Even the caged yellow dock lights in the distance had been turned off. He’d originally planned to fly, but foul weather had closed the small airport, and he hadn’t been patient enough to wait out the delay. He should have, because the storm had stretched the eight-hour trip to ten.

He’d gotten a late start leaving Chicago. Not having Annabelle’s engagement ring in his pocket bothered him—he wanted to give her something tangible—so he’d driven back to Wicker Park to pick up her new car. Maybe she couldn’t wear it on her finger, but at least she’d see how serious he was. Unfortunately, the Audi Roadster hadn’t been built for a six-footer, and after ten hours, he had stiff legs, a cramped neck, and a killer headache he’d been feeding with black coffee. Ten Disney balloons bobbed in the backseat. He’d seen them tied together when he’d stopped for gas and impulsively bought them. For the last sixty miles, Dumbo and Cruella De Vil had been slapping the back of his head.

Through the rain-drenched windshield, he made out a row of empty rocking chairs swaying on the front porch. Even though the cottages were closed up, Kevin had told him the B&B did a decent business this time of year with tourists searching for fall foliage, and the Roadster’s headlights picked out half a dozen cars parked off to the side. But Annabelle’s Crown Vic wasn’t one of them.

The Audi lurched in a rain-filled pothole as Heath turned into the lane that ran parallel to the dark lake. Not for the first time did it occur to him that setting off for the north woods based on information fed to a three-year-old from a woman who held a giant grudge against him might not have been his smartest move, but he’d done it anyway.

He hit the brakes as his headlights picked out what he’d spent the last ten hours praying to see: Annabelle’s car, parked in front of Lilies of the Field. Relief made him light-headed. As he pulled up behind the Crown Vic, he gazed through the rain at the darkened cottage and fought the urge to wake her and set things straight. He was in no condition to negotiate his future happiness until he’d had a few hours’ sleep. The B&B was closed up for the night, and he couldn’t stay in town, not when Annabelle might decide to take off before he got back. Only one thing to do…