Sugar Daddy (Travis Family #1)(19)

As I neared Miss Marva's trailer I saw the Cates pickup parked alongside it. Hardy was loading boxes of artwork into the truck bed, to cart it to the gallery in town. Miss Marva had been doing brisk business of late, which was proof that Texans' appetite for bluebonnet paraphernalia should never be underestimated.

I savored the strong lines of Hardy's profile, the tilt of his dark head. A flush of desire and adoration swept over me. It was that way every time our paths crossed. For me, at least. My tentative experiments with Gill Mincey had brought to life a sexual awareness I had no idea how to satisfy. All I knew was that I didn't want Gill, or any of the other boys I knew. I wanted Hardy. I wanted him more than air and food and water.

"Hey, you," he said easily.

"Hey yourself."

I passed him without stopping, carrying the pie plate up to Miss Marva's door. Marva was busy cooking and greeted me with an unintelligible grunt, too involved in her task to bother with conversation.

I went back outside and found Hardy waiting for me. His eyes were such a fathomless blue I could have drowned in them. "How's basketball?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Still terrible."

"You need more practice?"

"With you?" I asked stupidly, caught off guard.

He smiled. "Yeah, with me."

"When?"

"Now. Right after I change clothes."

"What about Miss Marva's artwork?"

"I'm going to take it to town later. I'm meeting someone."

Someone. A girlfriend?

I hesitated, smarting with jealousy and uncertainty. I wondered what had prompted him to offer to practice with me, if he had some misbegotten idea we could be friends. Some shadow of despair must have crossed my expression. Hardy took a step closer, his forehead scored with a frown beneath the rumpled silk of his hair.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing, I...I was just trying to remember if I had any homework." I filled my lungs with the biting air. "Yes, I need more practice."

Hardy gave a businesslike nod. "Bring the ball. I'll meet you in ten minutes."

He was already there by the time I made it to the basketball hoop. We were both dressed in sweatpants, long-sleeved tees, and ragged sneakers. I dribbled the ball and passed it to him, and he executed a flawless free throw. Jogging to the basket, he retrieved the ball and passed it to me. "Don't let it bounce so high," he advised. "And try not to watch the ball while you're dribbling. You're supposed to keep an eye on the guys around you."

"If I don't watch the ball while I dribble, I'll lose it."

"Try it anyway."

I did. and the basketball bounced out of my control. "See?"

Hardy was patient and relaxed as he taught me the basics, moving like a big cat across the pavement. My size allowed me to move around him easily, but he used his height and long reach to block most of my shots. Breathing fast from exertion, he grinned at my frustrated exclamation when he obstructed yet another jump shot.

"Take a break for a minute." he said, "and then I'll teach you a pump fake."

"A what'1"

"It'll throw your opponent off long enough to give you a clear shot."

"Great." Although the air was chilled by the approach of nightfall, the exercise had made me warm and damp. I pushed up the sleeves of my tee and pressed a palm against a stitch in my side.

"Heard you were going out with someone," Hardy said casually, working the ball into a spin on the blunt tip of his forefinger.

I shot a glance at him. "Who told you that?"

"Bob Mincey. He says you're going with his little brother Gill. Nice family, the Minceys. You could do a lot worse."

"I'm not 'going out' with Gill." I made little quotation marks in the air with my fingers. "Not officially. We're just sort of..." I paused, at a loss to explain my relationship with Gill.

"You like him, though?" he asked with the kindly concern of a bie older brother. His

tone made me feel as irritable as a cat being dragged backward through a hedge.

"I can't imagine anyone not liking Gill," I said shortly. "He's real nice. I've got my breath back. Show me the pump fake."

"Yes, ma'am." Hardy motioned me to stand beside him, and he dribbled the ball in a semicrouch. "Say I've got a defender standing over me, ready to block my shot. I have to fake him out. Make him think I'm taking a shot, and when he takes the bait, it throws him off position, and then I've got my chance." He raised the ball to his sternum, sold the move, and made a smooth jump shot. "All right, you try it."

We faced each other while I dribbled. As he had instructed, I kept my eyes on his instead of focusing on the ball. "He kisses me," I said, still dribbling steadily.

I had the satisfaction of seeing Hardy's eyes widen. "What?"

"Gill Mincey. When we study together. He's kissed me a lot, in fact." I moved from side to side, trying to get around him, and Hardy stayed with me.

"That's great," he said, a new edge to his tone. "Are you going to take a shot?"

"I think he's pretty good at it too." I continued, increasing the pace of my dribbling. "But there's a problem."