Mischief in Miracle Cove Page 8

  And he had.

  Five weeks later, in the middle of an unseasonably chilly spring night—a Thursday night—she lost the baby. She’d named him Luke, and when she prayed for him, she called him by name. And she asked God to forgive her single lapse in judgment, the only time she’d given in to Jackson’s sweet talk and promises. Because, just like she’d known somewhere in the dark recesses of her soul at the time, it had led to heartache and loss.

  Tears clouded her eyes. The memory still hurt, and the loss still overwhelmed. Days like today, when the breeze whispered sweet and mild with the laughter of children playing in the park along the boulevard, were especially hard. But she doubted Jackson even gave it a second thought, just like he hadn’t given her a second thought when he’d stormed out without so much as a backward glance on that late-April day.

  She came to a crossroad, glanced both ways for oncoming traffic. Nothing coming, so she eased across the street and over to the next leg of the running trail. She quickly switched gears and decided to go the full distance today and work this odd sense of disappointment from her gut. A good, long run always raised her spirits, and she hoped today would be no different.

  She had an hour before Andy’s school bus dropped him at her office at the Thursday’s Child building. She’d meet him there, ask about his day. Not that he ever had more than two words to say when it came to school. “Okay” and “Fine” seemed to be the favorites. Maybe he wouldn’t bring home a discipline referral from one of his teachers today—another crumpled paper slashed by red pen that outlined the many facets of his insolence. She’d need to sign it and schedule another follow-up conference with the principal. They were on a first name basis with the way things were going.

  “Avoid these referrals and save a tree,” she’d told Andy when he brought one home just last week. A disagreement with his math teacher over a missing assignment was worth an hour-long detention. “Just do what your teachers ask. It’s not that hard.”

  “Easy for you to say.” He handed over the wadded paper he’d carelessly stuffed into the front pocket of his faded jeans and flipped coffee-with-heavy-cream hair from charcoal eyes to glance at her. The gesture reminded her of Terri, and she wondered how things were going in New York. She wouldn’t know, since neither she nor Andy had heard from his mother—her older sister—in over two weeks. Anyway, Andy’s hair was too long. It needed a cut—badly. Brianna frowned. Given the circumstances, that was a battle best saved for another day. “No one bosses you around all day long.”

  She rolled her eyes and smirked. “Just wait. You’ll be an adult one day, too. Then you’ll see it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “No way.” His eyes widened in mortification. “I don’t want to grow up. Grownups are crazy.”

  She couldn’t blame him for feeling that way. Her sister had seemed to go off the deep end, leaving her only child to fend for himself while she chased her latest dream of becoming the next top New York fashion designer, since her last dream of movie stardom hadn’t panned out. If Brianna hadn’t intervened and brought Andy to live with her, he’d probably be another casualty of the streets. He was only twelve, after all, and he still needed a mother’s touch.

  Needless to say, he wasn’t happy about having to leave his friends and everything else that was familiar back in California. And the fact that he’d been with Brianna for nearly two months now hadn’t changed a thing. The boy was mad at the world, and she was at a loss as to how to soften his tough veneer. She prayed for a breakthrough soon.

  Her mind wandered to Thursday’s Child. Kids like Andy were the driving force behind the program—kids who were lost in the shuffle of adult irresponsibility, who needed a safe haven, a place to belong. But, not immune to the economy’s current struggles, the program was in serious crisis. Even with a good turnout for the online auction, they’d fall short of paying next quarter’s bills. The building’s lease was up in August, and they’d either have to renegotiate the contract at a higher rate or buy the building and the grounds surrounding it outright. Neither was a viable option, given the current situation. What Thursday’s Child needed was a benefactor with generous pockets, someone with the capital to set the program firmly on its feet. And it needed to happen soon. She couldn’t bear to see the kids she’d grown to love tossed back out on the street.

  Her thoughts turned to the high bid she’d drawn. She’d balked at the idea of putting herself up for auction. She had no desire to date, even if the date was merely in the name of raising money. But Renee had talked her into it. How would it look, after all, for her to recruit other eligible adults if she wasn’t willing to put herself out there, as well? She grimaced. Renee could talk the paint off a wall if she set her mind to it.

  But maybe Renee was right after all. Perhaps her anonymous bidder would turn out to be a prince charming with a million dollars to burn, and a real heart for her kids.

  Yeah, and maybe the moon really was made of cheese.

  Chapter 2

  AN ARMY OF ANGRY WASPS dive-bombed inside Brianna’s belly. She sat dead-last in the row of bachelorettes, and the same creepy news anchor she’d had the pleasure of dealing with a few days ago made his way toward her, announcing the auction winners as he went. The half-dozen eligible bachelors had already been paired with their female bidders and all seemed reasonably pleased as they exited the studio to give the bachelorettes their turn to meet anxious mystery men. Now, each time a name was revealed, the high-bidding man came out to greet the bachelorette he’d ‘won’ for an evening on the town.

  Oh, she hoped the anchor wouldn’t reveal himself as the highest bidder for a date with her. The idea mortified her, and the mischievous gleam in his muddy-brown eyes was disturbing. She cringed at the thought and sent up a quick prayer for a more positive outcome. A date with anyone but him—anyone at all—and she’d be good with it.

  Brianna wiggled freshly-painted toes in the strappy sandals that hugged her feet. The shoes were new, and a bit too tight, and she wished now she’d worn her older, comfortable pair with the little black knee-length sheath she’d found on sale at the mall. But she wanted to look her best, and if it meant nursing sore feet she’d just have to bite the bullet. If this auction went well, perhaps they’d make it an annual event. The total bids had climbed to a healthy five-figure amount, enough to get spring programs for the kids off to a promising start.

  Now it was time to pay up, and she was determined to do her part. Visions of Lynette and Lucy, rambunctious eleven-year-old twin sisters with wheat-blonde hair and a spattering of freckles across their button noses, sprang into her head. They’d begun coming to the center a few weeks ago when their mom’s nursing shift changed to evenings and their dad picked up extra overtime as a UPS delivery driver. Now, instead of riding the bus to an empty house each afternoon, they got dropped off at the center, where they found help with their homework and enjoyed supervised gym time with new friends.

  The anchor stood two women away, and the rank odor of sweat laced the air. Brianna fought the urge to pinch her nose as he drew closer. She felt a little light-headed beneath the bright studio lights. They were hot, and annoying beads of moisture pooled at the nape of her neck as her heart galloped. Oh, why had she ever let Renee talk her into this crazy scheme?

  Because of the kids. She glanced at Andy, waiting in the wings to her left. He flashed a rare grin, thrilled as he shadowed the evening edition sportscaster through a private tour of the studio. Soon, he’d perform a mock-up newscast in front of the green screen while she sequestered with the sweaty anchor and his female co-anchor, like a prisoner on death-row awaiting her fate.

  For kids like Andy. Yeah, she could do this. This was a walk in the park, compared to the challenges they faced on a daily basis. She drew a deep breath and willed her heart to stop racing. Get a grip. Don’t be a wimp.

  ****

  Jackson leaned against the studio wall to ease the weight off his aching knee. The painkillers he’d downed before l
eaving the apartment had kicked the pain back to a dull roar, but they made him feel a bit lightheaded.

  Or maybe his head swam from the sight of Brianna on the monitor. She was a vision in a sassy little black sleeveless dress that offset sleek blonde hair and long, sculpted legs. She must still be an avid runner. No woman sported legs like that unless she worked for them.

  He waited while the slim, dark-haired woman seated to the right of Brianna was introduced to her mystery date. Awkward smiles all around, a few murmured greetings, and they exited the stage together.

  He was up next. It was a good thing he’d checked the auction site at the last minute. Some guy had outbid him by five hundred bucks. Imagine that! He made a statement by upping his bid to fifteen thousand, which ought to impress Brianna. It was an iron-clad number. He didn’t know much—anything, really—about the organization she’d founded with her friend, Renee, called Thursday’s Child, but he knew fifteen-K was a lot more than most people could afford to part with. No way would he get outbid tossing that kind of money around.

  He watched the anchor lean into Brianna a little too closely. The guy had a smug look on his face and belly rolls like a Shar-Pei puppy. Something in his watery eyes told Jackson he thought he had won the bid. Well, wouldn’t he be shocked?

  Brianna would be shocked, too. Jackson’s gut suddenly clenched and his knee throbbed. Maybe this was a mistake. After all, they hadn’t seen each other in more than six years, hadn’t so much as spoken a handful of words since that awful night.

  He’d been such a jerk to her. Even now, beads of sweat broke out along his forehead as words echoed through his mind.

  “Talk to me, Jackson.” Brianna’s chocolate-kiss eyes melted into a pool of tears. “I thought you had another week before you had to leave.”

  “I do…but I should go now. I need to get settled in, clear my head.” He’d turned away from her and set his gaze to the mountains in the distance, turning smoky-pink beneath a dusky sky. “Besides, I’m suffocating here, Bri.”

  “Suffocating?” She choked on the word. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re putting too much pressure on me, Brianna. I can’t love you the way you want me to—need me to. I’ve just got too much on my plate right now.”

  He watched her flinch as if he’d struck her, heard the sharp intake of breath.

  “So that’s how it is, Jackson? After everything we’ve shared I’m nothing more than another item on your overflowing plate?” She strode around to plant herself in front of him.

  One glance at the tears cascading down her cheeks had him wishing he could take back the words. “I just mean—”

  “Forget it, Jackson. You’ve made it perfectly clear how you feel.” She turned her back to him and crossed her arms over her belly. The tremble in her shoulders matched her voice. “Just go, then. Your plate is clean, at least as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

  The riffling of papers drew him back to the present, and realization smacked him like a sucker-punch. This wasn’t the football field he was playing on, and the studio crowd hadn’t come to watch him run his famous million dollar plays. This was a benefit for underprivileged kids, something obviously close to Brianna’s heart. What was he thinking, coming here trying to buy his way into a date with her?

  He forced back the bile that rose in his throat. Good grief, what have I done?

  ****

  Brianna wished the anchor would stop panting. His breath smelled like boiled eggs beneath the bright, hot studio lights. It was amazing just how much the TV could hide.

  She drew a deep breath and held it when he stepped in front of her. He shuffled a handful of crisp index-sized cue cards scribbled with notes as his leering gaze met hers. His voice dripped with suspense. “Brianna Caufield, co-founder of Thursday’s Child, are you ready to meet your date?”

  “I...um...” About as ready as I am to have a root canal without anesthesia. Note to self: Have it out with Renee at the first opportunity.

  He glanced at the cue-cards, and his smile suddenly turned under, like a sail deflating. His eyes narrowed and his nose did a rabbit scrunch as he muttered, “This can’t be right.”

  The female co-anchor gave him a not-so-gentle nudge and leaned over to glance at the card, which he promptly removed from her view. She urged, “Hey, the suspense is killing us, Art. Who’s the lucky guy?”

  He drew a ragged breath as he plastered on a billboard smile and stared directly into the camera. His voice held steady, unlike the trembling hand that clenched into a fist at his side, out of the camera’s view. “Why, he’s none other than Knoxville’s very own hometown hero, the all-star quarterback who once led the University of Tennessee to an SEC championship and a Sugar Bowl win.” He gestured dramatically toward the wings and threw his arms wide. “Jackson Reed, come on out. Your generous fifteen-thousand dollar bid has won you a date with the beautiful Brianna Caufield.”

  Brianna lurched in her seat. Jackson Reed...no, it can’t be. Wake up, wake up!

  The room began to whirl and harsh lights danced before Brianna’s eyes. She blinked hard once, twice, and heard a flurry of movement to her left. Then he strode out. He had to duck to clear a microphone suspended from the ceiling, and his height shaded the lights, easing the glare that burned her eyes. His dark hair was a bit shorter than she remembered, but it still fell in tousled waves across intense, smoky-gray eyes.

  The years had added muscle—lots of it. And he flashed the same ‘I can get out of anything’ grin that had melted her the first time they’d met, back in the school lunchroom in sixth grade, when he’d tried to swap his warm, stinky tuna fish on squashed white bread for the turkey and cheddar on wholegrain her mom had packed along with juicy red seedless grapes and a homemade frosted fudge brownie. Well, that grin wouldn’t work its magic on her anymore. No way in...

  “Hello, Brianna.”

  Her insides turned to ice. His voice was deep, coaxing, just as she remembered. She sat paralyzed, speechless. Every thought flew from her mind. She gripped the armrests of the chair like life preservers on a sinking Titanic.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Andy’s sneakers thumped the studio floor and the room rocked wildly as she tried to stand.

  “Somebody catch her.” The co-anchor rushed over to fan her face with a cue card. “Bring some water, Art. Hurry, let’s go to commercial break.”

  ****

  “You’re Jackson Reed.” Andy’s eyes grew round with amazement as he followed Jackson down the hall.

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  They made their way to the lobby of the news studio, on the parking level. Outside, rush-hour traffic raced up and down Kingston Pike as people scurried home from work.

  “For real.” Andy’s voice grated on Brianna’s nerves like rough-grade sandpaper. She wished he’d just be quiet and keep walking. “You’re really him. Wow, can I have your autograph?”

  “Sure.” Jackson had the audacity to grin. “How about a picture, too?”

  Andy paused to rock back on his heels. “You have a camera?”

  “On my cell phone.” He pulled out the latest hi-tech model, one that would have set

  Brianna back two week’s salary.

  “Cool.” Andy turned to her. “Aunt Brianna, toss me a pen and some paper from your purse.”

  “No.” She shook her head, clutching the handbag to her chest. She still felt warm and a bit nauseated, as if her insides were filled with chili peppers. “Not now, Andy. Go wait in the car.”

  His eyes clouded with confusion. “But—”

  “I said, not now.” She fumbled through the purse and tossed him the car keys. “You remember where we parked?”

  “Of course. Right beside that sweet red Mustang.” He turned to Jackson. “Hey, is that your Mustang?”

  “Maybe...yes.”

  “Wow. Can I sit in it? I’ll bet you’ve got an awesome stereo. I’ll bet—”

  Brianna stompe
d one spike-heeled foot and pointed toward the door. “Andy—the car—now. And don’t get any ideas. Just unlock it and get in. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  He sighed. “Radio?”

  “Yes, turn it on. But nothing else.”

  “Whatever.” He tossed the keys into the air, caught them with a jangle before heading through automatic double doors into the parking lot. He turned back to Jackson before the doors slipped closed. “Can I get an autograph later?”

  “Sure, and we’ll play some ball, too, okay?”

  “Promise?”

  “You bet.”

  “Cool.” There was a bounce in Andy’s step as he loped toward the Kia.

  “You shouldn’t have told him that.” Brianna’s cheeks burned as she watched him unlock the passenger door and slide in. “You shouldn’t make promises you don’t plan to keep.”

  “Who said I don’t plan to keep my promise?”

  “Prior history, Jackson.” She strode across the room, arms crossed in a death grip. “A less-than-pristine track record.”

  “Brianna, please.” He limped after her. She took pity, slowed a step or two. And it irked her that she should feel any sympathy for him whatsoever. He’d certainly shown her none when she’d needed it the most. “I shouldn’t have blindsided you. I—”

  “Save the football terminology. You had no right to do this, Jackson.” Her chin came up, and she was mortified when her bottom lip began to tremble. She bit down hard, drew a breath. “Thousands of men live in this town. Thousands of men have the Internet and money—okay, maybe not that kind of money. Anyway, why did it have to be you?”

  “It was an honest bid. I’m just trying to help you out.”

  She crossed her arms again, glared at him.

  “Okay, okay. I saw you on TV and I just...well, I thought...”

  Irritation danced up Brianna’s spine. It made her uncomfortable to see him squirm. On TV, when he was interviewed after games, he always sounded so sure, so in control. Jackson Reed was the man every woman in America wanted...everyone but her. “I’ll take the money, Jackson. It will go a long way towards funding our upcoming programs for the Thursday’s Child kids. But the date with you—well—no. It’s just not going to happen.”