Fireside by Susan Wiggs (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

to God, that’s never happened to me before. Snowboarding tired my ass out.”

“So you fell asleep right away.”

“Yeah.” Now what? Did he apologize? He was sorry as hell he hadn’t made love to her, but he didn’t think that was the kind of sorry she wanted to hear. Probably better to treat the situation as though it had never happened.

“Then you didn’t really hear the conversation,” she said quietly.

“Conversation?”

“One-sided. I was just thinking aloud,” she said.

Uh-oh. He couldn’t imagine what she’d said. Apparently he’d missed his chance. “I’m all ears now.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”

A chill slid over him. It’s not important. “In my experience, when a woman says something’s not important, then that means it’s important.”

“Are you being insulting on purpose, or does this come naturally?” she asked.

“I’m not being insulting.”

“If I feel insulted, then you are. That’s how it works.”

Damn, but she was a mule-headed, difficult woman. Why in blazes did she have to be so difficult?

“Just so you know,” he said, “that was a first for me. Normally when I sleep with a woman, we do a lot more than sleep.”

“Just so you know,” she countered, mocking him, “I don’t actually care about your track record with other women.”

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I, uh, I better get on upstairs,” he said, pretty sure his thoughts would scare her if he said what was on his mind. “You know, in case AJ wakes up.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll see you later, then.”

“You will,” she agreed.

There were a lot of things he wanted to say to her. He wanted to say he actually liked sleeping with her. Yeah, he would have loved to have sex with her, but barring that, the sleeping gave him a feeling of intimacy he’d never had with a woman before. As he stood by the bed and studied her, a graceful tangle of shadows in the half light, a truth hit him out of the blue—he could fall in love with this woman. Hard. Maybe he was already heading in that direction. Whether or not this was a good thing remained to be seen.

Twenty-Two

Kim didn’t want to wait for Bo to get back from pitching practice at the gym, so she drove there to find him with a pile of mail and messages on the seat beside her. Lately, each day brought more to do in preparation for spring training. This was the way she used to feel when she was first getting started—filled with anticipation, looking forward to each new day. Now there was more. There was Bo himself, who drove her crazy. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. He’d been at the gym for two hours, and she already missed him. The mail and messages were only an excuse.

The photos from the winter shoot at Camp Kioga turned out better than anyone had hoped. Expertly rendered by Daisy and then packaged for the press by Kim, they formed the centerpiece of the new-player press kit. The materials generated keen interest from a variety of outlets. Ultimately, Kim granted a temporary exclusive to the publication that offered the biggest spread and widest exposure for Bo—the Sunday magazine of the New York Times, including the cover, with reporting by one of the team’s favorite journalists, Natalie Sweet.

The shots created an instant sensation and a storm of buzz. Overnight, everyone wanted to know who Bo Crutcher was and where he’d been all their lives. The article was perfect, a pictorial, which meant the text would be kept to a minimum while the pictures told the story.

The cover shot ran with the predictable but always-compelling headline, “The Iceman Cometh” and featured the most unusual photo of all, a shot of him pitching a snowball in front of the frozen waterfall. The article played up his plainspoken manner, his lifelong affinity for the sport and his extensive knowledge of the art and craft of being a left-handed pitcher. No mention was made of the fact that calling him up was merely a strategy move to position the team for a trade in midseason. Kim had made certain that this was not the most interesting thing about him, and it worked. The overall effect of the article was a classy, artistic treatment of a fascinating subject.

The first sign that the publicity was having the desired impact was that Bo’s mobile phone and e-mail inbox nearly exploded.

She found him in his usual spot at a handball court that had been fitted with a net so he could lob his sixty pitches a day. With his back to the door, he didn’t see her there, and she waited a few minutes, just watching him. And he was an eyeful, in shorts and a ripped T-shirt, a bandanna around his head. He pitched with a grace and athleticism that took her breath away. The intensity and concentration made him seem like a different person, someone with facets she hadn’t begun to explore.

Pushing away an untimely fantasy, she cleared her throat. “Mail call,” she said. “I just checked the post-office box in town.”

He turned and gave her what she was coming to think of as his trademark grin, the one that had the potential to win him legions of fans. “I was just finishing up.” He grabbed a towel, and they sat on a bench together and went through it. She tried not to be distracted by his sweaty smell, which she found maddeningly sexy.

For the most part, the mail was flattering and gratifying. Some was a little weird.

“Another blind proposal from some woman,” he said.

“That one’s presented quite…creatively,” she said, pointing to the large envelope he’d just opened.

“Definitely a first,” he said, indicating the proposal written on a pair of panties. “Did you know this was going to happen?”

“Well, I didn’t plan the panty proposal. We wanted to create a media sensation,” she said. “And guess what? It worked.”

“Worked…how? Sorry to be dense.” He slung the towel around his