Game Plan Of The Heart. Cara Colter
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current of her eyes.
“I’m Bowen Reeve,” he said, finally, and offered his hand. It occurred to him this had not been in his script, either. Not even close. “I teach at the high school. And coach football.”
She hesitated, and as he had hoped, took his teaching position as proof he was not a door-to-door salesman, or worse. She juggled her wrench to her other hand, and accepted his proffered hand.
He saw immediately that it had been a mistake to take her hand. It was soft and delicate, not the hand of a woman who made it a habit to work on tiny motorbikes. He let it go abruptly, but not quickly enough to escape the little shiver of awareness he felt.
“Ashton Burnadette,” she offered. “What can I do for you, Mr. Reeve?”
“Make it Bowen.” What was he doing? He wasn’t here to make friends! “Have you got a child?” he asked, forcing himself to be all business.
She looked suddenly wary, as if Oprah had been coaching her not to talk to strangers and she suddenly realized she had not demanded proof that he worked at the high school.
“Not old enough for you to be scouting for the Mountain Lions,” she said.
She knew the name of his team. Before his ego lapped that up too eagerly, he said, “Actually, I’m here about some phone calls I’ve been getting.”
“Phone calls?”
“Prank calls. At midnight.”
“That’s impossible. Justin goes to bed at eight thirty. Besides he isn’t that kind of boy.”
Bowen had heard that line a few thousand times since he had started teaching. It was never their kid.
He should make his point and leave. But somehow making his point had become secondary to finding out if she was a single mom, or if a husband shared this cute little house with her and her prank-calling kid.
“Maybe I should come back when your husband is home,” he said.
“I’m a widow,” she said with stiff pride.
“I’m sorry.” There, he’d said it twice, and this time he didn’t mean it at all. He was glad she was single, which did not bode well for his mission here.
He might as well admit he had totally lost control of the script and leave. He tried to salvage something. “Look, if you could just talk to your kid about it. I need to get some sleep.”
“Mom!” A little boy came whipping around the corner into the garage and screeched to a halt. He looked from Bowen to his mother and back again, his chocolate hair falling over his eyes.
Bowen stared at him. The child’s eyes were huge. And green. The pure, undiluted green of an Irish meadow.
Bowen had seen eyes like that before. He saw them every morning when he looked in the mirror.
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