His Most Important Win. Cynthia Thomason
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room. Today his features were clear, undiluted by shadow and the play of artificial light. And she would have known him anywhere. Just as she remembered, the corner of his mouth quirked up in an odd half grin. His eyes, nearly the rich color of blueberries, narrowed under thick, brown lashes. Strands of his hair, longer than she would have thought he’d like and darker blond than she recalled, fell to the arch of his slightly darker eyebrows.
He continued to pin her with a disturbingly intense gaze as the grin broadened. “Rosalie? You okay?”
Of course he would ask that. She’d been standing for several awkward moments hoping her senses would return along with enough intelligible words so she wouldn’t sound like an idiot. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. What had he said? Something about seeing her at the high school. Hunching one shoulder with feigned indifference, she said, “I was there. Canfield wanted all the faculty to witness …”
She stopped, knowing she was about to finish the sentence with a biting example of sarcasm.
“… the spectacle?” Bryce filled in for her.
“I wasn’t going to say that.” Sure she wasn’t. That was the exact word that had popped into her mind.
He chuckled. “Well, that’s what it was. Only an appearance by the Wildcat marching band could have been worse.”
“Obviously your return is viewed as a miracle by some people around here. Who better to take over for Bucky than a hometown football hero?” A shudder rippled down Rosalie’s spine. She really hadn’t meant to sound so unkind. A better plan would be to appear totally indifferent to Bryce.
“I guess we’ll see about that,” he said.
“Miss Rosalie!” The call came from a few yards away.
She stood on tiptoe to see over Bryce’s shoulder. “That’s Juan by my truck. He must have my order together.”
“I’ll give him a hand.”
Bryce stood aside as she walked ahead of him to the pickup where her order was stacked on the pavement. Knowing he was behind her made the skin at the nape of her neck prickle. Her footsteps felt leaden; the distance of only a few yards to her truck was like the length of a football field.
A line of trucks and trailers had started to form behind her. “We’d better hurry and get this loaded,” she said. “You have other customers.”
The three of them filled the pickup’s cargo area. Rosalie quickly consulted her list and wrote a check. When she tore it out of the book, she hesitated, looking first at Juan and then Bryce. “Who do I give this to?”
“Give it to Juan,” Bryce said. “He’s the boss. I’m just here to do what I can.”
She handed over the check and opened the door to the truck. “I suppose your father is happy you’re back.”
“He seems to be. I hope I can be more of a help than a hindrance.”
She climbed inside the truck, shut the door and started the engine. Bryce leaned on her open window. “Funny, but as soon as I got out here among the harvest this morning, it all came back to me,” he said. “I suppose produce is in my blood.”
“And football,” she said.
“Yep. And football.”
Rosalie stared out her windshield. All she had to do was put the truck in gear, and this whole anxiety-inducing episode would be over. She’d survived a face-to-face with Bryce. Maybe she could even walk by him in the halls of Whistler Creek High School without dissolving into a mass of insecurities. Not risking another look at his face, she lifted her hand. “Well, see you. Say hi to your parents.”
“I will. Give my regards to Claudia.”
“Sure thing.” Eyes straight ahead. Lips tight. Truck shifted into drive.
Now just take your foot off the brake….
“Oh, Rosalie,” he said, his arm still on her door.
She swiveled her head slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. “Yes?”
“You want to get together?”
Now her eyes snapped to his. Was he kidding? No. He actually appeared sincere. “Ah …”
“I’m only working until noon today, just until the out-of-town orders are loaded on trucks. Maybe we could meet at the Whistler Inn for lunch.”
“Lunch?” She gripped the steering wheel and resisted the urge to slap her forehead. She was an English teacher for heaven’s sake, and all she could muster was monosyllabic responses.
He chuckled. “Yeah. It’s the meal in the middle of the day. Most people eat it.”
She glowered at him. “I can’t do lunch.”
“Are you sure? I thought maybe I could catch up on fifteen years of Whistler Creek gossip.”
“Bryce, your parents can fill you in on what’s happened around here.”
“I suppose they could, if all I wanted to know about was the sixty-something country-club set. But I never cared much about those people when I lived here.”
Right. You much preferred the simple earthiness of the Campanos. Well, not any more. “Look, I just can’t. I’m working at the stand today.” That was a lie. Saturday was Rosalie’s errand day. She did chores while Danny helped Claudia at the stand. Now she had to hope Bryce didn’t stop by.
“Some other time then?”
She eased off the brake, gratified when the truck slipped away from him. “Maybe. Who knows?” she said.
“Rosalie?”
She gingerly stepped on the pedal, slowing the truck to a crawl. “What?”
“I still miss him, too.”
She hit the accelerator and drove off. When she looked in her rearview mirror through burning eyes, she saw Bryce standing there, hands on hips, watching her leave.
Chapter Three
Marjorie Benton slid another pancake on top of the stack she’d already layered on Bryce’s plate. “You ready for more bacon?” she asked.
He stared up at her. “Mom, enough. I’ve only been home a few days, and I’ve probably gained five pounds.”
She scooted the syrup bottle closer to him. “It’s Sunday, Brycie. We always have big breakfasts on weekends, remember?”
Bryce sought help from his father who remained hidden behind the newspaper. “So that plate of scrambled eggs and sausage that you brought to me in the wholesale market on Friday morning was a light meal?” he said to her.
Roland Benton covered up a chuckle with a rustle of the sports section.
Marjorie sat at the table next to her son. “It wouldn’t hurt you to put on a few pounds,” she said. “I know you don’t cook for yourself as a bachelor …”
He started to tell her that he was a good cook, even had a recipe box in one of the cartons currently stored in the garage, but figured she’d then tell everyone in town about her son, the kitchen wizard. Probably not the best image for the new football coach to project. Besides he could always tell when his mother was on a roll and knew the futility of trying to stop her.
“… I suspect you haven’t eaten properly in years,” she continued. “I know that woman you were married to didn’t like to cook.” She paused. “Or keep a clean house.”
Bryce smiled around a bite of doughy pancake. It wasn’t as if he and that woman had lived in squalor for four years. True, Audrey hadn’t been the domestic type, but she’d made sure the cleaning lady showed up weekly, so he’d never been able to write his initials in