Page 6 of Score to Settle (Oakwood Ranch #1)
Besides, anything has got to be better than trying to fake my way through editorial meetings and dodging Callie’s snide remarks and constant attempts to undermine me.
This could be the perfect spot to work on my novel too.
I have no idea what I’m doing or why I’m doing it, but a buzz of excitement still shoots through me when I think about the novel I started when I moved back to Denver.
A way to fill my evenings when Mia was working or out with Edward.
Mia’s right about one thing—I haven’t exactly put much effort into building a social life since I got back, but I hate the thought of seeing people I know and what they’ll think when they realize I’m back in Denver after messing up my shot in New York.
Quietly, I slip out of the bedroom. From the room next to mine, I catch the sound of a drawer opening then closing.
I think of Jake, wet from the shower. I swallow and shove the image aside.
I’m not a drooling teen with a major crush anymore.
That version of me died the day I realized Jake wasn’t the golden boy I thought he was.
Ten years on and the cruelty of his words still echo in my mind like it was yesterday: I’d rather die than meet the loser who wrote that!
I push the memory aside and head for the stairs, taking in the framed family photos on the white walls.
Dylan as a baby with a man in his twenties I guess is his father.
Then Jake appears and it’s the two of them and their dad for a few years, sitting on a paddock fence with the barn behind them.
Then Chase joins them as a two-year-old, sporting overalls and the Afro curls I remember from high school.
In the first photo, he looks uncomfortable in his adoptive father’s arms, but by the second he’s wedged in between Jake and Dylan on the fence and looks like one of the family.
With each photograph, the boys grow taller and broader and then suddenly their father is no longer with them in the shot.
I feel a pang of grief for the first photo of the boys alone and the lost expressions hiding behind their smiles.
Jake and I have one thing in common at least—we’ve both lost a parent.
I hurry on before my own childhood memories fill my head.
Downstairs, the ranch is full of life and furniture. A home. Lived-in couches and plump cushions. Wood floors and a big fireplace in the living room.
“There you are.”
I spin around to find Joanna Sullivan pulling a stack of placemats from a sideboard that looks straight out of an old John Wayne Western.
Joanna is still wearing the oversized Stormhawks jersey and apron she greeted me in a few hours ago.
She’s in her fifties or early sixties with short, blonde-gray hair, a round face and body, and a knowing smile that seems to cut right through me.
Mama Sullivan might look like everyone’s dream American mom, but I have the sense that’s all part of the subterfuge to draw people in.
You don’t raise three high-profile NFL players without being hardworking, whip-smart, and tough as nails.
It’s on my lips to ask her a question about Jake and start getting the background to the feature, but then I remember Tim’s warning about Mama. She runs the show when it comes to her boys. And she’s not someone you want to cross. And so I ask, “Can I help set the table, Mrs. Sullivan?”
The woman laughs, a merry dancing chuckle. “In the thirty-seven years I’ve lived in this house, you’re the first person to ever offer that.” She stacks the mats in my open arms. “And call me Mama. Not even my doctor calls me Mrs. Sullivan.”
I follow her into the kitchen, already my favorite room in the house.
It’s a vast, open space, with modern units lining one wall and a large, chrome stove.
The long bench table stands in the center, easily long enough for three hulking football players to sit around.
The décor is a mix of modern and classic, mirroring the rest of the ranch.
There’s a door propped open that leads to the garden, barn, and paddocks I saw from Chase’s window.
The aromas of home cooking fill the air. I try to remember the last time I ate anything that wasn’t at a restaurant or from a takeout carton. The only thing I make in the kitchen of Mia’s apartment is grilled cheese, and I burn them more often than not.
“I won’t interfere in you getting to know Jake for yourself,” Mama says as I lay the table mats.
“But I will say this—Dylan is the strong silent type, while Jake and Chase act like life is one big joke. But it is just an act, I can assure you. Jake especially is a hard nut to crack. Don’t give up.
He’s sweet as sugar in the middle and I want the world to know it.
This feature wasn’t his idea, so you can expect some pushback from him.
If you want my advice, don’t hammer him with questions.
He doesn’t like opening up at the best of times so let him do it at his own pace.
It’s why I wanted you to stay here. He also feeds off emotions, which is why he performs best in front of a cheering crowd.
Be patient. Relax around him and he’ll do the same. ”
I can’t stop the grimace from reaching my face. Relaxed. Patient. They’re not words anyone has ever used to describe me before. “I can handle it,” I say, hoping it’s true.
Mama’s penetrating gaze finds me again. She pauses for a moment and then nods.
“I think you can.” Her confidence in me should be a boost but it has the opposite effect.
A crushing wave of what-the-fuck-am-I-doing anxiety sweeps through me again.
I have no experience in writing profiles like this on anyone, least of all football stars.
I lied to get this job, pretending I knew as much about football as I do other sports.
And I didn’t tell Tim that I knew Jake in high school.
If Tim learns the truth, I’m finished. And even if he doesn’t, there’s a high chance I’m going to fail so badly, Sports Magazine is going to fire my ass before the week is out.
I’ll be humiliated again, but worse because this time my career in journalism will be done and I’ll have nothing.
But before I can freak out any more, Mama is calling up the stairs, “Get your asses down here. Dinner is ready.” She then places a steaming pot of chili on the table in front of me and I take a deep breath as footsteps crash down the stairs.
Relax. I can do that… right?