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“Are you staying long?”
“Long enough to make sure Dad’s okay.”
Simon nodded. “You’re sure you don’t want me to cancel? Cassandra won’t mind.”
“No, no. I need to sleep anyway. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?” Emmy backed away, then thinking better of her reaction, she leaned in and gave Simon a kiss. He returned the affection, but the gesture was more friendly than anything else.
“Breakfast?” he asked.
“We’ll see.”
Tucker should have been used to hotel beds.
He spent a good ninety days or more each summer on the road and had slept in a dozen different hotels, on beds of varying comfort, size and expense. This particular hotel—one of his own choosing—had a remarkable bed, but it wasn’t helping him sleep.
Lying on the soft feather mattress cover, with the duvet kicked off, Tucker stared at the ceiling and failed miserably to find any peace. The bright green glow of the alarm clock on his nightstand made the room appear even more alien, and he’d left the curtains open to allow the light of downtown Chicago in.
At home he lived in a spacious, fancy condo facing the Bay, with a glorious view of the Bay Bridge. Because of the bright lights that filled his home, he needed the extra glow to fall asleep in foreign cities.
But even the light was useless.
His head was so full of Emmy and his stupidity in following her to Chicago, there was no sense in trying to think of anything else. Especially sleep. She didn’t seem to mind him being there, but he was still wondering what madness had motivated him. He had a game in two days, and a commercial to film on the weekend. What he needed was rest and a good workout. Not to follow Emmy Kasper halfway across the country on a stupid whim.
She didn’t need him, Emmy was too strong for that. What had he been thinking? He was like a sad high school boy with a crush on a girl impossibly out of his league. And as a man who knew a great deal about leagues, that notion made him laugh a little. Major League pitcher, minor league lover.
He grumbled and rolled onto his side, staring at the brightly lit skyscrapers of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. Emmy had said Simon didn’t live far from there, only a few miles down, near the park. Which meant she was close.
So close he imagined her knocking on the door.
Burying his face in the too-soft pillow, Tucker ignored his imagination and told himself, Sleep, you idiot.
Knock, knock-knock, knock.
He opened his eyes, staring into the white pillow. Tucker might have an active imagination, but it wasn’t so gifted he could conjure up a noise that real. Someone actually was knocking at his door. Climbing out of bed and ignoring the shock of cold tile on his feet when he reached the hallway, he forgot to check the peephole and opened the door.
He must be dreaming. It was the only logical explanation.
“Hi,” Emmy said.
“Hi,” he replied stupidly, not sure what he should say to a real woman he’d been imagining only moments earlier.
“Did I wake you?” She gave him a once-over, and he became painfully aware he was only wearing black boxer briefs. “Oh.” She flushed, becoming aware of it too. “I’m sorry.”
Emmy turned away, whispering, “So stupid.” She was halfway to the elevator before Tucker shook off his stupor and it dawned on him she was leaving. “Emmy, hang on.” He stepped out into the hallway, keeping his door open with one hand so it didn’t lock behind him. “Don’t go.”
She stood stock-still in front of the bank of elevators and stared down at her feet. With her hair pulled back in a loose bun and still wearing the rumpled clothes she’d started the day with, he was able to absorb how exhausted she was, even from thirty feet away.
“I can put pants on,” he offered.
Emmy laughed, short but honest, and looked from the elevator to him, then smiled softly, like anything bigger might hurt her cheeks. For a minute he thought she might still leave and wasn’t sure what he could say to stop her, but then she shouldered her big purse and closed the gap between them. She gave him another once-over from a few inches away. Her cheeks stayed pink, but she didn’t glance away. “Don’t get dressed on my account.”
Tucker stepped back and held the door open for her, watching as she moved into the suite without turning on any lights. “You know,” she called out, “it’s only like nine o’clock. When did you turn four hundred?”
He closed the door, shutting out the brightness of the hallway so the only light was from his bedroom alarm clock and the city outside. Her silhouette glowed against the bright outline of the buildings. “I have a Nazi athletic trainer who says I need to get up early if I’m going to stay in shape.”
“Your shape looks just fine.” She spoke so softly he wouldn’t have been able to hear her in a louder room, but with only the two of them there, the words cleared the distance between them too easily.
“Thanks.” Don’t push your luck, Lloyd.
