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Now that they were back in New Orleans, Adelaide knew to pick up beignets on game days when they were downtown. But in Metairie, for an occasional treat, she bought raspberry scones. Technically, procuring pastries wasn’t on her formal list of duties. And maybe it was her sweet tooth that had driven this one shared pleasure. But after last night’s awkward end to the evening, she found herself wanting to put their relationship back on familiar ground.
It wasn’t as if she was offended that her kiss hadn’t made him realize he’d always loved her from afar or had some other fairy-tale outcome. But maybe she’d dreamed once or twice that such a thing could really happen if they ever kissed. That Dempsey would see her with new eyes and forget about the Valentinas of the world.
Right. He’d made it clear she would be welcome in his bed, but he hadn’t seemed inclined to consider what that would mean for them—their friendship, their work together or even this farce of an engagement. How could she knowingly walk into an intimate relationship with him when she’d seen the devastation he left in his wake?
The sun hadn’t even risen that morning when she’d awoken to an empty house, and she’d known that Dempsey had left for work. He’d been restless when they’d arrived home after the charity fund-raiser, excusing himself to call his brother Jean-Pierre in New York. She’d thought then that maybe he was more upset about his grandfather’s mistake than he’d let on. Why else would he call Jean-Pierre when it would have been after midnight in Manhattan?
Unless he’d been fighting the riot of yearning that had plagued her.
She backed into the double doors leading to the front offices and nearly ran into Pat Tyrell, the Hurricanes’ defensive coordinator.
“Well, good morning, Miss Adelaide.” He tipped his team hat to her since, even at seventy years old, the grizzled old coach was still a flirt. “Those wouldn’t happen to be illicit treats in that white pastry box of yours?”
The older man knew her well. He held the door open for her.
“I figured I didn’t have to hide them at this hour since the trainers won’t be in until at least nine o’clock.” She lifted the box toward him. “Want a raspberry scone?”
“You speak an old man’s language.” His black-and-gold windbreaker crinkled as he reached into the box to help himself. “Dempsey ought to be ready for breakfast soon. I came in this morning to find him running up and down the bleachers like a kid in training camp.”
Her mouth went dry as she envisioned Dempsey in his workout routine. He was as fit as any of his players, even if she did manage to tempt him into an occasional scone.
“Maybe he’s getting ready to run a few plays himself on Sunday.” She sidestepped Pat to head into her office. “He’s always saying we need more discipline on the field.”
“Damn shame that boy didn’t have a shot to play in the NFL. When you get that kind of football mind combined with talent, it’s a beautiful thing to watch.” He raised his pastry in salute. “Thanks for the sweets, Addy.”
Settling into her small office next door to Dempsey’s massive suite, Adelaide set down the coffees and dropped her purse on the floor beside the desk. She’d only been joking about Dempsey getting ready to run plays. Maybe because she wasn’t a football player she hadn’t given much thought to the fact that Dempsey’s decorated college career as a tight end had never gone to the next level. He’d told her once that he’d chosen to coach because he could bring more to the game that way, and she believed him.
But she also knew from articles in the media that an injury in his youth had never mended properly and that another hit to his spine could paralyze him—something that his college coaches hadn’t known about, but had been quickly discovered in a physical by the team that had drafted him. Dempsey had been on a plane back to Louisiana the next day and, Adelaide recalled, Leon Reynaud had threatened to sue the college where he’d played.
At the time, she’d been busy finishing up her fine arts degree and debating whether to apply to a master’s program. She’d also been in recovery mode from her crush on Dempsey and had been trying to ignore the stories about him.
The knock on her office door startled her from her thoughts. Dempsey appeared in the doorway in cargo shorts and a black team polo shirt that fit him to perfection. His hair, still wet from the shower, was even darker than usual. He hadn’t shaved either. The jaw that had been well groomed just twelve hours ago for the charity ball was already heavily shadowed.
