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If he had a trophy buck.
Mojo, his redbone hound, trotted out to greet him.
“Hey, boy,” Reed said, sliding his hand over the slick head of the dog, who sank to his haunches. “Been treeing coons or sawing logs?”
The dog didn’t answer, of course. Just thumped a happy beat with his tail.
Reed headed toward the house, Mojo following at his normal pace—molasses.
Empty house for now, but one day, he’d have a woman brushing the flour off her hands and smiling as he came up the steps. Maybe a small boy holding a sippy cup clinging to her legs. She might even have the curve of another child growing in her belly. In his mind, she had long, blond hair and a sweetly curved cheek. Love shone in her eyes.
She looked nothing like that smart-mouthed Georgia Hightower who he wanted to do naughty things to.
Nothing at all.
* * *
Georgia didn’t sleepwell that night. She wasn’t sure if it was the soft mattress at the Imperial or the mixed-up emotions racing through her. She’d arrived stone-cold sober despite the earlier tequila shots. Claire had disappeared from Thirsty’s, looking flustered, saying something about lesson plans, but Mary Catherine had tottered back to the hotel beside Georgia, enthusiastically prattling about bouquets and place settings before lapsing into drunken silence.
No fooling Georgia. Jax had already climbed into her friend’s head, wreaking havoc on her intention to glide down the aisle toward Brad.
Georgia just couldn’t figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Cowboys were like crack and once a girl formed that habit, it was hard as hell to resist a little taste. Made a girl wanna put her good intentions into hock for an all-night bender with a man under a Stetson. Regrets be damned.
Reed McCormick’s blue eyes materialized, slipping from the back burner where she’d relegated him. Hunger clawed at her. Oh, what she could do to him... oh, what he could do to her.
Yeah, frickin’ crack.
The following day, the wedding party headed to Dallas for final dress fittings. Georgia lucked out in that her bridesmaid dress fit perfectly. Not so with the rest of the bridesmaids. Mary Catherine swallowed no doubt colorful vocabulary when Marilyn belittled her step-sister Rachel and trilled about the beauty of the designer gown she had picked out for Mary Catherine. Mary Catherine kept casting glances at a forgotten rack where a blingy silver sheath hung, reminding Georgia of how much her friend gave over to that lunatic bitch stepmonster. And Claire loitered in the dressing room refusing to even come out to show off the amethyst gown. Georgia knew it was likely too revealing, and her friend wasn’t accustomed to showing that much flesh.
Yeah, all this sparkly wedding stuff was grating on her nerves.
A Bloody Mary had a way of making dress fittings easier, so Georgia headed to the in-store café to check her messages. Seeing one from the Winston College athletic director caused the vodka to curdle her stomach.
“Ms. Hightower, the committee has reached a decision regarding the incident with Harley Kerensky, and we’d like to meet with you as soon as possible. Please call Helen to schedule an appointment for the beginning of next week.”
End of message.
The moron obviously hadn’t remembered she’d taken vacation a week earlier than the planned semester break. Didn’t matter, though. She knew what was going down in her absence—the university would throw her under the bus to save face. Dollars to donuts, she wouldn’t be the coach of the Lady Hawks next season.
She had to accept some of the blame. Being the head coach was about more than coaching the team. Georgia hadn’t been prepared for managing every aspect of the position, so when a grading scandal concerning one of her team members hit the school papers, and then theBoston Globe, she hadn’t handled the controversy well.
Okay, not at all.
Seems sticking one’s head in the sand wasn’t the right way to deal with the flack that ensued. She and Henry, the English department head, had split months earlier and he’d used his considerable powers with the Winston College administration for playing asshole extraordinaire. So Georgia knew how the meeting would go. The athletic director would recommend she quietly step down, ’cause that’s how they did things in those fancy East Coast liberal arts colleges. With grace and no eye contact.
Georgia called Helen and told the sympathetic-sounding administrative assistant she wouldn’t be back in town until after Christmas.
“Well, Mr. Ridgeway will likely want to have this mess cleared before the end of the year. I’ll pencil you in for the twenty-seventh but expect a conference call earlier.”
“Oh, goodie,” Georgia said, sucking her straw hard, trying to capture the last of the vodka in the empty glass. She held up a hand and signaled the waitress to bring her another. Only booze could help her now.
Hanging up, Georgia closed her eyes and wished a pox of hemorrhoids on Henry and Edward Ridgeway. Then she said a little prayer for her team because things were about to get tough, not just for her, but for the girls who’d worked their asses off, making the division playoffs for the third year in a row.
What would she do now?
She needed a job. Something to do. Something to cling to.
