Hot Pursuit Read online

  Once they’d stored the equipment in the back of the coach’s old-style jeep—which was convertible and ultracool, according to the boys—Kylie gripped her keys in her palm and headed for her own truck. Escaping the odd chemistry between her and her son’s coach was a serious priority. Her stomach still vibrated with the uncomfortable, unfamiliar tension.

  Oh, but it’s not unfamiliar. It’s just been suppressed for a long, long time.

  She ignored her conscience and approached her truck.

  Naturally, that was the moment she noticed her truck was lurching oddly to one side. By the time she reached the driver’s side door, she realized why.

  She had a flat.

  “Well, hell.”

  “What?” Coach asked as he moved in behind her.

  She clamped her hand over her mouth and cast a worried look over her shoulder, hoping the boys hadn’t heard her curse. Ryan already thought hell and damn weren’t real curses, so she’d have an interesting time giving her “cursing is only an excuse for not expressing your feelings intelligently” speech if she was spouting those very words herself.

  But, damn it, sometimes a situation just called for a choice word or two.

  Coach laid his hand briefly on her shoulder. “I got it.”

  “No, I—” She started to spin toward him and tell him about AAA, but he was already heading toward the back of her truck.

  “You got the full tire for the spare,” he said as he wrangled the big tire out of the back with ease.

  “Smart.”

  “But I have—”

  “Hey, Mom, wouldn’t it be cool if Will’s crew could come in and do their thing?” Ryan made the sound effects of an air gun as he gestured toward the tires. “They do four tires in, like, fourteen seconds. They could do this in…”

  “Three point five seconds,” Patrick said with a cocky smile.

  “Your mom would be proud of those math skills,” Coach said as he rolled the tire toward the front of the truck.

  “I’ve got an A, you know,” Patrick said.

  Coach ruffled his hair as he passed by his nephew. “I heard.”

  Kylie hovered just behind him, following him and feeling the need to explain about the pit-stop statistics. “I work for a PR firm that specializes in racing. Ryan gets carried away sometimes.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Even though her feet throbbed in her pumps, guilt also coursed through her. He shouldn’t be doing all the work. “I can get this,” she said as she grabbed the tire and tugged. She wasn’t helpless.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “But I’m offering to help. Chivalrous, huh?”

  “It’s—” She backed away from the heat and welcome in his pale blue, almost silver eyes. She wished she hadn’t noticed the color. In fact, when was the last time she noticed the color of a man’s eyes?

  Four years, five months and eighteen days ago.

  “I appreciate the gesture,” she said finally, stepping back further.

  “No problem.” He worked the jack handle/wrench around a lug nut and tugged.

  Too late, she noticed a jagged edge of metal at the end of the handle. “Coach, don’t—” She grabbed his hand, jerking it away, but she wasn’t fast enough. His hand had already scraped over the edge.

  Even as she wrapped her hand around his wrist, she closed her other hand over her cell phone, tucked in her pants pocket, and considered whether she should call 911. Blood dripped off his palm, and her heart jumped. “Oh, man. I’ll get help. You’ll be fine.” That jagged metal had to have ripped a nasty slice across his hand.

  She had to have a towel in the back. Or hand wipes. No, those would sting, and they needed to stop the bleeding ASAP. The first-aid kit. Hadn’t Ryan’s science teacher just given his students the speech about making sure their parents carried one in their car?

  “Ryan, get the first-aid kit from the glove box,” she said as she shoved her phone back in her pocket and yanked the hem of her shirt from her pants, wrapping the cloth around the coach’s hand.

  “What? Why?” Ryan, with Patrick at his heels, ground to a halt beside her and his coach. “Blood? Cool. Mom—”

  “Now, Ryan.”

  “It’s fine,” Coach said, trying to pull his hand back as Ryan darted for the truck. “You’re ruining your shirt.”

  She held tight, unbuttoning her shirt with her free hand, grateful she’d worn a tank top underneath. “I can get a new shirt.”

  “I’ll pay for it.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I’m not usually so clumsy and stupid.”

  “Clumsy has nothing to do with—” She stopped as her gaze connected with his. A self-censure lurked in his eyes that seemed out of sync with a simple accident. “It’ll be fine,” she said calmly, softly.

  The brief moment of vulnerability was gone. He flicked his gaze down. “Yeah.”

  “Kit,” Ryan said as he appeared next to them and opened the plastic container.

  Kylie pealed back her shirt a little to check the blood flow from his palm. It was already slowing, and the cut didn’t seem as deep as she’d initially assumed. She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Open the big bandage and antibiotic ointment,” she said to Ryan as she reapplied her shirt and the pressure.

  “My mom faints at the sight of blood,” Patrick said, leaning close to study his uncle’s hand.

  “She does?” Kylie asked. How had the woman made it ten years with a son? Kylie had patched up road rash, cuts, removed dozens of splinters and all but performed major surgery on Ryan since the moment he’d figured out how to crawl.

  Coach shook his head at Patrick. An unspoken message passed between them.

  “Well, sorta,” Patrick amended. “It was just that one time.”

  Ryan looked as if he wanted to press for more details for a second, but he obviously thought better of it since he held the big bandage by the corners and said nothing else.

  Kylie, who had plenty of emotions and private thoughts, certainly had no plans to ask about the Treadway family. Between her and Ryan, they managed to apply the ointment and bandage to Coach’s hand with all the efficiency of a nurse and her assistant.

  “Thanks. You guys are quite a team,” he said, flexing his fingers. “But we still have a flat to deal with.”

  “I got it,” Kylie said, moving toward the truck.

  He grabbed her arm. “I’ll do it.”

  Kylie narrowed her eyes. Was this some kind of macho guy thing?

  “Ah, Coach,” Ryan began a bit nervously, “my mom can do it. Patrick and I can help. You’re, you know…hurt.”

  Steely determination slid into Coach’s eyes. “I’m fine.”

  Ryan’s gaze darted from his coach to his mom. “Okay.”

  “Why don’t you boys work on your passing for a minute while I talk with Coach?” Kylie said, careful to keep her voice calm and even. Once the boys scooted off, Kylie leveled the full force of her tremble-in-the-shoes glare at Ryan’s coach. “The boys are gone. Your macho coach rep is safe. Your hand has to be throbbing like crazy. How about you take some Tylenol and sit down?”

  He crossed his arms over his impressively broad chest. “No.”

  Kylie suppressed an eye roll and opened the driver’s door. She tossed her ruined shirt on the seat, then retrieved a towel that she wrapped around the jagged edge of the wrench. “Fine by me.” She hooked the wrench around the lug nut and tugged. It barely budged.

  How many times had she seen NASCAR teams perform this deal? And with considerably more grace, though also with significantly more muscle.

  Where was an air gun and seven over-the-wall guys when a girl needed them?

  “You want some help?” Coach asked from behind her.

  She gritted her teeth and tugged again. “No.”

  “Sure?”

  Sweat rolled down her spine as she managed to loosen one lug nut and move on to the second. “Yes.”

  After she’d managed to loosen the second
one—though it seemed to take hours—he had the nerve to say, “I could do it one-handed.”

  She glared at him over her shoulder. “Is that supposed to be encouraging?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Then shut up.”

  She wrangled with the third lug nut. Her arms ached, and the sense of pride she’d started with was fading fast. She wasn’t some helpless girly-girl who fainted over the sight of blood and needed a man to bail her out of every tight spot. She could do this.

  “We could work as a team,” Coach suggested.

  Tired, sweaty and embarrassed, she slumped. “I guess we could.”

  Without further comment, he added his muscle to her efforts and they managed to change the tire quickly.

  “It’s not my rep with the boys that I’m worried about,” he said as he helped her tighten the last lug nut.

  “No?” she asked absently, staring at the tire to admire their efforts. She’d done it. Well, they had. No wonder there were guys lined up around the block to be part of the over-the-wall crew in racing.

  “I’d just rather not look like an idiot in front of a beautiful woman.”

  She jerked her head around and stared at him. “Who?”

  He tapped her nose with the tip of his finger. “You, of course.”

  Was he flirting with her?

  No.

  Maybe?

  She swallowed. Even if flirting were remotely possible, this guy was way too young for her to consider being picked up by. Hunky and charming, definitely. But young.

  Nerves fluttered in her stomach. Because of the awkwardness of the situation, of course. She’d practically given him the shirt off her back, then there was that flash of emotion she suspected he wouldn’t normally let anyone see. She felt as though she knew something personal about him now, and that knowledge changed him from the cute soccer coach to…well, more.

  But there wasn’t more.

  Right?

  “I—” Wow, it had been a long time since she’d talked to a man without the added baggage of motherhood and widowhood. She’d probably forgotten how. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

  “Good. I don’t think you’re a feminist control freak.”

  She started to be offended, but who could be angry in the face of that charming smile? “I guess we’re even.”

  He flexed the fingers of his left hand, covered in the bandage she’d applied. “Thanks, by the way.”

  She held up the towel-wrapped wrench. “You’re welcome, and I’m sorry you were hurt. I’ll call the dealer tomorrow and complain.”

  He held out his uninjured hand, which she took, and he helped her stand. “Beautiful women who save my life get to call me Sean.”

  “I didn’t really save—” She stopped and stared at him. “Why would they call you Sean?”

  “It’s my middle name. My close friends and family call me that, because it’s less confusing around my grandfather.”

  “Whose name is Arthur.”

  “Right.”

  “So most people call you Coach, your close friends and family call you Sean. Who calls you Arthur?”

  “Business associates.”

  “Oh-kay.” That was a few too many names if you asked her, but she supposed everybody had their issues. And Sean did suit him better—traditionally Irish, but also modern and strong.

  “You’re pretty handy to have around in a crisis,” Coach, ah…Sean said. “You didn’t panic and moved quickly.”

  “It’s part of my job. I’m efficient.”

  He paused, his gaze roving over her face. “I bet you’re a whole lot more.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  TURNING AWAY from Kylie’s puzzled expression and his own odd feelings, Sean gave his attention to the boys. “How about pizza?”

  The boys, who’d seemed completely engrossed in passing a soccer ball back and forth until that moment, dashed toward him. “All right!”

  Kylie shook her head. “Oh, I don’t—”

  “Come on.” Sean grinned. “Unless you’re planning to dance—” he mimicked a couple twirling “—the night away.”

  “Me? No, I don’t have—” She paused, her expression darkening. “I’m not going to the yacht club.”

  The change from beautiful and confident to sad and embarrassed made him want to bring her smile back. “Good, then you’re ready for the best pizza on the lake.”

  “I have some work…” She glanced down at her son, who was giving her his best pleading look. After a moment, she sighed and slid her fingers through Ryan’s hair. “Okay. Pizza it is.”

  While the boys cheered, Kylie turned toward Sean. “I just need to call my mother and tell her we’re not coming home right away.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “You live with your mother?”

  She sank her teeth into her bottom lip. “It’s the wild and crazy widowed life.”

  Distracted by her lush, pink lips, Sean had to drag his gaze away. But his view merely landed on her deep blue eyes, which were equally engrossing. Sadness lingered in them, an emotion he both understood and felt compelled to conquer.

  “Ryan told me his father was a policeman and that he died in the line of duty,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. My mom’s support helps.” She held up her cell phone. “Who I need to call. After I talk to her, I’ll follow you to the pizza place.”

  She was dismissing the topic of past—and maybe present—hurts. He understood the need for discretion and privacy well. “Sounds good.”

  “I wanna ride with Coach,” Ryan said. “Okay, Mom?”

  “As long as it’s okay with him.”

  “Fine by me. Just make sure you signal if the tire does anything weird.”

  “Will do.”

  Sean walked to his jeep, then loaded the boys and made sure they had their seat belts fastened before pulling out of the parking lot and heading to Mario’s.

  Just as his family was large and Irish Catholic, Mario’s was large and Italian Catholic. They’d bonded after Sean had moved from his family’s South Carolina farm to the Charlotte area a few years ago to join his older brothers’ security firm, and Mario had moved from New York to make his distinct stamp on the culinary world.

  Without significant cash flow, Mario’s start was a strip mall pizza joint, but Sean had no doubt his friend would find his four stars eventually. Mario had the whole package—family secret marinara sauce, handmade pizza dough and pasta, an amazing touch with spices and a work ethic that never rested. For a bachelor, the restaurant was nirvana, and as a friend, Mario was the best.

  After Kylie parked her SUV next to his in the parking lot, their group walked into the restaurant. Being a weeknight, the diners were somewhat scarce. Striding toward a vacant table, Sean caught Mario’s gaze via the open-air kitchen. “Sausage and pepperoni?” Mario called.

  Sean pointed to Kylie and the boys. “We’ll see.”

  His friend’s dark eyebrows rose as his gaze slid to Kylie. He gave Sean a grin and a thumbs-up.

  They gathered in a red vinyl-cushioned booth and argued lightly about what to get. The boys wanted the meat and cheese overload, and Kylie tried to push broccoli and pineapple.

  “Broccoli and pineapple?” Sean asked.

  “A vegetable and a fruit,” she said, looking at him head-on as if daring him to dispute her choice.

  “Guys need protein,” he said.

  “Everybody needs protein. Gallons of saturated fat aren’t so desirable, however.”

  From the other side of the table, the boys silently watched their exchange.

  “Is this a mom thing?” he asked them.

  “Yep,” they answered together.

  Laying one arm along the back of the booth, Sean angled his body toward Kylie. He felt slightly out of his element, but it certainly wasn’t the first time.

  “I’ll bet most days you go for the low-fat, heavy-on-the-vegetables, sensible meal.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Is tha
t a dig?”

  “No way. My sisters-in-law do the same.” He winked. “Have to worry about those ten-year-old arteries, don’t we?”

  “Okay, I know that was a dig.”

  Grinning, he leaned forward. “Maybe just a small one. But Ryan eats so good the rest of the week, don’t you think one indulgence would be okay?”

  “Are your game day strategies this obvious?”

  The boys laughed.

  Sean sat back.

  Since he appeared to be on his own, he scrambled to remember the moves he used to finesse his own mom. Thankfully, he recalled the delicate art of compromise. “How about one vegetarian, and one double-meat?”

  “As long as we order a big salad first,” she said after a long pause.

  “Deal!” the boys said before Sean could respond.

  After they ordered, Sean explained how he knew Mario, and assured them his friend made the best pizza in the world. The boys could only sit still for grown-up talk for a few minutes, though, and begged for money for the game room. Apparently figuring she’d scored her mom points for the day by making them eat salad, Kylie dug out quarters, then sent the boys to the small room across the restaurant where all the other kids had gathered.

  Alone with Kylie, Sean reflected on the moment she’d stepped onto his practice field. Elegant in her office attire when nearly everybody else wore shorts and T-shirts, she’d stood out instantly. In just the last hour, he’d also learned she was kind but firm with Ryan. She was beautiful, smart, witty and resourceful.

  Even with the STAY BACK! vibes he got from her, he couldn’t deny his interest in finding out more. Still, a widow with a young son carried a lot of baggage. She was the mother of one of his players. Plus, she had a connection to him—and his job—he didn’t exactly want to advertise.

  “So,” she said, hitting him with her laser blue gaze, “you said earlier your schedule is flexible. What do you do?”

  “I work with my older brothers. They have a security firm.”

  Her face paled. “Security?”

  “Mostly systems installations.”