The All-Star Antes Up
Page 30
“Of course.” He’d decided to trust her with sensitive information. That sent warmth seeping through her. “Is there anything you can do to help it heal?”
“Go on a cultural tour.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
So the subject was closed. She pulled her tablet out of her gray Kate Spade knockoff tote. “You have some choices about what museums to go to. I wasn’t sure what kind of culture you were interested in. Would you prefer the Museum of Natural History or the Frick Collection? The Frick is as interesting for its building as its art, since it was originally Mr. Frick’s Fifth Avenue mansion.”
“Let’s go for art all the way.”
“Okay.” Miranda blew out a breath and considered the schedule. She didn’t know how long he would want to look at each work of art, so she’d booked lunch reservations at three different locations. Now she could cancel the one near the Museum of Natural History. She swiped around on her tablet’s screen to take care of that.
When she looked up, he was watching her with a faint smile. He said, “You look as nervous as a rookie the morning of his first NFL game.”
“I’m more a behind-the-scenes kind of person. I’ve never taken someone like you on a guided tour before.”
“Someone like me?” He raised his eyebrows.
“You know—” She waved her hand vaguely.
“You mean a jock who doesn’t know anything about culture?”
Surprise zinged through her. Was that how he saw himself? “No, that’s not at all what I meant.”
He waited.
She wasn’t going to explain that he was so spectacular it was hard to draw in enough oxygen when shut into an enclosed space with him. “I meant that you are practically a national treasure, so it’s a little intimidating to be responsible for your entertainment for an entire day.”
A shadow crossed his face. “I was born with a certain talent for throwing a ball and taking a hit. I’m not curing cancer. I’m not feeding third world nations. I’m just an entertainer.”
That word didn’t fit him. “Frank Sinatra was an entertainer. You’re more like a gladiator.”
That made his eyes glint with amusement. “Okay, a gladiator, but they were just there to entertain the Romans.”
“And you give a lot of money to people who cure cancer and feed third world nations,” Miranda said. She’d spent far too much of her limited free time googling Luke Archer.
“I have enough money to buy a couple of third world nations, so that’s no skin off my back.” He leaned forward so she could see the scruff of blond beard he hadn’t shaved that morning and the tiny squint lines at the corners of his eyes. “I put my pants on one leg at a time, just like everyone else.”
“Yes, but you probably don’t lose your balance,” Miranda murmured.
Luke gave her a raised eyebrow, but she saw the corners of his mouth twitch. However, he didn’t let her stop him from making his point. “I’m just another client, and you’re just doing your usual excellent job.”
She heard the compliment through a haze created by the scent of his lemony aftershave, the nearness of his sharply sculpted lips, and the breadth of his shoulders filling her entire field of vision. She wanted to shift forward just two inches so she could brush back the gilded lock of hair that fell onto his forehead. It would feel like silk, she was sure.
Instead, she hugged her tablet to her chest. It would be blasphemy to touch a legend without his permission. “Thank you. I hope you’ll enjoy today,” she said. Clichés were always useful when your brain refused to function.
He also settled back in his seat and crossed his arms, making the muscles in his chest shift under the fabric of his T-shirt. Now she wanted to flatten her palms against that wall of pure power, as he said, “Since my life is on the Internet for anyone to read, tell me something about you. Where are you from?”
Miranda felt a slight flush climb her cheeks as he mentioned the Internet, but his question was innocuous enough. “I was raised on a dairy farm in upstate New York.”
“You?” His gaze skimmed over her body. She felt it almost as a touch. “On a farm?”
“Yup, I can milk a cow in nine minutes flat.” But she knew why he was skeptical. She’d worked hard to fashion a veneer of city sophistication over her rural upbringing.
He looked at her neatly manicured hands. “When was the last time you milked a cow?”
“Last year. I like to keep in practice, just in case.” Theo had challenged her to a milking contest since he also didn’t believe his fancy aunt Miranda had ever milked a cow. Even she was surprised at how quickly she’d found the rhythm of it again. She’d let Theo win, of course.
“Just in case what?” His dimple was starting to show.
“Oh, I don’t know, an apocalyptic failure of the power grid or something. I could survive on milk and cream.”
“Or trade it for eggs.”
She nodded, glad he was entertained by her whimsy. “So what would your survival skill be in an apocalypse?”
“Huh,” he said, dropping his chin to his chest as he considered her question. “I could probably throw a spear to bring down game.”
She had a vision of him dressed in a wolf skin, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing and rippling as he sent a spear streaking through the air toward his unsuspecting prey. “Okay, with that talent, you’re invited to join my postapocalyptic enclave.”
“Go on a cultural tour.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
So the subject was closed. She pulled her tablet out of her gray Kate Spade knockoff tote. “You have some choices about what museums to go to. I wasn’t sure what kind of culture you were interested in. Would you prefer the Museum of Natural History or the Frick Collection? The Frick is as interesting for its building as its art, since it was originally Mr. Frick’s Fifth Avenue mansion.”
“Let’s go for art all the way.”
“Okay.” Miranda blew out a breath and considered the schedule. She didn’t know how long he would want to look at each work of art, so she’d booked lunch reservations at three different locations. Now she could cancel the one near the Museum of Natural History. She swiped around on her tablet’s screen to take care of that.
When she looked up, he was watching her with a faint smile. He said, “You look as nervous as a rookie the morning of his first NFL game.”
“I’m more a behind-the-scenes kind of person. I’ve never taken someone like you on a guided tour before.”
“Someone like me?” He raised his eyebrows.
“You know—” She waved her hand vaguely.
“You mean a jock who doesn’t know anything about culture?”
Surprise zinged through her. Was that how he saw himself? “No, that’s not at all what I meant.”
He waited.
She wasn’t going to explain that he was so spectacular it was hard to draw in enough oxygen when shut into an enclosed space with him. “I meant that you are practically a national treasure, so it’s a little intimidating to be responsible for your entertainment for an entire day.”
A shadow crossed his face. “I was born with a certain talent for throwing a ball and taking a hit. I’m not curing cancer. I’m not feeding third world nations. I’m just an entertainer.”
That word didn’t fit him. “Frank Sinatra was an entertainer. You’re more like a gladiator.”
That made his eyes glint with amusement. “Okay, a gladiator, but they were just there to entertain the Romans.”
“And you give a lot of money to people who cure cancer and feed third world nations,” Miranda said. She’d spent far too much of her limited free time googling Luke Archer.
“I have enough money to buy a couple of third world nations, so that’s no skin off my back.” He leaned forward so she could see the scruff of blond beard he hadn’t shaved that morning and the tiny squint lines at the corners of his eyes. “I put my pants on one leg at a time, just like everyone else.”
“Yes, but you probably don’t lose your balance,” Miranda murmured.
Luke gave her a raised eyebrow, but she saw the corners of his mouth twitch. However, he didn’t let her stop him from making his point. “I’m just another client, and you’re just doing your usual excellent job.”
She heard the compliment through a haze created by the scent of his lemony aftershave, the nearness of his sharply sculpted lips, and the breadth of his shoulders filling her entire field of vision. She wanted to shift forward just two inches so she could brush back the gilded lock of hair that fell onto his forehead. It would feel like silk, she was sure.
Instead, she hugged her tablet to her chest. It would be blasphemy to touch a legend without his permission. “Thank you. I hope you’ll enjoy today,” she said. Clichés were always useful when your brain refused to function.
He also settled back in his seat and crossed his arms, making the muscles in his chest shift under the fabric of his T-shirt. Now she wanted to flatten her palms against that wall of pure power, as he said, “Since my life is on the Internet for anyone to read, tell me something about you. Where are you from?”
Miranda felt a slight flush climb her cheeks as he mentioned the Internet, but his question was innocuous enough. “I was raised on a dairy farm in upstate New York.”
“You?” His gaze skimmed over her body. She felt it almost as a touch. “On a farm?”
“Yup, I can milk a cow in nine minutes flat.” But she knew why he was skeptical. She’d worked hard to fashion a veneer of city sophistication over her rural upbringing.
He looked at her neatly manicured hands. “When was the last time you milked a cow?”
“Last year. I like to keep in practice, just in case.” Theo had challenged her to a milking contest since he also didn’t believe his fancy aunt Miranda had ever milked a cow. Even she was surprised at how quickly she’d found the rhythm of it again. She’d let Theo win, of course.
“Just in case what?” His dimple was starting to show.
“Oh, I don’t know, an apocalyptic failure of the power grid or something. I could survive on milk and cream.”
“Or trade it for eggs.”
She nodded, glad he was entertained by her whimsy. “So what would your survival skill be in an apocalypse?”
“Huh,” he said, dropping his chin to his chest as he considered her question. “I could probably throw a spear to bring down game.”
She had a vision of him dressed in a wolf skin, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing and rippling as he sent a spear streaking through the air toward his unsuspecting prey. “Okay, with that talent, you’re invited to join my postapocalyptic enclave.”
