accused as the car leveled onto the highway, “are a very protective parent.”
“I’m sorry—” Sloan began.
“Don’t be sorry,” Wes interrupted, his right hand momentarily squeezing hers before returning to the wheel. “I think it’s a wonderful trait. If I ever have kids—which I hope to one day—I think I would be every bit as protective.”
Sloan smiled a little uneasily. She wondered what he would think if he knew she was already planning on his having kids—three, ready-made. But she didn’t spend much time brooding. Even the weather seemed to benignly assist her in her secret quest. The sun shone golden in the sky, and a gentle breeze stirred to keep the heat from becoming oppressive. The grass at the park had never seemed greener, the day more lustrously blue, the air more exhilarating.
“Shade or sun?” Wes asked after the Lincoln was parked. He handed Sloan a small cooler from the trunk as he grabbed the heftier food basket himself along with a wide blanket.
“Shade, I think,” Sloan chose. “I’m out so little that I have to be careful not to burn.”
Wes smiled noncommittally and led the way to a draping sycamore that provided a broad and gentle shelter. “Okay?”
“Perfect.”
Sloan was overwhelmed by that strange shyness again as Wes competently spread out the blanket and adjusted the basket and cooler. Absurd sensation! she told herself with an inward shake. Some vamp I’m shaping up to be!
Determined not to behave like a gauche, tongue-tied girl, she sat leisurely on the blanket and started the conversation rolling herself. “You were right about your housekeeper. She’s wonderful. Where did you find her?”
“I didn’t.” Wes grinned, half reclining beside her and opening the cooler to pull out a pair of semifrosted glasses and a bottle of Chablis. “Grab the glasses, will you? As to Florence”—he poured wine for them each—“she raised me. Her husband was killed in World War II, and she determined never to marry again, but she was crazy about kids, so she went to work for my mother. When my folks decided to move to Arizona, they sent Florence after me. They were worried—a little belatedly, since I was thirty at the time—but they thought a bachelor football player might not take care of himself properly.”
“Too much of a wild life, eh?” Sloan chuckled, sipping her wine and feeling relaxation steal over her.
“Not too wild,” Wes replied. “Thirty in sports is middle-aged. As a dancer you must know that there’s only so much you can do to a body and expect it to keep functioning properly.”
“You must have quit shortly after,” Sloan observed. She hesitated slightly, hoping she wasn’t traveling into troubled waters. “Cassie mentioned you had a knee injury. Was it serious?”
Wes shrugged. “Ligaments,” he replied casually. “I could have just sat out a season, but I’d had enough. I played for ten years. I wanted to get into something else while I was still young enough to give it everything that I had. Dave—my brother—had started with the horses on a small scale a few years before and so”—he lifted his shoulders and dropped them, turning lazy eyes to her as he took a sip of wine—“there’s the whole story.”
Sloan chuckled. “By what I hear from Cassie—she’s one of your staunchest fans, you know—there’s a lot more to the story than that.”
He shrugged again and plunged into the picnic basket. “Nope. That’s about it. A lot of monotony in between a few broken bones and sprained ankles.”
“But you never married.” The words were out before Sloan realized what she was saying. Prying a little was one thing—pushing too fast could get her into hot water.
“No, I never married.” His glance was cool and fathomless. “What would you like to start with? We have all kinds of salads, fried chicken, fried shrimp and—I am good at this if I do say so myself—I have a honey dip for the chicken and a choice of
“I’m sorry—” Sloan began.
“Don’t be sorry,” Wes interrupted, his right hand momentarily squeezing hers before returning to the wheel. “I think it’s a wonderful trait. If I ever have kids—which I hope to one day—I think I would be every bit as protective.”
Sloan smiled a little uneasily. She wondered what he would think if he knew she was already planning on his having kids—three, ready-made. But she didn’t spend much time brooding. Even the weather seemed to benignly assist her in her secret quest. The sun shone golden in the sky, and a gentle breeze stirred to keep the heat from becoming oppressive. The grass at the park had never seemed greener, the day more lustrously blue, the air more exhilarating.
“Shade or sun?” Wes asked after the Lincoln was parked. He handed Sloan a small cooler from the trunk as he grabbed the heftier food basket himself along with a wide blanket.
“Shade, I think,” Sloan chose. “I’m out so little that I have to be careful not to burn.”
Wes smiled noncommittally and led the way to a draping sycamore that provided a broad and gentle shelter. “Okay?”
“Perfect.”
Sloan was overwhelmed by that strange shyness again as Wes competently spread out the blanket and adjusted the basket and cooler. Absurd sensation! she told herself with an inward shake. Some vamp I’m shaping up to be!
Determined not to behave like a gauche, tongue-tied girl, she sat leisurely on the blanket and started the conversation rolling herself. “You were right about your housekeeper. She’s wonderful. Where did you find her?”
“I didn’t.” Wes grinned, half reclining beside her and opening the cooler to pull out a pair of semifrosted glasses and a bottle of Chablis. “Grab the glasses, will you? As to Florence”—he poured wine for them each—“she raised me. Her husband was killed in World War II, and she determined never to marry again, but she was crazy about kids, so she went to work for my mother. When my folks decided to move to Arizona, they sent Florence after me. They were worried—a little belatedly, since I was thirty at the time—but they thought a bachelor football player might not take care of himself properly.”
“Too much of a wild life, eh?” Sloan chuckled, sipping her wine and feeling relaxation steal over her.
“Not too wild,” Wes replied. “Thirty in sports is middle-aged. As a dancer you must know that there’s only so much you can do to a body and expect it to keep functioning properly.”
“You must have quit shortly after,” Sloan observed. She hesitated slightly, hoping she wasn’t traveling into troubled waters. “Cassie mentioned you had a knee injury. Was it serious?”
Wes shrugged. “Ligaments,” he replied casually. “I could have just sat out a season, but I’d had enough. I played for ten years. I wanted to get into something else while I was still young enough to give it everything that I had. Dave—my brother—had started with the horses on a small scale a few years before and so”—he lifted his shoulders and dropped them, turning lazy eyes to her as he took a sip of wine—“there’s the whole story.”
Sloan chuckled. “By what I hear from Cassie—she’s one of your staunchest fans, you know—there’s a lot more to the story than that.”
He shrugged again and plunged into the picnic basket. “Nope. That’s about it. A lot of monotony in between a few broken bones and sprained ankles.”
“But you never married.” The words were out before Sloan realized what she was saying. Prying a little was one thing—pushing too fast could get her into hot water.
“No, I never married.” His glance was cool and fathomless. “What would you like to start with? We have all kinds of salads, fried chicken, fried shrimp and—I am good at this if I do say so myself—I have a honey dip for the chicken and a choice of
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