have my work cut out for me,” she mumbled to the broken heel of her pump.
But if anyone could get rid of the clutter surrounding the quaint Victorian house, Jane could. And if anyone could bring former NFL quarterback Lenny Paxton out of his self-imposed isolation after losing the Super Bowl, losing his beloved grandmother and then losing his cool in front of the world, Jane could. She also planned to get the scoop on the story everyone wanted—what in the world was wrong with Lenny Paxton?
Maybe everything that had happened up to now—the long drive from Little Rock, getting a flat tire out on the main road, then meeting the skinny, philosophical Henry in the old red pickup (he’d been kind enough to give her a ride and to warn her that she might get shot) and now her broken heel—had all been signs that she should have stayed in the big city.
Never one to take bad luck as the gospel, Jane dug in her one good heel and worked on calming thoughts. Forgetting her damaged shoe, she stood in the warm sunshine of this fall Arkansas afternoon, sweat pooling underneath her lightweight gray wool dress, steam fogging her black-rimmed glasses. After some steady deep-breathing, she once again looked over the meticulous notes tucked in her leather tote bag.
Subject: Leonard (Lenny) Paxton, former NFL quarterback with two Super Bowl wins to his credit and one big loss still on his mind. Dallas Cowboys, Denver Broncos, multimillion-dollar contracts, messed-up shoulder, messed-up knees, messed-up head, early retirement. Meltdown during a press conference. Now hiding out in the cluttered farmhouse where he’d been raised by his grandparents, refusing to honor the million-dollar endorsement deal he’d signed two weeks after announcing his retirement.
That was the short version.
Jane had the long version in precise typewritten notes in her briefcase and stored in her laptop.
She blew a hot breath up toward the wispy dark blond bangs falling away from what had started out this morning as an efficient chignon. She had her reasons for being here. Reason number one—prestige.
Jane’s mother and father had been pushy when it came to their firstborn. Academic achievements and career aspirations ranked right up there with Arkansas Razorback football fever at the Harper house. Jane had learned from the rigid, structured habits of her overly educated parents. She’d become the perfect overachiever. She’d accomplished a lot of the goals she’d set in her life, but she still needed that one assignment that would push her status to new heights and maybe land her a major book deal.
Too bad the one drawback was that the subject at hand was a jock. Her entire family loved football, and since Lenny had once played for the Razorbacks and had gone on to NFL fame, her University of Arkansas alumni parents would be impressed. But Jane wasn’t. Sitting around a football stadium, watching grown men run straight into each other just to capture a strange-looking ball didn’t appeal to Jane’s delicate sensibilities. And chanting rival fight songs and belching barbecue and beer was not her idea of a great Saturday afternoon. But then, jocks had never flocked to the shy girl who wore glasses and read books instead of swooning like a cheerleader whenever one of them entered the room. If she got the scoop on Lenny Paxton, she’d up her esteem in her parents overly critical eyes.
And that brought her to reason number two. “It’s certainly a challenge.” Jane loved a challenge. From what she could tell, breaking Lenny Paxton would be both a challenge and a chore. His list of transgressions made for interesting psychological fodder.
Jane took her assignments very seriously. So while her car sat on the interstate with a flat, Henry had promised he’d get the tire changed while she got right to business. And in spite of having a very strong aversion to superjocks and guns, Jane would get Lenny Paxton whipped into shape. Or her name wasn’t Jane Harper, Ph.D.
She was efficient, dependable, reliable, thorough, no-nonsense, and she had earned her Ph.D. in Psychology from the University of Arkansas. And even though her academic parents and siblings frowned on Jane’s status as a life coach, she had worked with everyone from supermodels to burned-out ministers to stay-at-home moms who needed some self-esteem. And that, Jane Harper reminded herself, was why she got the big bucks. And the exotic assignments. This assignment just might beat the band since she’d received a phone call from the notorious Sidelined sports magazine that prided itself on getting the scoop on the most interesting and infamous sport figures in the world.
They wanted her to write an in-depth exposé on Lenny Paxton. Jane had agreed, but only after she’d told the magazine’s gleeful editor that she couldn’t reveal any client/therapist secrets without the client’s permission. While the editor wasn’t too happy about that, the man had reluctantly agreed to her doing the article on spec. Now, Jane’s main goal was to win over Lenny enough to get him to open up so his inspiring story could help other people.
In spite of the remote, rather quaint location—Mockingbird Springs, Arkansas, population 989—this one had been too tempting to pass up. Famous athlete and ladies’ man extraordinaire Lenny Paxton was in trouble. He’d disappointed his team and his fans, and lost his confidence. He’d quickly retired in disgrace only to turn around and sign another contract—this one with a major pharmaceutical company. But now he wanted out of his contract. So his hotshot sports agent, Marcus Ramon, had resorted to drastic measures to get Lenny back on track. He’d called Dr. Jane Harper.
She’d come, after being wooed by Lenny’s hyper agent and by Sidelined magazine, from Little Rock to this backwoods village to help a man who was having a very public, very intense midlife crisis that he was trying hard to keep private. And because Jane hated jocks and especially hated football, she was going way outside her comfort zone. Only because she knew she could learn from each new experience. And, hopefully, make a name for herself that would please even her discerning parents.
She dropped her briefcase and leather tote, then turned to unzip her suitcase to find a pair of low heeled buttery-soft brown loafers. Then she took off her prized pumps and put them in her tote, broken heel and all.
Better. Not as professional, but a lot more sensible.
Gathering her things along with her pride and some fresh determination, Jane started marching up the dusty drive toward the rambling old house set against the backdrop of the Ozark Mountains. “And reason number three—the money. Always good to get a giant bonus for expediency.”
Jane Harper, psychologist and relationship therapist, nonfiction author, authority on the human psyche and all-around consummate life coach and perfectionist might have just taken on the most challenging assignment of her career. She’d probably get network interviews and her name in People magazine.
Lenny Paxton was not only a challenge. The man was a walking mess, so macho and such a jock, and so in trouble with everyone from ex-wives and angry girlfriends to just about the entire world of sports media, Jane couldn’t wait to take him on.
So she pulled on the handle of her heavy rolling suitcase and took another step toward the inviting comfort of the white rocking chairs sitting amidst the jumble on the wraparound porch.
From inside the house, a dog barked then whimpered as if it were already bored with the quarry walking up the driveway.
Jane hitched a breath. “Great. I’m allergic to dogs.” Then she saw the overgrown morning glory bush by the steps. “Now that’s pathetic.”
From somewhere at the side of the house, a voice barked in what sounded like a very aggravated tone, “Pathetic—now that’s a good way to describe this situation.”
Jane turned at the smirking words coming from the deeply male voice. Turned and came face-to-face with the real-life-legend-in-his-own-time Lenny
