the tops of her shoulders, which were left bare by her bohemian-style top. The blouse was a sea-blue color and she’d paired it with slim-fitting white jeans that made her legs seem even longer than they had earlier in those shorts. She had on heels, which made her only a few inches shorter than his six-two frame.
And as they walked from the parking lot to the restaurant, he was aware of people watching them. For a moment he forget he was Hunter Caruthers, famous for being accused of the Frat House Murder, and pretended people just noticed a good-looking couple.
But as soon as they got closer, people turned away and gave them a wide berth.
He cursed under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing. I thought going out would put you at ease but I might have misjudged this. Everyone here knows me.”
She put her hand on his arm, her touch light and delicate. “That doesn’t matter. They don’t know the real you.”
“You don’t either,” he pointed out as he pulled her to one side before they entered the restaurant. “I wouldn’t blame you if you demanded I take you home.”
“You don’t know me either, Hunter. I’m not one to bug out on a date before it’s even started. I can handle a little gossip,” she said. “Are you one of those bad-boy players in the NFL?”
“Not really. I mean I do date pretty women and have a few rushing records, but I don’t see myself as a bad boy.” He wondered if she’d already Googled him and knew the scandal that followed him around like a dark cloud, driving him away from anything good. Damn, he was getting dramatic. It was just that ten years was too long to be on the run from the past. Even his dad, who made laconic seem chatty, had said maybe it was time to get answers, to find out what had really happened.
“Who would see himself as a bad boy?” she asked with a wink. “But you should know that no matter what else happens between us, I’m not someone for you to toy with.”
He reached around her to open the door. She entered the restaurant and walked over to the hostess.
He saw Coach’s inner steel in Ferrin. And she didn’t know who he was, which was reassuring and a bit worrying. He’d have to tell her. It had been a long time since he’d had to do that. In fact, most everyone he met already knew the stories if not the facts. He should come clean with her but from past experience, he knew once he told her about his connection to the Frat House Murder, she’d freeze up on him.
“Party of two?”
“I made a reservation,” he told the hostess. “Hunter Caruthers.”
The hostess nodded and led them to a table that overlooked the craggy cliffs that led down to the sandy beaches of Big Sur. He held Ferrin’s chair the way his mama had taught him to before sitting down himself.
They ordered drinks and dinner before Hunter remembered this wasn’t just a date. He had invited her tonight to soften her up and get her to give him a glimpse at Coach’s old files even though her old man wasn’t in an agreeable mood.
“So...”
“You want to see my dad’s old office stuff. I know. And I’m thinking about it. But my dad and I aren’t on the best of terms and doing something blatant to anger him without a good reason makes no sense to me.”
“Fair enough, ma’am. But what if I can convince you that he won’t mind?”
“I’d say you’re relying a little too heavily on that good old boy charm. I’m immune to that Texas ‘aw shucks’ attitude.”
He threw his head back and laughed. At Coach’s house, Ferrin had seemed...well, timid didn’t feel like the right word to describe this feisty woman. But she had been subdued earlier.
“What can I do to convince you?” he asked.
“Tell me something about Hunter that the world doesn’t know.”
“So nothing to do with football then,” he said.
“Yeah, nothing to do with football,” she said.
He couldn’t understand her attitude toward the sport. He’d always thought it would be great to grow up with a coach as a father. His own dad really only cared about the cattle, the land...their family legacy. But Hunter had never understood it.
“Why don’t you like football?” he asked.
She took a sip of her wine and glanced out toward the setting sun. He noticed the burnished copper in her dark hair and for the first time realized it was layered with different colors. The wind blew, stirring the strands against her face, and she put her glass down and looked over at him. Her blue eyes were serious and almost sad.
“I could never compete with football or the players in my dad’s eyes. So I didn’t even try. It’s not that I don’t like football it’s just—”
“You hate it,” he said.
“Hate is really a strong word.”
“Not for a passionate woman,” he said. “I get it. I feel that way about cattle. My family has a big spread in the Hill Country and my brothers all love the land. Or most of them do—one of my brothers is a surgeon. But damned if I didn’t hate ranching from...well, from birth, I imagine.”
“So you played football?”
“Well, ma’am, I am from Texas.”
“I could tell,” she said.
“What about you? I’m pretty sure I heard a bit of twang when you talk.”
“I teach at UT Austin.”
“Let me guess. Literature,” he said.
“Wrong. I’m a psychology lecturer.”
“Wrong? Good thing we didn’t wager on it,” he said.
She laughed. “Good thing. I bet you’re not used to losing.”
The mantle of the past fell heavy on his shoulders. He had only really lost once and he’d done it bigger than life when Stacia had been killed and he’d been blamed for her murder.
“No one gets used to losing,” he said.
She put her hand on his where it lay on the table and squeezed. She was very different from the coach, who’d always told them to shake it off. She was empathetic, and a part of him knew he could play on that. Get her to give him what he wanted. Another part wanted not to have to play games with her. But he was a player. He always had been.
“I’m sorry, Hunter. Tell me again why you need to see my father’s papers and effects.”
He turned his hand over in hers, rubbed his thumb over the back of her knuckles while he thought about it. If he went for the hard sell now she’d pull back. He needed...he needed her to feel important. As if he was here for her.
And he was, as long as she had access to the information
