Read Online Curveball by Kate Angell - Free Book Online Page A

eyes. What a dumb-ass question. Nothing new. Nothing original. He could give a smart-ass answer—
    Instead, he bit his tongue. A glimpse of Keely Douglas through the split in the brown bedsheets hanging at one window claimed his attention. Her dog obedience classes had begun. He found the class far more interesting than the interview.
    Leaning forward in his chair, he watched as Keely walked the side lawn with Boris on a tight leash in an attempt to teach the Newfoundland to heel. Boris was a slow learner. He lunged, then tried to gnaw through the metal links. Soon he began jerking on the leash as if it were a tug toy. In a very short time he’d knocked Keely off balance and to her knees.
    Kneeling, she took the big dog’s face in her hands and spoke directly to him. Boris cocked his head as if listening. Psycho knew that puppy dog look. Beyond the drooling innocence, Boriswas conniving and played people. He was a handful.
    Getting to her feet, Keely continued his training. Taking off at a rapid walk, she made a wide circle around a weeping willow. The branches swept the ground, and with each pass Boris grabbed a mouthful of leaves. Easily bored, the dog pulled harder. He flew Keely like a kite. Her feet left the ground several times as she tried to restrain his need to run.
    After six laps around the tree, Keely stopped. She bent over, breathing hard. Psycho started to rise, ready to take Boris off her hands. Just then, Keely shook her head and broke out laughing. The pup repaid her patience with a sloppy lick to her cheek before she placed him in his pen.
    “Psycho?” the reporter returned him to his chair and the interview. He sat down hard. “Why would America find you sexy?”
    Who the hell knew why? Who the hell cared? He might have cooperated more if he’d placed first instead of fourth.
    “Mr. McMillan says and does what he pleases,” Keely announced as she entered the living room. She balanced a sandwich on a paper plate with one hand, clutched a Mason jar of milk and a pen with the other. “He doesn’t give a damn. That fascinates people. He’s got the freedom to be himself.”
    Psycho blinked. He couldn’t have answered better. Keely had known him a week, yet she’d already seen and accepted how difficult he couldbe. He snagged half her sandwich as she walked by. Took a big bite. Peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth. “What the hell?” He chewed long, swallowed hard.
    “Peanut butter, cream cheese, and sliced banana on sourdough bread,” Keely told him as she took in his bare chest and parted towel, vinyl webbing on the chair. “You need better furniture,” she observed. “An inexpensive couch and chairs before the antiques arrive. I’ll shop tomorrow.” She clicked the pen and scribbled on her hand.
    Psycho noticed there was more than one reminder written over her wrist and along her thumb. She looked like a walking sticky note. Reaching out, he caught her leg just above her knee. His hand tightened over the denim. Her jeans were worn white at the seams and threadbare beneath her butt cheeks. Her yellow T-shirt had seen brighter days.
    He made a mental note to give her an advance on her salary. A substantial amount to keep her afloat during the restoration.
    “My thigh…” Keely looked down at his hand, which had stroked higher. “What do you need?”
    Need …the word was spoken so breathlessly soft, it sounded sexual. He grew hard. “I need milk.” He let her go, hoping she hadn’t noticed the twitch beneath his towel.
    She handed him the Mason jar. It was half-full and iced. He’d never known anyone to ice milk. Nor to sandwich peanut butter with cream cheese.
    He released her leg, and she stepped away from him. Clear across the room to the doublesashed windows. She tugged at the bedsheet, releasing late afternoon sunlight into the room. The amber glow played across the warped and splintered floor.
    He continued to watch as she lifted one of the windows and a soft breeze