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The game was not yet under way, not that I could tell, and I wondered at Derrick’s reticence to join. Werewolves normally enjoyed athletics.
Male werewolves in particular.
And they excelled at it.
“All right,” I said, meeting his gaze.
His mouth twitched into a faint smile. “I have already asked a lot of you, but I need…”
He broke off, his gaze flicking to his mother, and I understood. On reflex, I touched his hand where it still rested on the wheelchair. His eyes were so clear a blue it was hard to concentrate for a moment, and where our skin touched, I could feel warmth buzzing into my palm. My mouth was suddenly dry.
“I am happy to sit with your mother.”
The corners of his mouth lifted, and he gave the barest nod. “Janice,” he said with a gesture to his mother. “Janice Vicienta Lunula-King.”
Someone called Derrick’s name and we both turned. A tall, masculine, and quite shirtless male figure approached us with a wide grin. His teeth were remarkably white and straight, and he had a shock of black hair long enough to curl around his ears. Trim and fit, and quite unashamed to show off, he sauntered up to us without so much as a glance Janice’s direction.
With one hand he clapped Derrick on the shoulder and asked, “What do I have to do to get you on the field?”
Derrick glanced at me, his mouth quirking into a faint smile.
This must be Brock, then.
I had the space of two heartbeats to review my would-be client as his attention swerved from Derrick to me. He had a boyish, good-natured smile and wholesome features one would expect of the high school quarterback, full of youth and promise and I couldn’t help returning his smile.
“Maybe I should be asking her,” he said instead. “Any way I can pry Derrick from your charming little grasp?”
I opened my mouth to speak, surprised by the insinuating tone. Heat bloomed in my face, and I knew that could only make me look more guilty, which forced a further blush that seeped into my ears. Brock laughed, his dark eyes sparkling as he turned back to Derrick, who looked equally amused.
“Nora, meet Brock Norton,” Derrick said. “Brock, meet your marital counselor.”
Something closed in Brock’s expression and his smile dimmed. I breathed out and looked away, wishing I could melt into a puddle.
Brock eyed Derrick. “I still don’t understand how Delilah talked you into this. All the contracts have already been made.”
Contracts? Derrick hadn’t been kidding about this being a business venture.
Derrick shrugged. “She called, I answered. It’s as simple as that.”
“Well, it’s not going to make any difference,” Brock said. “It’s all a waste of time.”
“Forgive me, but it won’t be your parents at the altar giving their binding oaths,” I said. “Surely you can see the need for you and Delilah to have some personal understanding between you before that happens.”
Something in my voice must have startled him because he straightened and looked at me again. Dark eyebrows drew together, and his mouth twitched into an uncertain frown. He had a handsome face still clinging to boyhood, all smooth lines and pleasant angles, with a nose a smidgen long and the barest dimple in his chin. He looked about to say more when someone hollered his name.
The group on the field was getting antsy. Brock looked torn for a moment, then waved at his friend, shouting for the man to hang on. When he turned back to us, he gave me a fleeting, apologetic smile and said, “I didn’t mean to insult your profession, Miss Grayson. But you must admit, the timing is weird. She could have asked for this before now.”
I smiled at him. “On that, we can agree. But I suppose the presence of the wedding might have made this all too real to her. It happens often.”
Brock looked thoughtful. “You mean cold feet?”
“All right, all right,” Derrick said. “Save it for the counseling sessions. Are we going to play or what?”
Brock’s grin widened and he threw an arm around Derrick’s shoulders, immediately diverted. “Yes! No holds barred. Bright Rules.”
With that, they were off. Wondering about Brock’s expression, I began to steer Janice closer to the field. Bright Rules had been tossed around my study enough that I knew the term had a major part to play in football politics, but I couldn’t be bothered to know more than that, which I explained to an unresponsive Janice as I pushed the chair over a particularly rutty bit of ground. One of the wheels caught against a pebble and I had to pull it back.
Glaring at the offending pebble, I turned the chair enough that it would pass by, and when I looked up again, I was startled by a tall, slender figure leaning on a cane. I had seen him at dinner and raced to locate his name in my memory: Levi Cordova. The cane didn’t help his sickly appearance, and that horribly hooked nose seemed to dip down and cut part of his mouth from view. Only today, his pale eyes did not dart every which way, instead coming to settle with unnerving intensity on Janice.
