Phoebe headed back into the house. Pippi dropped her stuffed animals and scampered down the steps. “Pwince! I gotta tell you something.” She ran toward him, pink sneakers flying. When she reached his side, she tilted her head back to gaze up at him. “I gotta secret.”

He crouched next to her. She smelled innocent. Like crayons and fruit juice. “Yeah?”

“Aunt Phoebe said don’t tell nobody but you, not even Mommy.”

He glanced toward the porch, but Phoebe had disappeared. “Tell me what?”

“Belle!” Pippi grinned. “She went to our campground!”

A surge of adrenaline shot through his veins. His head reeled. He pulled Pippi off her feet, drew her against him, and kissed the hell out of her cheeks. “Thanks, sweetheart. Thanks for telling me.”

She cupped his jaw and pushed him away with a frown. “Scratchy.”

He laughed, gave her another kiss for good measure, and set her back on her feet. He’d forgotten to turn his phone off, and it rang. Her eyes widened. He automatically reached for it. “Champion.”

“Heathcliff, I need an agent, man,” Dean barked, “and I swear to God, if you hang up on me again—”

He thrust his phone to Pippi. “Talk to the nice man, sweetheart. Tell him all about how your daddy’s the greatest quarterback who’ll ever play the game.”

As he pulled out of the driveway, he watched Pippi heading back to the porch, his phone pressed to her ear, her pigtails twitching while she chatted away for all she was worth.

Inside the house, the front draperies moved, and through the window, he glimpsed the most powerful woman in the NFL. Maybe it was his imagination, but it looked like she was smiling.

Chapter Twenty-four

Heath reached the Wind Lake Campground a little before midnight. Only the watery glow of the Victorian streetlamps on the commons and the single porch light at the bed-and-breakfast shone through the rain-swept darkness. His wiper blades beat at the Audi’s windshield. The unheated cottages sat empty and shuttered for the season. Even the caged yellow dock lights in the distance had been turned off. He’d originally planned to fly, but foul weather had closed the small airport, and he hadn’t been patient enough to wait out the delay. He should have, because the storm had stretched the eight-hour trip to ten.

He’d gotten a late start leaving Chicago. Not having Annabelle’s engagement ring in his pocket bothered him—he wanted to give her something tangible—so he’d driven back to Wicker Park to pick up her new car. Maybe she couldn’t wear it on her finger, but at least she’d see how serious he was. Unfortunately, the Audi Roadster hadn’t been built for a six-footer, and after ten hours, he had stiff legs, a cramped neck, and a killer headache he’d been feeding with black coffee. Ten Disney balloons bobbed in the backseat. He’d seen them tied together when he’d stopped for gas and impulsively bought them. For the last sixty miles, Dumbo and Cruella De Vil had been slapping the back of his head.