But she hadn’t been expecting it at six-fifteen on a Sunday morning. Groggily, she groped for the phone as it shrilled, managing to grip the receiver as the cradle fell heavily to the floor. “’Lo,” she mumbled without opening her eyes. “Brooke Gordon?” “Mmm.” She snuggled back into the pillow. “Yeah.” “It’s Parks Jones.” Instantly alert, Brooke opened her eyes. The light was soft and dim with dawn, early birds just beginning to chirp. She fumbled for the dented windup alarm beside her bed, then scowled at the time. Biting back a torrent of abuse, she kept her voice soft and sulky. “Who?” Parks shifted the receiver to his other hand and scowled. “Parks Jones, third base. The Kings game the other night.” Brooke yawned, taking her time about fluffing up her pillow. “Oh,” was all she said, but a smile flashed wickedly.
