The Heartless Boyfriend

by Erika Kelly

  There’d be no channel to turn. It’d be the Delilah Show, twenty-four-seven.

  And he couldn’t remember ever wanting anything more.

  * * *

  The roar of conversation hit him the minute he entered the saloon. Five tables, covered in white linen and loaded with serving dishes, lined up against the wall of windows that overlooked the mountains. The chefs chatted with guests and handed out white plates filled with steaming samples of their food.

  Whether or not she got into the competition, she still wanted to meet the chefs, so he might as well introduce her to them. Then, he’d head home.

  Cut it out. Will believed in honesty, so he should probably stop lying to himself. He wanted to hang out with her and, since he didn’t have to be home until his meeting with the trainer at four, he should just relax. He had all night to go over the resumes.

  “Probably not the best time to meet them,” Delilah said. “But I’d love to see what they’ve made.” She broke out in a huge grin. “See who I’m competing against.”

  “You do realize I have no pull in this whatsoever?”

  “Oh, I know.” She turned serious. “I’m not trying to manipulate you, Will. If you want me to stop talking about it with you, I totally understand.”

  “No.” He never wanted to shut down her enthusiasm. “As long as you know my world is completely separate from this, then you can talk about it all you want.”

  “I do. I swear.”

  “Hey, man.” An old friend from high school came up and clapped him on the shoulder, leaning in for a hug.

  The look of concern made Will think he should’ve waited a few more days until the novelty of being a fucking cheater had faded before coming into town.

  To hell with that. I’ve done nothing wrong. “Jimmy. How’s it going?”

  “Good, good. I—”

  Nope. Don’t want to hear it. “This is Delilah, Callie’s friend. She’s a chef from New York City.”

  Jimmy and Delilah shook hands, but his friend swung right back to Will. “I’m gutted, man. I can’t believe what that little shit’s done to you.”

  “Where I come from,” Delilah said in her sexy voice. “It’s called Small Dick Syndrome.”

  Jimmy’s mouth gaped open, and then he burst out laughing. “That’s exactly right.” He draped an arm around Will’s shoulder. “We all know it’s bullshit. Just want you to know that. No one here buys it. Not for a second. Your dad was a good man. The best.”

  “Yeah, he was. Thanks, man.”

  “Everyone here knows how hard you and your brothers train. We know—”

  “Oh, my gosh,” Delilah said. “I love this restaurant.” She gestured to the shiny brass bar, the burgundy leather booths and dark-stained wood paneling.

  Affection for her blasted away his frustration. She’d read him well, and he appreciated the shift in conversation.

  “Your brother really held true to the architecture and décor of the period. It’s like I’ve gone back in time.” She gazed up at him. “Only with way better food. Do you smell that? I’m starving.”

  “Jimmy, we’re going to grab some lunch. I’ll catch up with you later?”

  “Sure thing.” His friend returned to his booth.

  “Hey, Will,” the hostess called from podium. “It’s all buffet, so grab a plate and get busy.”

  He gave her a nod in thanks.

  “You’re staying?” Delilah asked.

  That was the thing about her, he realized. She didn’t hide her happiness. Didn’t play games. I like that. “Yeah. I’ll sit with you.”

  “Cool.” She watched the chefs in pure awe. “Look at them. I mean, they’re all so out of my league and, yet, I think I could hold my own with them. I really do.” She reached for his hand, clasped it, and gave it a squeeze. “I want this. I really do. I mean, I looked at their bios on the plane, and there’s no question they’ve got way more experience.” She went rigid, her eyes wide, before breaking out in a smile. “Oh, my God.” She dug into her tote for the tablet and powered it up.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I got a review, from the top food critic in Manhattan. He thinks my food’s ‘magnificent.’” Pride and confidence made her rosy complexion glow.

  Will wouldn’t get involved, but he sure as hell hoped the board let her into the competition. He wanted her beauty—her smile, her positive energy—in his house. In his life. “When you’re done with that, go grab some food. I’ll get us a table.”

  She looked up from her screen. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing.” He’d already had his protein shake. He wouldn’t eat again until noon. But she looked disappointed, so he said, “Bring me whatever meat looks good.” She’d learn pretty quickly that food was fuel to him.

  “Spoken like a non-foodie. Protein and veggies. I got you.” She gave him a thoughtful expression. “You know, if you let me, I can give you exactly the kind of food you’re used to but with actual flavor. If I promise not to use butter or oil or anything like that, would you at least try something I make?”

  There was no censure in her tone. Just interest. He liked that. “Of course.”

  “You train three hundred and sixty-five days a year? No breaks?”

  “Training’s my job, so I do it five days a week. I take weekends off, and I travel a lot, so no, not three hundred and sixty-five days a year.”

  “I’m going to take a wild guess and say that your idea of fun on the weekend involves hiking or mountain biking, so…closer to three hundred and sixty? Give or take a day or two?”

  He couldn’t help the smile from spreading. “How do you know I don’t fish? Or play solitaire? I could have all kinds of sedate hobbies.”

  She took a slow and bold pass from his neck, down the slope of his shoulder to his bicep, across his chest—sliding from one pec to the other—and then back up to his eyes. “Just a hunch.”

  He burst out laughing. “Okay, you’re right. But I learned early on that it’s just not worth taking a break. It’s too hard to get back into shape after slacking off. Especially at my age.”

  “Yeah, you old fart. Do you miss anything? Beer, pot, cake?”

  “I don’t know.” He’d never really thought about it.

  “You don’t know?” She had a mischievous smile. “Come on, you must’ve gotten drunk in college, pulled all-nighters and lived off coffee and day-old pizza?”

  He gave a one-shouldered shrug.

  “Oh, my God, you didn’t, did you?”

  “I’ve been competing since I was eleven. Not a lot of opportunity to party.”

  “Hey, Will.” The hostess—Lindy, if he recalled—approached, arms balancing several plates. “Thought I’d get you started before all the food ran out.”

  “Thank you.”

  They followed her to a booth and slid in on either side, facing each other. Delilah watched as the hostess set down each plate. “This looks fantastic.” She glanced up. “Thank you.”

  But the hostess barely spared her a glance, and Will didn’t care for that. “Lindy, this is Delilah. She’s a chef.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Given her wide eyes as she took in the various platters, Delilah didn’t seem the least bit bothered by Lindy’s flat tone.

  “Let me know if I can get you anything else.” Lindy lingered, suggestion in her eyes, and Will decided to kill it right there.

  “We’ve got it. Thank you.”

  The moment the hostess left, Delilah unfolded her napkin and set it on her lap. “I kind of wanted to get the food myself so I could see which chef made what.” She eyed the food like she didn’t know where to start. “But this looks amazing.”

  He did a quick sweep of the plates. One held cheeses, slices of crusty baguette, grapes, fresh figs, and almonds. Another had small bowls of what looked like couscous, polenta, and creamy mashed potatoes. Not much for him to eat. He started to slide out of the booth to find some of that grilled meat he could smell, but De
lilah plunged a fork into the potatoes, and he wasn’t going to miss this show for anything.

  “Mm.” She closed her eyes and moaned. “Oh, my God, these are unbelievable.”

  He could imagine her making that sound in a whole other context.

  She shuddered. “This is so good. I think they put ancho chiles in the potatoes. Can you imagine?” She stabbed a fork into a stalk of asparagus and bit off the tip. She chewed, eyes closing again. “What the heck did they put on this? It’s got a serious bite.” She reached for her water glass. “One of those chefs knows her southwestern spices. That’s really good.”

  “I’m questioning my life choices right now.”

  “You should be. Man, oh, man. This is good.” She dipped her fork into the polenta and turned it his way. “One bite.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.” So, you can resist cheesy polenta that smells out of this world but not the woman sitting across from you? “I’m going to see what kind of meat they’ve got. Want anything?”

  “Oh, you know, maybe just one of everything?” Her eyes sparkled with humor.

  But as he slid to the edge of the bench seat, he heard his name coming from the table behind him.

  “I know he wouldn’t cheat.”

  He recognized the voice. Tim. A friend from high school. He shot a look to Delilah. Like I told you. His friends and family knew Damien was full of shit.

  “But,” Tim continued. “Could he have benefitted in some way from his family money? I know they wouldn’t pay anyone off—that doesn’t make sense—but the judges might favor him because he’s rich.”

  Will froze. Are you fucking kidding me?

  He’d grown up with Tim. They’d skied together.

  My dad took you in when your parents kicked you out for three months senior year.

  “Benefit how?”

  That sounded like Kylie. He’d been on the ski team with her in college.

  “It’s numerical,” she said. “They get a score. There’s one for execution of tricks, variety of tricks, difficulty, pipe use, and amplitude.”

  “Or maybe the League wants him to win,” someone said. “Maybe it brings in more sponsors when Will’s going for his seventh, eighth or ninth win. It’s the hype.”

  “That’s a good point,” Tim said. “He gives something like ten scholarships to the League every year. And it doesn’t have to be conscious. They might just like him, so they give him higher scores.”

  “The judges are former skiers,” Kylie said. “That doesn’t make any sense. You guys are being ridiculous, and it sucks that you’re giving Damien’s bullshit any credibility.”

  “I don’t know,” Tim said. “I’m just saying it might be possible.”

  It’s possible? His friends thought he benefitted from his dad’s money?

  “Can we get out of here?” Delilah said. “I’ve lost my appetite.” She shifted out of the booth, gliding by Tim’s table. “Must be the stink of disloyalty in the air.”

  Will pushed open the door, letting Delilah pass through, and walked out into the bright sunlight, sick to his stomach that the guys who knew him, had grown up skiing with him, questioned his integrity.

  Delilah slid her big, black sunglasses on, making her look like a movie star. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “There’s nothing to say.” He started off towards his truck, his boots thundering on the boardwalk.

  “Yes, there is. And if you’re not going to, then I sure as hell will.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Will, come on. You have to defend yourself.”

  “I do. Every time I hit the half-pipe.” Words don’t mean shit.

  At the end of the walkway, he hopped off. Noticing he was heading into one of the staged shoot-outs, he cut through the alley between two buildings.

  He didn’t hear her footsteps on the dirt, so he turned around. She wasn’t there. He jogged back to find her heading into the saloon. “Delilah, stop. Where’re you going?”

  “I’m going to tell them what I think about their stupid, disloyal faces.”

  “No, you’re not. I have to get home to Ruby.” His sister had spent more than enough time with his mother.

  Shooting an evil eye to the saloon doors, she relented and hustled beside him to his truck.

  He pulled his keys out of his jeans’ pocket. “Look, it’s not just impacting me. A bunch of judges have already held press conferences. Their integrity’s been called into question just as much as mine. They’re refusing to judge again.”

  “Does Damien realize what he’s done here? And why would he even want to win now that he’s stirred up all this trouble? He’ll never know if he won because you’re out of the running or if he really deserved it.”

  “Trust me, Damien believes he deserves it. He thinks because he does more spins that he’s the better skier. But that’s not how the competition works. It’s based on technical skills. You have to execute them better than everyone else. If you don’t stomp your landing, or if you don’t get enough amplitude, you lose points. It’s that simple. Damien thinks he should win because his tricks have more flash.”

  “Well, you can’t just let him get away with it. You have to do something.”

  “Nothing for me to do.” He hit the keypad and got into the truck.

  She got in on the other side and slammed the door, shutting out the world. “What about the Olympics?”

  “What about it?”

  “You’re going to stand at the top of the half-pipe, ready to do your thing, and even though the investigation’s cleared your name, won’t it still be at the back of people’s minds? Won’t your fans discuss it in their living rooms and in sports bars just like they did back there?” She pointed a thumb behind her.

  “Yes.” The word came out hard, dirty, like he’d just spit it out of his mouth.

  “So, is there anything you can do that will kill the whole thing for good? Anything that will prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you’ve earned your medals?”

  And just like that the anger cleared. He shoved the key in the ignition, every cell in his body shifting, heating up, slamming into each other.

  There sure as hell is.

  Chapter Eight

  When his mom left the family, he’d felt powerless. Discipline, structure, had restored his sense of control.

  Damien pulling this stunt? Wiping out all the years of hard work? It snatched the rug out from under him all over again.

  Until now. Delilah had reminded him there was something he could do, the ultimate competition that would obliterate all the bullshit rumors.

  Freefest.

  As soon as he got home, he’d add his name to the roster. Because he’d go to the Olympics with a clear record, he’d bring home the ultimate gold medal for his dad’s trophy case, and he’d shut down Damien Brenner, once and for all.

  As they passed the fairgrounds, the sea of white tents caught Delilah’s attention. “What’s that?”

  “Farmers Market.” He already knew how much she wanted to go, and since his fingers itched to sign up for the competition, he flipped the turn signal.

  “Are we going?”

  “You go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Just keep it brief, okay?” He pulled into the dirt parking lot and eased into a spot. “We can come back tomorrow after my work-out.”

  “Awesome. I’ll just take a quick look around to get an idea what they sell.”

  The minute he put the gearshift into Park, Delilah flicked the latch on her seatbelt, and hopped out of the truck. “Give me ten minutes.”

  He pulled his phone out of the console and got out of the truck, leaning against the fender as he tapped out a text message to his manager.

  Entering Freefest.

  Ready to compose the same thing to his brothers, he smiled when his phone vibrated with a call. Alex. He smiled as he answered. “That got your attention.”

  “You’re not doing Freefest. Are you crazy?” Rarely
did his manager, normally cool as a cucumber, shout. “You’ve got the Olympics.”

  “Think I know that.”

  “I couldn’t believe you entered last year, but I was damn glad you didn’t go through with it.”

  The world of skiing was divided by freestyle competitors and freeriders. The first group practiced tricks until they could perform them on muscle memory alone. The second didn’t care about technical performances. They rode the mountains for the sheer joy of it. For the rush.

  So, after the season ended, the best skiers in the world met in a secret location to compete against each other. Just skiers and the terrain. No media, no sponsors, no agenda. Just athletes judging each other. Whoever went home with that trophy knew he’d outperformed every other skier in the world.

  Last year, bad weather had hit the mountain, and just about all the freestyle athletes had pulled out. With the competition season approaching, they couldn’t take the risk.

  He’d take it now.

  “You’ve got nothing to prove, Will. You hear me? Let me handle it on my end.”

  “There’s no other way to handle Damien’s accusation.” Thank you, Delilah, for reminding me of that. “The League’s investigation is bullshit. They’ll, what? Talk to the sponsors, the judges? Everyone will deny it, and the case will be closed. But it won’t change anything for me. It won’t remove the question at the back of everyone’s mind.” Could he have done it?

  “Don’t screw up what could be your last shot at Olympic gold by doing something as reckless as Freefest.”

  “I have to.” He gazed up at the dark gray mountains. “That medal won’t mean shit if people are wondering if my dad bought my previous wins, so I’m clearing my name now in the only way that matters.”

  “Dammit, Will. You’re making a mistake here.”

  He turned his back on the Farmers Market and lowered his voice. “For ten years I didn’t win. And, every single time I lost, I felt like shit. I wanted to quit, but I didn’t. I went back harder. Trained smarter, adjusted my diet, did everything I could to get better. And then, one day, I finally won. The whole world talked about me like I was some overnight success, but that’s only because I wasn’t on their radar before that point, so they didn’t see the work I put in—the failures I racked up. I will be damned if I let Damien take away what it took seventeen years to achieve. I’m not asking for your opinion on this, Alex. I’m doing it.”