by Leigh Lennon
“Sorry, Gramps. My Lyft will be here in five minutes.” I pull from his homey embrace and point to the zipper at my back. “Do you mind?”
His slight chuckle flies from his mouth. “Yeah, I’d rather unzip it again, though.”
I'm waiting for him to ask me more, for another night, but I can't give in, especially to the man who rocked my world. If I have him again, I'll want him more and more. I could see him becoming my addiction.
A ding pulls me out of my thoughts. I divert my attention to the text in front of me. "Ah, my Lyft is here." My gaze falls on him. "So, Gramps, it's been real, and it's been fun. So fucking fun—really."
I wait for the moment he tells me he wants more, and I'll have to stay strong.
"It was a fuck ton of fun, little girl," he replies, and in his broad smile and the slight rays of sunshine filling the room, I see just a hint of silver in his more than five o'clock shadow. "Take care, cherry."
He pulls me in for a simple kiss on the cheek, and I'm left with nothing to rebuke and argue with. He doesn't ask for my number. This is what I wanted, right? So why am I sad and disappointed as I make my way out of the bar's party room?
The news crew's van is in the driveway when I open the door to the car. My thoughts about the beautiful silver fox runs through my mind on the ride from Portland to Vancouver. And through all of this, I need to sneak in and make it look as if I just didn't get home. My brother, who was the original O'Hennessey party animal, has his life back in order. But somehow, I see the disappointment in his eyes at my party ways. But I'm not in the limelight, not like the famous football star my brother is.
"Molly?" His voice stops me as I'm so close to my room. "Are you just getting in?"
Yeah, I'm caught. I can't deny it since my curly fire-engine hair has to be traveling in various directions on the top of my head.
"Hey, give me twenty minutes. I'll be right as rain," I explain, and I can't look my brother in the eyes. He'll see the wildness in them, and I don't give him a chance to question me.
In the shower, I wash off all the memories of last night. But I can't forget his smile, his large hands, and the rumble in his voice at his dirty words. He’s the kind of man, minus the age difference, I could see more with, if I wanted a forever, now.
I don't know what it is. The age difference is messing with me. He's right, it's only a number, but I guess it doesn't matter because I won't be seeing him again.
I towel dry my hair, pull on a pair of respectable teacher clothes, and apply a superficial layer of makeup when my father calls for me through the door. "Hey, kiddo, they're ready."
I decide the second I cross my door's threshold, I won't even remember the man I referred to as Gramps. And as I follow the noise of the news crew in my family's living room, I already know I'm lying to myself.
Chapter 2
Marcel
I'm back in Seattle after the horrible bachelor's party from the weekend. But it hadn't been all too bad. The ivory curves of the redheaded little girl still have me on a high of sorts. A part of me wants to kick my own ass for not demanding her phone number. But she, too, didn't seem into anything heavy.
I know she loved me owning her body, in the way she was so submissive to my commands. And sitting behind my desk at work, a semi-hard-on doesn't bode well for me.
I need anything to pull my thoughts away from the stunning redhead. And how she moaned underneath my body when I pushed inside her. Her curves and abundant muscle had told me she has the body of an athlete with her toned thighs and a slim waist.
"Marcel, earth to Marcel." The words take a second to permeate my mind that someone is attempting to get my attention. My eyes swing to the person in my doorway, and to my surprise and delight, it's my favorite employee at work.
"Leela," I finally acknowledge her. "Sorry, my mind was on something else. But I'm glad to see you. So, tell me, how did your interview in Vancouver go this weekend?"
Leela was stuck, having to ride down to Vancouver with her enemy in this world. If she were to know I was just over the state line in Portland, she’d absolutely murder me. And I vow she'll never find out.
"Yeah, it was alright." But she smiles, and since I assigned this puff piece to her, she's been a little on edge. "Actually, Kier and I may have turned the corner a little to something, but I don't know what that something is yet."
I toss my pen in my hand and lean back in the chair, but it's not shocking because I understood these two had some sort of history together.
"So, is it a good thing?"
She closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath, opening them as they water with tears. "Do you think people can change, old man?" It's what Leela has always called me, and I let out a hearty chuckle. I can read her better than anyone in the newsroom, and it's a mixture of fear laced with hope.
Thinking of myself in my early twenties gives me the answer I'm looking for. "Absolutely, kid. Sure there are those that fake it, but let me ask you this. That gut of yours has never steered you wrong with a story. What is it telling you?"
Her face changes in an instant, and with the shine in her eyes, her tears dry. She doesn't answer me, but with a smile on her face, I have her answer.
"It's okay to trust yourself, Leela. And if anyone deserves a semi-normal life, it's you." Not that getting involved with a world-famous football player will give her an everyday life, but if it makes her as happy as she is now, no one deserves it as much as Leela Cesarea.
"Thanks, old man. By the way, you should take your own advice. You deserve someone, too." She’s out of my office, and I think I have a reprieve until she pops her head back in. "Oh, would you like to have brunch with us on Saturday to officially meet Kier?"
There's not much more I love than football. Having been raised on the other football, the kind that you actually kick with your foot, I swore that I'd never conform to the American way as a Frenchman. But being here thirty-three years, American football lives in my blood, though soccer is a close second.
I don’t want to come off as a stalker, but I always loved Kier when he played in New York. Sure, his personal life came under fire many times, but he’s a hell of a player and has turned his life around. “Um, I think you know me better than that.”
"So, I'll tell him yes?" she asks, and when I crumple up a piece of paper and throw it at her, she has my answer.
Now I have something to keep my mind off the stunning redhead. Yeah, I may love football, but I don't know if anything can take my mind off the woman whose name I'll never know.
There's something about having a star reporter—I don't have to micro-manage her. I've not watched a second of her feature interview on Kier O'Hennessey. I'm looking forward to popping a cold one, sitting on my deck that looks over Queen Anne, and enjoying it on my outdoor television. It'll be a peaceful night.
But then, of course, on my way out to my beloved Aston Martin, I bump into the one reporter I'd love to can if ever given a chance. "Hey, Marcel, did you see my interview tonight?" Connie Weston asks.
I attempt to bypass her, but she turns around and follows me. "So, are you going to catch Leela's interview tonight?"
It's a primetime special in the hopes that the fans of Seattle will embrace Kier O’Hennessey after he's attempted to change his cowboy ways.
"I'm looking forward to it. Wanna meet me at Murphey's for a couple of drinks and we can catch the show together?"
Connie is consistent. She flirts with most anyone who could be a ladder for her advancement. And most days, I just blow her off, but tonight she's got me in a lousy mood, especially when I remembered only seven days ago I met the most stunning woman I haven’t been able to get out of my mind.
"Connie, I don't date co-workers, and I certainly don't date my employees. Please stop asking me out." I'm direct, in a few words I can use. And because putting her in her place felt good, I smile though I want to go back in time and get the sassy redhead’s number.
Kier O'Hennessey really has a bad
rep. Sure, the poor kid did some dumb ass shit, but in the year he's been with Seattle, he's kept his head down and has proven himself in the game. Now it's just time to prove himself to the city. If anyone can do it, it's Leela Cesarea.
I sit back. The view from my deck is beautiful on this summer day in late August. I've always liked the cooler summers in the Pacific Northwest because I hate the fucking heat with a passion.
After I cook a filet on the grill, I settle in for the night on my outdoor couch to watch the television. I've arranged my night in a way that I can enjoy my steak as I brim with pride like a father at Leela, who's more like a little sister to me than my employee. But she's also a protégé and the next big thing in broadcast journalism.
My steak is tender as I cut into it, and Leela fills the screen, ready to share with the world the changed man in Kieran O'Hennessey. Her piece is solid, with many different aspects about the running back. And as she transitions to the pre-recorded scene with his family, I drop my fork and almost choke on the piece of steak in my mouth because sitting next to him is my redhead, who I now know as Molly O'Hennessey.
Chapter 3
Molly
All week has followed me with one regret. Why the hell didn't I exchange numbers with the man I teased and called Gramps? However, there's nothing at all geriatric about him in the way he’d commanded my body.
I throw my suitcase in the back of my car. I'm also cursing the weekend traffic because they all seem to be heading north on I-5 like myself. I don't know what I was thinking. Kier had volunteered to fly me up for the weekend, as he did my parents, but I hate being without my car in Seattle. There's so much to do in the city, and I usually disappear for many hours as I peruse the shops at Pike Street Market.
My text notifications begin, mainly from my mother, because she's nervous when I'm on the road.
Mom: You're going to miss Kier's interview.
I've just entered the freeway and am already at a standstill.
Me: Most likely. I mean, I-5 is a fucking parking lot. No one is moving.
It's no time until I receive the next text from my mother.
Mom: Molly Colleen O'Hennessey—language.
Of course, Siobhan Hennessey’s mouth isn't pure and innocent either, and I choose not to argue with my mother as the next text comes in.
Mom: Be careful. And by the way, we are having brunch tomorrow with Leela, so you can't disappear until after that.
I love my family, I really do. We're super close, but sometimes that closeness tends to feel suffocating, to say the least.
And as the traffic begins to speed up, I pocket my phone, cranking my girl, Taylor Swift's “August,” and sing as though I'm performing for an audience the entire way to Seattle.
To say I'm tired at eight a.m. is an understatement. Someone knocks on my door to my hotel room, causing me to let loose a slew of curse words. Kier happily paid for the entire weekend, now that he and Leela are an official item, I think his little two-bedroom apartment is too small for the likes of the three of us.
I swing the door open, my hair falling in my face. The eager smile of my dad is the first to greet me. "Morning, kiddo." My dad barges into my room with a cup of coffee. "I'd hurry and take this and get yourself up and going because you know how your mother feels about being late."
This is no joke, and since I'm the only one with a vehicle, I'm also the taxi service.
"Give me twenty minutes, Dad." I did the same last week, and I somehow made myself presentable for national television after a night of crazy sex, so this is easy peasy.
"Okay, kiddo. I can only hold your mother off for so long." Again, this is true, and I grab a pair of jeans, booties, and a simple T-shirt—my beloved Taylor Swift tee I bought at a concert almost five years ago. It's a little worn, but it's comfy, and it's not like prince charming will be at Leela's house.
My mom gives me the play by play directly to Leela's little bungalow. My mother doesn't believe in a navigation system, though I have one on my phone. She has a huge city map of Seattle, folded out, and I can barely see traffic on her side of the car.
"Turn here, Molls," my mom directs, and as I parallel park between my brother’s huge as fuck truck and a fancy foreign car my father says is worth more than their house while pleading with me not to hit it, I maneuver my little Mercedes, a gift from my brother, into the spot perfectly.
"See, Dad, all those times of forcing me to parallel park has paid off."
He's laughing at the memory because it involved many tears on my end. We're in casual conversation as Kier meets us on the front porch—pulling us into hugs as if he hadn't just seen us last weekend.
My eyes are set on the glass of the doors leading into the cute little house, keeping my eyes peeled for Zia, Leela’s sister and an old classmate of mine. It's been at least ten years since I've seen her, but we'd been close in middle school.
A French bulldog bounds out of the front door and is followed by Leela. Picking her up, she brings me into her embrace. "Poppy is looking for her mother. Zia got called into the firehouse this morning. They were down a person, but she promises to catch up with you soon."
I'm a little disappointed, but now with Leela and Kier an official item, I'll have many excuses to see her.
"Come on in. I hope you don't mind. My boss is here for brunch and to meet Kier."
My mom elbows me. She certainly wants to marry me off, so I can start spitting out redhead Irish babies for her.
I mouth, "Stop." But this only eggs her on.
"Is that the one with the fancy Aston Martin out there?" It must have been the car my father droned on about being more expensive than his house.
We round the corner, and my attention is on the Frenchie's cute face in Leela's arms. My concentration isn't on the man my mother has already married me off to in her mind.
"Marcel, I'd like you to meet Siobhan, Patrick, and Molly O'Hennessey. This is my boss, Marcel Lafitte."
I'm now petting the Frenchie, whose cute face is turned to me. My world consists of this adorable dog and me when a voice jogs my memory, a hint of an accent I can't place.
"Ah, it's very nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. O'Hennessey. And you, too, Molly."
My attention swings from the dog to the voice I remember so vividly from just a week ago. Standing in front of me is the silver fox, my silver fox. But calling him Gramps may garner many questions I don't want to answer. I give him a little smile and attempt to hide the heat that flushes through my face. In the here and now, all I can think about is his hands on my body, my entire body.
My brother's face catches mine immediately, but I avert my eyes, only to observe Marcel’s direct probing gaze and what I'd almost guess a deliberate raise in his eyebrows. In his wide stance all while rocking back and forth on his heels, I'd say his smugness knows no bounds.
My father immediately moves into his space, blocking my view of him, and my mom leans into my ear. "Well, I guess he's not your type." My mother's response only comes from the fact that it's obvious he's closer to their age than mine. But then again, it wasn't what I thought when his youthful stamina rocked my world just a week ago.
"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Lafitte." My father may not think this if he only knew.
"And you, too, but please call me Marcel."
Marcel Lafitte. I couldn't place his accent even though it's faint. But I should have known with my four years in French that he is undoubtedly a Frenchman.
"Oh, please call me Patrick." They are having every bit a normal conversation when my mind isn't on any of it, but on the man I swore I'd never see again.
"Molly, Molly." My mother's harsh voice has me diverting my attention to her, but more so, every set of eyes are on me. "Where have you been, honey? Mr. Lafitte is trying to say hello to you."
Somewhere in my mind, I'd zoned out on the everyday conversation happening around me.
"Oh, excuse me, I'm sorry, Mr. Lafitte. My mind was elsewhere." He extends his hand to mine, an
d the same current from last week is still very present.
"Ah, no problem, it looked like one hell of a daydream." His eyes meet mine, giving me a wink. "And please, call me Marcel." His accent is more pronounced. Why does he have to have a sexy accent?
"Um, thanks, Marcel." I gently pull my hand away, stepping back as my mind yells retreat and regroup. But as I do, I accidentally step on the poor French bulldog behind me, who’d been placed on the floor during my daydream. She yelps, jumping up on the coffee table. In slow motion, the muffins and coffee set gets pushed off the table and spills with a crash of glass and porcelain all around us.
All eyes are on me. Like before, my mind, along with my body, are drenched in wet and warm coffee. And my brain tells me to get the hell out of here.
I turn to Leela, responding in a slow and low tone. "I'm so sorry." But between my surprise and my body betraying me, along with Karma biting me in the ass, I turn, running to the bathroom I’d seen upon arrival at the base of the stairs in the foyer.
Locking the door behind me, I sit my ass on the closed toilet, my head in my hands, but the tears don't come. Am I happy to see this man, who's almost twice my age? Or is this a response to the fact that a one-night stand was supposed to be just that?
I can't answer the question because a knock on the door is my warning. My mom is about to ask me what the hell that was all about, and I've not been able to answer this question for myself.
I unlatch the lock, opening the door to the all too familiar eyes of the man who's invaded my thoughts all week. Oh, and to make matters worse, he helps himself into the bathroom. Standing in front of me is the man I'm not sure if I want or not. What am I saying? Of course, I want this man.
