Ladies Man

by Katy Evans

  I want to text him something funny and ludicrous. To make last night seem what it was, just another New Year’s Eve kissing the first person who passed. It could have been Rachel. Or Wynn. Or even Valentine.

  But none of them would have looked at me the way Tahoe Roth did last night.

  I don’t know what to text, but I fiddle with my phone and scan my Twitter to distract myself. To keep from texting him. Or maybe to stalk him. Fuck.

  He posted:

  Not a bad morning.

  Okay Tahoe, speak in English buddy. What the hell does that mean?

  I’m sure he’s referring to the strawberry-blonde he took home. Is he? But what if he isn’t? What if he, too, remembers the kiss…? The mere thought of him remembering it gives me palpitations.

  It’s already been on my mind every minute since last night.

  I know we’re just friends and that he can’t be monogamous and doesn’t even want to. At least he’s never hinted that he wants to, and even if he did, I have no reason to believe he’d choose me as the girl he’d want to be monogamous with. The staring contests, the panties, the tour of the chocolate factory, last night—they don’t mean anything but friendship.

  Even that kiss was a friendly one.

  It wasn’t wet, or hungry; it was tender almost…curious. All of that equals friendly.

  The toe curling wasn’t his fault, that was all mine, and I have to move on with the knowledge that my closest guy friend is a sex god and my body reacts to him. So what?

  Still, I’m so haunted I can’t stop thinking about it. Trent has been sweet to me. Last night he told me he’d been waiting for a girl like me his whole life, that I’m funny and not frivolous. After being lied to for two years by your ex, it’s almost surreal to hear nice things and realize how much you want to believe them. I really like being around him, and I want to see how far we can go.

  So I’m extra reluctant when I get a text from T-Rex:

  Game tomorrow night. Come?

  Shit! I nearly drop my phone.

  I set it down and hurry to the customer who just sat to get her makeup done. I start with the foundation and silently work to enhance the best of her features.

  She peers into the oval handheld mirror on the counter while we’re in the process. “Do you think it’s too much blush?” she asks.

  “Hmm?”

  I ease back from her face. Shit. She’s got red suns on her cheeks.

  “We’ll get that fixed,” I say.

  Thanks, Roth.

  “And too much eye shadow? It’s a daytime event,” she says worriedly.

  Brown rainbows over her eyes, um, yes, a tad too much.

  “Right, uh…” I hurriedly dab with a cotton ball. “There. You’ll look great in the pictures.”

  “There won’t be pictures.”

  I look at her. Then dab at her face with more cotton balls. “I’m sorry, let me fix this.”

  “Boy trouble?”

  I purse my lips. I won’t discuss Tahoe with anyone. He’s my dirty secret, like a fantasy.

  “Nah, just thinking about a friend,” I finally say.

  “I have never gotten that color on my face except with a brush. Not a friend.”

  I smile and wave at the lights above us. “These lights fluster anyone.”

  I run away to get a good shade of lipstick to match the mess I made on her face, and I roll my eyes at myself and get back to finish her up, wondering what to say about the game.

  * * *

  That night from my landline, while on a conference call rehashing the party, Wynn and Rachel make fun of me because they saw me kiss Tahoe at midnight.

  “What does that say, Gina?” Wynn insists as I check on the vegan pizza I’m cooking for Trent and me.

  “That I was drunk?”

  “No, really,” Wynn says. “What does it say?”

  The fact that Wynn is so insistent makes me pause in the middle of my kitchen.

  I pull out my cell and read his text, so determined for things not to mean anything at all, I finally answer:

  Can’t. But drinks are on me if you win!

  There.

  Just what any buddy would answer.

  “Emmett told me Tahoe spent quite a substantial amount of time last night questioning him about Trent. What he does. Last name. Family origins.”

  “What?” I ask, surprised.

  Rachel is quiet on the other end of the line.

  And I fall just as quiet with this bit of information. But then I remind myself it doesn’t mean anything at all.

  “He’s ape man like that, we’re friends, you guys know,” I finally say.

  “Guys…” Rachel begins. “I’m four weeks pregnant.”

  * * *

  The news completely wipes away any other thoughts from my mind, which is probably a good thing. I tell Trent all about it when he arrives at my place, and I tell him we’re invited over to the Saints’ tomorrow night for a mini celebration.

  “I wish I could, babe, but I have a dinner with a possible new client tomorrow. How about I meet you there?”

  We talk a little while after dining on my pizza, but when I kiss him good night as he leaves and I finally go to bed, I keep staring at the ceiling, thinking of Rachel with a little baby in her arms.

  Wynn and Emmett pick me up on their way to the party the next evening, and we all talk about it in the car.

  “Huge step,” Emmett says. “Huge.”

  “Emmett, I know, but isn’t it exciting?’” Wynn presses.

  I’m basically sitting quietly in the back of the car—nervous and excited for Rachel. Rachel has always been so career-oriented that Wynn and I simply cannot believe our closest friend is having a baby in September.

  As soon as we arrive, hugs and congratulations are exchanged, and then the men and the women separate. The girls sit in the sumptuous, modern living area while Saint, Emmett, and Callan hang out by the bar. The guys rib Saint about payback for all the mischief he caused when he was young.

  I know that Tahoe had a game tonight, but I keep glancing at the time on my mobile, wondering when and if he’ll show up. I’ve grown so used to seeing him whenever there’s any Saint event, I hadn’t expected to miss the sight of him. I need to see him to confirm that nothing changed after New Year’s.

  Absolutely nothing at all.

  Wynn is on a roll with the baby talk, even more than Rachel, unbelievably. Though Rachel told us they’d already been trying, and that when she found out she was pregnant, she didn’t tell Saint for three days. “I first rush-ordered a little baby tee from a customization store online that said ‘Daddy’s little Saint,’ and one night when he came from work, I set it right on his side of the bed over his pillow. Oh guys! You should’ve seen his face when we finally retired for the night and he saw that tiny little tee. His face went from disbelief, to total shock, to this gorgeous laugh and a hug so tight I thought he’d break my bones.”

  “Awwwwww!” Wynn says.

  I laugh happily, feel warm even though I’m still at the shocked stage myself.

  Even when Rachel goes to check up on the snacks, Wynn continues to talk to me about babies.

  “You know, after that pregnancy scare at Rachel and Saint’s wedding, I haven’t been able to stop thinking of babies. I see them everywhere. I have never seen so many babies in my life. They’re in the soup, I tell you. I keep wondering if Emmet is the kind of father I want for my kids. Am I the kind of mother I want for my kids…”

  “Wynn,” I say drolly, “you have no other choice on that one.”

  “I have a choice in self-improvement, though,” she counters. “Obviously for change to work you need to be aware of the problem, accept that it needs fixing, and then, actively try to fix it. Like I’m disorganized, but now that I’ve moved in with Emmet, I’m trying not to be so messy—though it’s nice for my flaws not to matter that much to him, I guess.”

  “Oh noooo.” I laughingly shake my head. “I’ll be dead before I�
��m seen without makeup. I sleep with it on if a guy stays over. I set the alarm and put on makeup before Trent wakes, that’s how much it needs to be on my face.”

  “Speaking of, I like that Cleopatra look.”

  “Thank you. I worked hours on it.” I grin and wink as I edge closer to her. “Do you think the eyeliner was too much?”

  “Why is it so important?”

  Tahoe Roth steps off the elevator, and it’s hard not to notice the wow look on Wynn’s face when she sees him in his casual jeans and comfy sweater.

  “I do this for a living. It’s my presentation card,” I tell her. “Nobody wants a fat dietician or a clown-faced makeup artist.”

  “There’s your buddy Tahoe.” She points, wiggling her eyebrows.

  I ignore her (and him) but I shiver when I hear his voice, greeting Rachel’s husband and congratulating him.

  Their laughs fill the room. Tahoe has this easy laugh, it’s almost contagious. It sounds delicious and it makes you want to have such a delicious time. I find myself smiling because of it when he heads over and greets Wynn, then he looks at me.

  “Hey. What’s up with you?” He drops down beside me.

  “Nothing’s up. What’s up with you?” I counter.

  He looks really cozy in a draping, heavy-knitted ivory sweater, warm and inviting. That familiar irresistible grin lights his face as he looks at me. He leans back and folds his arms behind his head. “A whole lot of nothing.” He leans closer to me. “Why didn’t you come to my game?”

  “Why you assume I’ll ever want to is amusing. That beard is getting long, by the way.”

  “We’re in a bad streak.”

  “Right. You loser.”

  He laughs and caresses his jaw, smiling ruefully, the dimple showing. “I used to be luckier. I’ve still got what it takes though. If you’d only come watch, I’d be happy to show you.”

  “I don’t cheer for losers.” I stick my tongue out at him.

  “Tsk, Regina,” he drawls, “I would no longer be a loser if you came to cheer for me.”

  He’s teasing, and we both laugh, but when our eyes connect again, a shock runs through my system.

  Did you like that kiss even a fraction of how much I liked it?

  I shake the thought aside and look at my martini on the coffee table. He’s a womanizer, he seduces women, this is what they see in him—confidence, a bit of an alpha nature, those wicked teasing words of his, that rebel streak, the laugh, the good times, the money he spends so easily, the lips, the body, I’m not even going to think about the rest but I can tell by the wear of his jeans that he’s as well-endowed there as everywhere else.

  Don’t they say everything is bigger in Texas? Well, he was born there. Enough said.

  The drawl is not always noticeable. I wonder what it is that makes it come out, like now?

  Wynn heads over to hang with Rachel and Emmett, and we’re alone now and silent as we watch them.

  “Babies, huh,” Tahoe says softly.

  “Babies.”

  He lifts my martini, sips from it then hands it over so I can take a sip as well.

  We’re both thoughtful and puzzled. Stunned. We’re both at the moment you realize your closest friends are growing, leaping forward, charging ahead, and you’re still the same, you still aren’t really sure where to go from here and if you’re happy where you are at all. I can’t assume Tahoe is really happy, or why would he want to hang out with me?

  “While the Saints play house and your friend Wynn over there maneuvers to get an engagement ring on her finger, you’re probably going to be stuck with me,” he says sardonically as he watches me set down my near-empty martini glass.

  A smile appears on my lips and I guess it appeared quickly enough to amuse him, because his eyes start twinkling as he smiles at me too.

  BURNING

  A blizzard hits the city two weeks later, and I have to reschedule some of my house calls. I spend a lot of time in my apartment whenever I’m off work, watching movies with Trent.

  By the time the blizzard stops a few days later, I’ve had a lot of things to mull through. I stare around my apartment when I arrive after a particularly exhausting day at work. My lonely apartment. Which I can no longer afford.

  I feel unsatisfied and restless, but I don’t know why. It’s almost as if I can’t seem to find my place in the world. Rachel is expecting, Wynn has moved in with Emmett, while I’m barely in the beginning stages of a relationship, and about to have to leave my apartment.

  So I decide I want to try to buy my own place rather than rent. Set down some roots. To do that, I need a boost of income, enough for me to save up for a small down payment. I really need to be earning more if I hope to buy my own place—one where I won’t be getting kicked out. Ever. I boot up the computer and spend all night searching Monster.com and the classifieds, and end up making a few queries.

  Two days later, I get a call and land a huge gig.

  The gig requires me to wear a black waitress uniform with a cute little white apron. I’m serving at some sort of investors’ get-together, where would-be investors can learn the how-to’s of investing.

  I’m there early that evening, helping set up the kitchen and uncork the wine and fill the glasses. Soon a live band is playing in the main room, and groups of men are scattered throughout the space that’s big enough to sit two hundred guests. I walk past tables with a tray of wine glasses containing a crimson-red cabernet, heading toward the area my boss told me I would be responsible for.

  I have never waitressed before and although my uniform fits me all wrong, I am completely focused on not spilling the tray of glasses as I head to the nearest table and start setting down drinks when a familiar voice reaches me.

  “Gina?”

  I cringe, but force myself to turn.

  Paul is standing only feet away, sharply dressed in a tailored suit with cuff links and an expensive but simple tie clip, surrounded by similarly dressed executive types. And I stand here in an ill-fitting waitress outfit with an empty tray in my hand, instead of a toothbrush.

  He runs his gaze down my body in disbelief. I can see it in his eyes: Wow, you’re a waitress?

  He looks at my attire with quickly growing scorn, and I want to throw my tray at him while, at the same time, wanting to hide behind it. I guess I knew, deep down, that I’d one day bump into him again. I always imagined I would look successful, have an incredibly hot guy on my arm, and be wearing my best dress. I always imagined I’d lift my nose at him, like the scum that he is.

  I didn’t expect it to hurt, still. After all this time. For the sight of him to rip off the Band-Aid I’ve worn for years and make me bleed again.

  I don’t love you…

  I want to yell. I want to hide. And I hate hate hate that what I really want to do is cry, as if I haven’t cried enough for him already.

  But all I can do is turn away and charge across the room, almost stumbling to get away, until I finally reach the kitchen. My eyes burn and I hate that they burn. I feel small and I hate that I feel small. I set down the tray, fumble through my pockets, and take out my phone.

  Me: So Paul is at this gig I’m working…

  Rachel: NOOOO! Gina, breathe. Don’t talk to him, don’t even look at him!!!

  Me: I’m his waitress!

  I wait for her reply, and it takes nearly a minute to appear on my screen.

  Rachel: Gina…don’t be upset but, I told Saint I wanted to leave our event early to go support you, and guess who punched the table and shot out the door?

  “Gina? What are you doing in here? Go back out there, please,” my boss snaps.

  Hastily I tuck my phone away and hurry to refill my tray. With every glass I fill, I brace myself to go out there again. I fantasize about walking out and dumping the tray accidentally on Paul’s lap. Then I picture walking out with my best smile and…and what?

  I exhale, balance the tray in one hand, and head to the main room.

  I scan the a
rea for Paul. I need to know where he is just to avoid him, but my gaze pauses on a tall man in the entrance, talking to my boss.

  Shoulders a mile wide that taper down to a narrow waist and, as if that weren’t enough to stop you in your tracks, add to that a butt that seems to be held up by angels.

  I take in the back of his full mane of blond hair and I know, my body knows—my heart leaps a little, my stomach tumbles, my skin pricks—that it’s Tahoe even before he shifts and lets me see his profile.

  He’s in a crisp black evening suit. Dark black slacks, white button-down shirt, sharp gray tie. His lips look moist, and stained red. As if he was messing with someone not long ago. His blue eyes flare when he sees me and for the briefest instant, they flash protectively.

  The event manager walks over to him. “Mr. Roth, we were told you were too busy to lead the gentlemen’s conference but it’s an absolute honor, please—”

  “I’m not staying,” he growls, dismissing him.

  Clearly this event was not as good as the other one Tahoe was attending with the Saints tonight.

  Then I feel fingers on the small of my back, undoing the knot at the back of my apron. He speaks close to my ear. “You’re done here.” He lifts my apron off over my head, sets it aside, takes my tray and sets it down, and won’t heed any of my protests as he leads me out the door.

  * * *

  We’re in his car, heading to my place, and I’m barely holding myself together. I’m acting like it’s nothing. “Pretty arrangements, though not my color of choice for a gentlemen’s event.”

  Tahoe has been silent the entire ride, letting me bluff it out as he stews a little bit too.

  He jerks the gearshift almost angrily as he parks in my building’s underground lot, and I leap out of the car, surprised when I hear a second car door slam shut. Tahoe is at my heels boarding the elevator, walking—more like stalking—by my side as I head to my apartment door.