“So, what are you going to do now?” Delia’s back to shuffling papers on the desk.
“Get the meds ready. Isn’t it almost time for us to hand out some meds?” I shove the card in the pocket of my scrub pants.
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. Let me guess, you plan on ignoring him.”
“You know me too well, D, too well.” Because what’s the other option here?
“You could text him to tell him you got the flowers,” she suggests. I’m pretty sure Delia’s a mind reader. “That would be the polite thing to do.” She pulls her glasses off her face and shoves them back down the front of her scrub top. “Not that you care about being polite.”
“I’ll think about it.” I touch a soft petal on one of the roses closest to me.
“I’m just saying, he may be an idiot, but this is the first idiot to send you flowers. That should count for something.”
“Maybe.”
Or maybe that’s just another reason to steer clear.
6
Graham
I wait all day to hear from Cassie. I’m supposed to be spending time thinking about my options, planning the next step of my life without football. I’ve got things in the works because I always knew football wasn’t forever, but now that it’s really over this part is less satisfying than I thought it would be. I remind myself I had a good run. I’m in my thirties for God’s sake. Not many other guys can say they had that long of a career. But when I look across the surface of my desk, I can’t find anything to get excited about. Other guys do car dealerships or restaurants but none of that’s for me. I’ve done a good job of saving and investing, but I’m still going to need something to fill my time. Even if I had all the money in the world, sitting here looking out the window can only take up so much of my day. I had always envisioned myself at this stage with a wife and a family. A Super Bowl win. Instead I’m looking at a desk covered in papers that I have no interest in reading.
What I am interested in is Cassie. I know she got the flowers because I spent an hour this morning making sure the flower shop delivered them. I had wanted her to see them when she walked into work, before she started her shift. I imagined her face lighting up when she saw the flowers although it did cross my mind she would lose that smile once she opened the card. The card I obsessed over for way too long before writing down the stupidest thing that popped into my head. Apology flowers? So smooth. But I couldn’t exactly say what I was feeling, could I?
Dear Cassie,
I’m glad we worked things out because I can’t stop thinking about you naked.
— Graham
That would never fly. Maybe if the situation were different. I can see Cassie appreciating that sentiment from someone else. The key here being that person not be me—not a dick who called her a hurtful name for years, not the ex-boyfriend of her best friend, not the guy who’s done just about everything wrong so far. Still, I sent the flowers because I wanted an excuse to talk to her. And then I waited.
I don’t usually have to wait around, so when twenty-four hours pass without a peep from Cassie, I start to get a little annoyed. Sure we’d decided to keep the sex part a secret and we agreed it couldn’t happen again but that doesn’t mean we’ve gone radio silent, does it? I sent her flowers and in my experience, girls love flowers. In the past, flowers at work would get an excited phone call, at least a gushy text. In the past, flowers would have gotten me a blow job. But this is Cassie we’re talking about so apparently flowers gets a person nothing.
I convince myself maybe Cassie doesn’t have my number, but I know that’s not true. And she could make up some excuse to get it from Julia if she wanted to get in touch with me. They’d probably have to talk about our ride home the other night though and Julia would get to hear all about what a dick I’ve been. But she’s probably known for a while. It isn’t a stretch to imagine Cassie telling her this, reminding her that I’ve always been a jerk.
I chase that depressing idea away by thinking about Cassie’s tits. I remember the way they filled my hands and the breathy sounds she made when I had my mouth on them. It’s a terrible but effective diversion as it not only gets me hard as a rock, but also reminds me that Saturday night was the first and last time I will see those particular breasts in person. So now not only is Cassie not calling, but I’ve got her on a pornographic loop running through my head. She’s gone from being a blip on my radar to being the only thing I can think about.
Fuck it.
I reach for my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find Cassie’s number. Like an ass I’ve put “Mama” in parentheses next to her name. I delete that like she’s standing beside me. Can’t have her seeing that. My index finger hovers over the screen before I let the part of me that should know better touch the green button. I put it on speaker and listen as it rings and rings. I hadn’t planned on leaving a message and now my brain runs through possible options in order to sound less like I’ve been hanging around my house moping and more like I accidentally dialed her number. Which would fit well with her overall impression of me as a jerk and probably set me back to square one. Assuming I’ve even been making progress here. But we’re supposed to be friends, right? And friends can call each other. Although, reminiscing about her boobs is probably not a friendly thing to do.
Mercifully Cassie answers on what feels like the millionth ring.
“Hello?” She sounds groggy, her voice rough and deep.
“Hey. It’s me” And when she doesn’t say anything I follow up with the equally interesting, “Um, Graham.”
“I know who it is. You’re programmed into my phone.”
“With my name or as something else?”
“With your name. What else would I put you in as?”
I have plenty of suggestions, but I don’t want to give Cassie any ideas. “I don’t know. Never mind.”
And then we sit there, both breathing into the phone. I can hear her moving around and something like sheets rustling. It’s the middle of the day, but it sounds like she’s in bed. I can almost picture it in my head even though I’ve never been inside Cassie’s apartment. I imagine her auburn hair fanned out over a white pillowcase, the creamy skin on her neck exposed, the sheet covering her breasts.
“Graham?”
“Yeah.”
“You called me.”
“Oh, yeah. I wanted to see if you got something at work.”
“You woke me up for that?” Cassie asks, irritated.
“Were you sleeping?”
“Yeah, I just worked a twelve-hour shift and I’ve got to be back at the hospital tonight.” I hear her stretching, imagine the sheet falling lower. This is doing nothing to get rid of my earlier issue. If this is how worked up I am just using my imagination, I’m going to need to think of some good excuses not to see Cassie in person ever again.
“Are you in bed?” I ask because I’m a glutton for punishment.
“That’s the best place to sleep.” She says it like she’s talking to a five-year-old.
“Are you wearing pajamas?” I cringe as soon as the question’s out of my mouth. It isn’t any of my business what she wears to sleep in. Recently repaired friendship line officially crossed.
“Seriously? Did you just ask what I’m wearing? Just because you sent me flowers doesn’t mean I’m going to spend what should be my six hours of sleep having phone sex with you.” She’s laughing and I’m not sure if I should be offended or relieved. Cassie’s not mad at the suggestion of phone sex but she’s also not willing to participate. My dick twitches in my pants. Sorry, buddy.
“You did get the flowers then?”
“Yes, they’re very pretty. Everyone at the nurses’ station loved them.” I don’t care about the other nurses, but I keep my mouth shut. “But you didn’t need to do that. We’re good. No need to send me anything.”
“I know. I just…” Wanted to have an excuse to talk to you. “Wanted to be sure you knew how sorry I was.”
/>
“You get friendship points for that, I guess.”
“How many points? Is there a scale or something?”
“Is there a scale? Very cute. Sure. There’s a scale but it’s super top secret.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Food would have gotten you more points, probably, but the flowers were appreciated.”
“So, next time I insult you over the course of several years I should send food.” I’m smiling back. I’m on the phone with Cassie Blake and we’re both smiling. Hell is definitely freezing over.
“Yes, preferably something chocolate. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really need a few more hours of sleep so I don’t accidentally kill someone.”
“Too tired to tell me what you’re wearing? We’re done talking now?”
Again Cassie laughs. It’s some sort of miracle. I keep expecting her to threaten me, waiting for her normal growl to put me back in my place. “Oh, we’re done,” she tells me. “It would take far more than flowers to get that information. Bye, Graham.”
“Bye, Cassie.”
I spend the next two hours scouring the Internet for every chocolate thing under the sun that can be delivered.
7
Cassie
I should never have been nice to him.
I should have known that being civil to Graham would end up backfiring, but he caught me off guard with the phone call. Waking me up to check on the flower delivery is the kind of thing that normally makes me furious. Especially when it just shows Graham to be the way he always has been—less concerned with other people than he is with himself. But instead of picking a fight I ended up flirting with him. That was a terrible idea and now I’m paying for it every time I come into work and there’s another delivery there for me.
First it was cupcakes. Chocolate cupcakes with swirls of chocolate icing on top.
Next came the muffins, followed by a delivery of the biggest box of assorted chocolates I’ve ever seen.
Today there’s one of those fresh fruit bouquets, the apple slices and strawberries winking from under chocolate coating.
The other nurses love this, of course, because it means snacks for everyone in the break room. I hate it because it means more prying questions from my coworkers. Questions I have no intention of answering. Graham has to know he’s riding the line here. He’s choosing to send things to the hospital instead of to my house. Which means this apology thing is going on in public. So much for putting things in the vault.
And I’m sure he wants me to call to tell him how great all of his gifts are. At least that’s what Delia keeps telling me. But I keep ignoring her helpful suggestions, letting her think I’m just being a bitch when in fact I’m protecting myself. No more slightly sexy phone conversations. No more flirting. No more accidents.
I need to get Graham out of my system and the best way to do that is to replace all these naked images of him with naked images of some other guy. Interchangeable men. Just the way I’ve always done it. No muss, no fuss. Of course I’ve got Graham on the brain—I haven’t been out since we hooked up. Which is why when Stephanie mentions that she and some of her girlfriends are going out dancing I jump at the chance to tag along. Being out with Steph and her cute twenty-something friends is a guaranteed way to attract some male attention. Attention that I desperately need to get back on track. I’ve spent years not giving Graham a second thought. It shouldn’t be hard to get him out of my head.
The club’s packed by the time we get there. Stephanie’s friends are all outfitted in an array of tight-fitting dresses and short skirts. I feel practically provincial in the outfit I’ve put together. But my low-cut V-neck top and leather pants are usually enough to do the trick. I’m in all black. Who needs more color when you’re working red hair and lips? No need for overkill. Something I should explain to Stephanie’s friends. More than one of them looks like they’ve forgotten to wear pants. Desperate, but effective if the stares we’re getting from the packs of men we pass on our way in is any indication.
“Drinks?” I yell toward Stephanie, but there’s no way she can hear me over the pounding bass in here. When she mouths what I assume is “What?” back at me, I herd her and her friends toward the bar. You’d be surprised how quickly a space opens up at a crowded bar for a group of half-naked women, especially attractive ones. And you’d be surprised how quickly someone offers to pay for our first round of drinks. Or maybe you wouldn’t. Either way I end up leaning against the cool metal of the bar top with a vodka tonic in my hand in record time.
I know not everyone thinks picking up a man at a bar is a great idea, but I’m not most people. You can’t get no strings attached by sleeping with the guys on your company’s adult kickball team. Not that I’d ever be on an adult kickball team, but you get the picture. I don’t want commitment—I barely want conversation—so a place like this is perfect. I survey the crowd under the pulsing lights. There are a few guys who look promising. One candidate makes eye contact from across the room, but I don’t let my eyes linger; I never go with the first interested man I see. I keep scanning, shamelessly raking my gaze over bodies like I’m shopping for a car. Which one of these boys would I like to take for a test drive? Hmmm, so many choices.
Stephanie and her friends have moved to the dance floor where they’re busy making themselves look even more like porn stars. I think about joining them, but I’m thoroughly enjoying myself and all these sexual possibilities. I down the rest of my drink and turn to order another when the bartender slides a fresh one in front of me.
“Here you go. From that guy down there at the end of the bar.” He angles his head toward the left with a jerk.
Another win for me. At this rate I won’t have to pay for a drink all night. I turn to see who this mystery benefactor might be, hoping for drop dead gorgeous and built like a tank, but keeping my expectations low. There’s a group of gigantic guys at the end of the bar. All thick shoulders and broad chests, big hands wrapped around their pint glasses. Any of those boys would be worth considering, but none of them seem to be looking my way. If one of them bought me this drink then he’s being awfully sneaky about it. No eye contact from the first one, a dark-haired behemoth who keeps shooting glances at the dance floor. Nothing from contestant number two either, another bruiser with short dreadlocks who’s doubled over laughing at whatever the third dude is telling him. Number three has his back to me, the muscles in his shoulders pulling the fabric of his shirt tight. He runs his hand through his blond hair and gives the back of his neck a squeeze, his bicep flexing with the movement. Number three looks like he has potential.
But number three also starts to look more than a little familiar.
When he finally turns toward me, lifting one eyebrow as he zeroes in on my face, I have to stifle an exasperated groan and try not to roll my eyes. Because, of course, it’s Graham’s annoying but undeniably handsome face staring back at me.
Thanks, Universe.
He motions for me to come and join him but I’ll be damned if I’m coming when he calls me. Or coming for him ever again. I keep this in mind as he makes an exaggerated pout from his side of the bar. Then he’s elbowing his buddies and gesturing toward me, making heads swivel and giant legs move until they’re all standing in front of me. The crowd parts so there’s no jostling, just the smooth arrival of their butts into three suddenly vacant seats next to me. I am cursed. Suddenly this drink doesn’t feel so free anymore.
Graham leans in and brushes a kiss on my cheek, breathing a hi into the shell of my ear. I shiver. He pulls back but keeps one hand on the small of my back. He’s too close but there’s no real way to get free of him smashed against the bar, surrounded by his burly friends.
“Cassie, this is Andre and this is Calvin. Guys, this is Cassie.” They both extend huge hands which I shake reflexively. We’re murmuring our hellos when a fourth, much smaller man joins us.
“Dude.” He gives Graham a shove right in the chest. “You all moved without telling me where you were going.
I came back from the bathroom and nobody’s there. Plenty of hot ladies on the way there and back, by the way.” He doesn’t seem to notice me and Graham doesn’t move to shove him back so I relax.
“We moved to talk to Cassie,” Graham explains and new guy turns to look at me. He’s not unattractive, but the way he slides his eyes over me and leaves them resting on my chest has me crossing my arms in front of me.
“Oh, helloooo,” new guy croons, getting entirely too close for a handshake. Graham stiffens and his friends both grimace. “I’m Dave Preston. I manage these guys.” He aims a thumb at Graham and his group. “What was your name again, baby, Callie?”
“Cassie,” Graham corrects. “And stop. Just no.”
“No?” Dave asks, confused.
“Cassie’s off limits. She’s my…” He drags out the word for so long I think he’s about to say “mine” and for some reason my stomach does a happy little flip flop. What the hell, Cassie? “She’s my friend,” he clarifies. “We go way back.”
“Okay,” Dave says, still holding my hand. “So?”
“So stop touching her. She’s not for you.” Which, by omission, sounds like I’m for Graham. Like he’s going all caveman and about to pummel this idiot who thought he could drag me to his cave instead. Eyebrows shoot up all around.
“Okay, okay, fine.” Dave releases me. “You’ve already peed on her. I get it.”
I gag and roll my eyes. Of course this jackass is friends with Graham. I pull my hand away from his and get ready to rip into him. Only Graham beats me to it, putting me behind him and leaning forward in a way that keeps me from doing my worst but doesn’t seem to ensure Dave’s safety. Angry Graham is not someone you’d like to meet on a regular basis and Dave seems to know this.
Forget About It Page 5
