The Hot One

by Lauren Blakely

  The way he puts that makes it sound like we’re scripting the romance movie version of my life. I downplay his comment. “Curiosity,” I say with confidence. “I didn’t realize she was here in New York. And that she looked . . .” I pause. It’s not that I don’t have the words. I’m just not sure I want to say them out loud.

  “Like heaven?” Clay supplies, remembering what I’d called her.

  Guess I don’t have to say them. “Yeah, exactly.”

  Clay taps his finger to his lips. “Hmm.”

  I tilt my head. “Hmm, what?”

  He parks his hand on the doorway. “Let me go out on a limb. Feel free to call me crazy if this sounds the slightest bit off-character,” he says drily.

  I roll my eyes. “What is it?”

  “You’re going to do that thing right now. That thing you do when you jump headfirst into something, damn the consequences, and don’t even bother with a parachute, right?”

  Like I’m playing charades, I act out diving from a plane. Or really, falling off a cliff. “I believe you’ve called me Bungee Jump Tyler for a reason.”

  “And you think you’re gonna bungee jump right back into her life? Like you did with the Powder deal earlier this year?” he asks, mentioning a show we worked on. I took the lead and pushed hard in the negotiations. It was one of the riskiest deals we ever attempted, but with a laser attention to loopholes, and making them work in our favor, we nabbed a big new client, and got the client what he wanted.

  “And if memory serves, my full-speed-ahead approach worked like a charm, did it not?” I tilt my head, waiting for his acknowledgment that my aggressive strategy sometimes is the perfect counterbalance to his more circumspect one.

  Clay shakes his head. “No. Your aggressive approach combined with your eagle-eyed focus on details did it. The perfect combo. That was precisely what the client needed.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “But with a woman? Is this strategy going to solve your regret?”

  “Not regret,” I correct. “Curiosity.”

  “Right, of course. You’re a cat, and you simply can’t resist pouncing into the empty cardboard box to see what’s inside. Just like any cat would do.”

  “Exactly.” And like a cat, I’ll land on my feet.

  Clay claps me on the back. “Good luck.”

  I arch a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He grips my shoulder. “It means . . . good luck.”

  “No, it doesn’t, counselor. It means something else. Just say it, man. Dispense all the wisdom.”

  “It means, good luck parachuting into her life without a plan.”

  “Fine. You think I need a plan?”

  “I fucking do,” he says, laughing.

  “Why?”

  He sets his hands on his hips. “Women aren’t empty cardboard boxes for kitty cats to play in. They’re complicated, beautiful, sophisticated creatures with amazing bullshit detectors. And since you broke her heart years ago, you might want to consider applying a little finesse to your plan.”

  I huff. “Then I’ll come up with the finesse in the elevator.”

  “Hope you land safely,” he says with a quirk of his lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow after you meet with LGO about After Dark.”

  I salute him. “Full-speed-ahead on that one, too.” I tap my watch. “Time is ticking.”

  I saw the look on Delaney’s face. She thinks I have a kid, that I rebounded from her in seconds flat. I can’t let her think that. I say good-bye to Clay and head down the hall. The second the elevator doors close, I look her up online. I wonder where she’s practicing. Hell, I’m not even sure where she wound up going to law school. When we broke up, we broke all the way up. I went cold turkey and didn’t look back. It was the only way to do it. The only way I would be able to achieve my dreams, no matter what our make-believe fantasy for our future might have been. I was twenty-two, and yeah, I wanted to have it all. But that shit isn’t possible. I focused on one thing and one thing only—my career. She was driven as hell, too, just as determined to ace law school, and I’ve no doubt she did. That woman was the fiercest competitor I’ve ever gone up against in a debate tournament.

  She was fiery in bed, too, but that’s also where she lowered her guard the most. Where she let me in. When our clothes came off, she truly gave herself to me, and I greedily consumed her, every time.

  Afterward, we’d had some of our best talks. We’d lie in bed, tangled in sheets, and that’s when Delaney would share her hopes and dreams, her sadness and her disappointment. Sometimes, it felt like pulling teeth to get her to open up to me, and my God, I wanted to know all of her. She still held pieces of herself back, but I knew the key to unlocking her. Kiss her. Touch her. Please her.

  That’s when she most felt like mine.

  It doesn’t take long to find her. When I click on her Facebook profile and see her occupation, I blink. I grab hold of the brass handrail in the elevator to steady myself. Never would I have pegged Delaney Stewart, one-time aspiring barrister, as the owner of Nirvana, a rejuvenation spa on the Upper West Side.

  Sure, the woman gave one hell of a shoulder rub. She worked the kinks out of my neck from being bent over studying at my desk. She ran her hands through my hair and whispered sweet nothings of relaxation as she massaged my scalp.

  But I never imagined she’d turn those talented hands into a career. Not when she was so damn good at law. For the flicker of a second, a dark notion swoops down from the sky. This isn’t because of how I went into the last debate like a boxer, fighting to win . . .

  I was merciless in that competition. Was that what drove her away from law school? Shit . . . I hope to hell I wasn’t that much of a dick that I destroyed her dreams in one debate.

  I dropkick that thought away.

  The elevator dings at the lobby. I step outside and walk to the doors, clicking on some of her pictures. That smile. That hair. That face.

  My body reacts instantly, giving her photos a full salute.

  “Settle down, champ,” I mutter. My dick remembers her quite fondly. No surprise. My cock loved her, and she loved my cock. She had all sorts of names for all of her favorite parts of me.

  I scroll through her recent pictures, checking out Delaney and her friends at some sort of event full of dogs and people in the park. In one, she’s toasting with martinis at what looks like a Girls’ Night Out. In another, she lounges in a yellow bikini under the bright blue sky with the same women she ran with today.

  I add up the evidence. All roads to Delaney seem to lead through her friends. They’re in nearly every picture. Like a pack. And like a pack, I bet they protect their own.

  I type out a message.

  “Hey, Delaney. Great seeing you this morning, and your friends. The dogs were cute, too. I see you’re doing massage now? How’s that going?”

  But before I hit send, I look at the note.

  Fuck it.

  This isn’t what I want to say. This isn’t who I am. I want to see her. Talk to her. Catch up with her. I don’t want stupid bullshit. I’ve had enough of that. I’ve had plenty of meaningless dates and pointless conversations.

  This woman was never pointless.

  She was everything, and that’s exactly why I’d had to slice her out of my life once upon a time.

  I hit the delete key and start over.

  I ignore Clay’s advice. I’m going to parachute into this from the back hatch of the speeding plane. That’s the only way I know how to do things. Full speed ahead.

  Hey, Delaney . . . seeing you this morning was a complete and utter shock. In case the look of surprise on my face didn’t make that apparent, I figured I’d put it in writing. I spent the morning at the zoo and the park with the girl I consider my niece—that sweet little lady who was watching me juggle. You may remember my cousin Clay. He has a daughter now, and I try to spend as much time with Carly as possible. I sure as hell didn’t expect to see you this morning, but I’m grateful I did. You’re as stunning as y
ou always were, and as fierce and fiery. Glad to see you’re in New York City and enjoying life with good friends. I’d love to take you out for a drink and catch up. There’s a lot to say. Are you free this week?

  I hit send.

  3

  Delaney

  * * *

  Dear Tyler,

  * * *

  How interesting to see you, too! My, how the years have flown. I’m doing great, thanks for asking. Yes, life is wonderful. So glad you inquired about that, too. I’m also single, but you didn’t ask that. You just assumed. Which makes me think you’re just the same guy you were before. In your note, you went straight for what you want, without thinking of what I might need to hear from you. And isn’t that what you did at the end? You put yourself first. You didn’t even ask what happened to law school. Did I go? Did I win another scholarship? You didn’t care, did you?

  The thing is I wouldn’t mind having a drink with you. I used to love chatting with you. I adored our talks that spiraled well past midnight, drifting from politics to history to your beloved Los Angeles Dodgers, to what would make the world become a better place, and even whether ham or bacon was more abhorrent to this vegetarian girl. So, you’re right. There is a lot to say. But how do I know you want to hear it?

  * * *

  Delaney

  The next morning, I stare at my phone and the draft of the message on the screen. I read it over for the seven hundred sixty-second time as I swipe on some blush in front of the bathroom mirror.

  Fact is, I don’t blame him for my change in career. How could I? Tyler might have stepped on my law school dreams, but I’d made my choice before that final debate. I’ve got another man to thank for the change of heart. Dear old dad.

  Just thinking of my father stirs up far too many mixed emotions—the bitter and the sweet. Funny, in an ironic way, how one phone call with him my senior year of college could change the course of my future. But that’s how it goes. Sometimes we just know when it’s time to make a change.

  I’m so much happier in my chosen field than I ever would have been as an attorney.

  But hell if Tyler knows that. The man didn’t even ask. Not one single question about what I’m doing, and that’s how he behaved the last week we were together. Distant, cold, focused solely on himself. That’s probably why I never even told him the details from that call with my dad, and the things my father said that made me rethink my future.

  One little call.

  One offhand remark from the man who left my mother, brother, and me. My dad called to congratulate me on being accepted to law school, even though he was wrong about the timing. Letters hadn’t been sent out yet. Then he said, “You’ll be a great lawyer, Delaney.”

  “You think so?” I asked eagerly. I couldn’t help myself. I still wanted his support. I hadn’t had it for years.

  “Absolutely,” he said, with the kind of certainty only a father can give his daughter.

  “Why do you say that?” I was hungry for his praise. So damn desperate.

  “You’re just like me. You love to argue. Like I did with your mom.”

  I froze, the phone like a brick against my ear. I didn’t want to be like him. I didn’t want to be the way he was with my mom. I had no interest in that kind of fighting future.

  After he hung up, I sank onto my mattress and I contemplated everything about my career choice. I didn’t decide immediately. Instead, I told myself I would do the final debate, and see how I felt in the competition. Would I still enjoy debating? Would I like arguing a point as much as I had before?

  Or had my father’s words colored everything I thought I wanted for my future?

  The debate would be my final test, and it told me all I needed to know about how to be happy.

  Now here I am – happy – but the memory of those moments on the phone with my dad tightens my spine like a high-tension wire as I do my makeup.

  Except, I didn’t enter the massage therapy business to let myself be consumed by piss and vinegar. I went into it because I didn’t want to be surrounded by the kind of world I grew up in. I wanted to work in harmony, not discord.

  I loosen my pincer grip on the blush brush.

  Let the past rest. Let the future unfold. Let the present be a gift.

  I can’t send a note to Tyler with that kind of ire attached to it.And it’s been nearly twenty-four hours, so at the very least I should respond to Tyler’s invitation.

  A drink with him sounds intoxicating.

  But far too dangerous. Given the way he’s invaded my mind for years, I can only imagine what sitting down to have a drink with him would do to my efforts to kick the addiction. Last night, I went on the wagon. I blocked him from my brain. Successfully. I earned my first-day sober chip. And I can’t risk falling back.

  I set down the brush, pull my hair into a ponytail, and tap out a new note on my phone.

  * * *

  Dear Tyler,

  * * *

  Thank you. Your niece is lovely! Such a little doll. What a surprise to see you, too. Thank you for the invitation to drinks, but I have a packed schedule. Hope you’re well!

  * * *

  Best,

  Delaney

  * * *

  I copy and paste the note into Messenger. My finger hovers on the screen like it’s resisting me. But this is the right approach. I believe that wholeheartedly, even though my stomach nosedives the closer my finger gets to the send button. Nerves swirl like a tempest, trying to trick me into seeing him. Trying to fool me into spending a few minutes with him at a bar.

  I won’t give in.

  I hit send.

  I don’t look at my phone as I head into work. I don’t take a peek the rest of the morning to see if he writes back. Fine, I have back-to-back-to-back clients, and that helps.

  Still, progress is progress, and I can beat this desire by focusing all my energy elsewhere.

  Like on others.

  With a groan, one of my regular gals flops down on the massage table in the Rainfall Room. Faint sounds of ocean waves lapping the shore drift from the sound system. The scent of lavender wafts through the dimly lit room. Relaxation is always the goal, but for some it’s tougher than others, and Violet needs the full effect.

  “I’m addicted to my tablet in bed,” my raven-haired client mutters as she face-plants into the headrest. She says her words like a confession.

  As I adjust the sheet on her lower back, I tsk at her gently. “I’ve told you before, Vi. We need to break the nighttime tablet habit. It’s bad for your wing,” I say, then run my fingers lightly over her bare shoulder.

  “I know, I know,” she says, guilt in her voice. “My shoulder is killing me. I can’t help myself, though. I lie awake in bed at night, reading the news. I hate the news, but I can’t stop. And then my arm is extended the whole time, which makes my shoulder yelp in pain.”

  I reach for the lightly scented oil and drizzle some in my palm. “Can you make bedtime an iPad-free zone? What if you tried it for a week?”

  “I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “They say the first day is the hardest,” I tell her. “And it’s true. I’m trying to break the habit of thinking about my ex-boyfriend, and I was successful last night. If I can do it, you can do it.”

  Her face sinks deeper into the face rest. “I’ll try,” she says, and I can hear a soft smile in her voice. “Was it hard?”

  “Like catching a taxi in the rain. But then when you hail one . . .”

  “It feels like the biggest victory in the world,” she says, finishing the thought.

  “Exactly. And it was completely rewarding. And that’s why I know you can do it. It’s what your body needs. Treat your body like a temple and it’ll treat you with reverence,” I say, then she sighs deeply as I work on her shoulder and the rest of her knotted-up muscles for an hour.

  My next two clients keep me equally busy. One is waylaid with regular headaches, so we work on her neck, and the next suffers from scia
tic nerve pain. “Sitting is the new smoking,” he grumbles, as I try to give him some relief from the chronic aches that shoot down the back of his leg.

  “Then massage is the new ibuprofen,” I say with a cheery smile. “Let’s see if we can get you feeling better.”

  Ninety minutes later, he says he feels human again.

  And I feel proud that I barely thought about Tyler the entire morning. When I slip out for a quick lunch break at my favorite salad bar around the corner, I check my phone for the first time in hours as I walk down the block.

  My shoulders sag.

  There’s no reply from him, and I try to fight off a kernel of disappointment that takes root as I go inside.

  As I spoon arugula and jicama into a Tupperware dish I brought with me, I tell myself there’s no need to feel the slightest bit empty. I’m not at all bummed over the absence of a response. Since I said no to his offer, why on earth would I even think he’d write back?

  Except, I knew him as a man who fought relentlessly for what he wanted, who dug in like a Rottweiler with a bone. His tenacity was limitless. So if a guy like him didn’t reply, then clearly my toned-down rhetoric in my more tactful note was strong enough to ward off even his won’t-back-down approach.

  I smile to myself, pleased that I still have it in me to win a battle or two.

  I show the cashier my salad, and she weighs it, then subtracts a quarter since I brought my own container, though that’s not why I do it. It’s the same reason I fill my own water bottle from the tap—I don’t want to add more waste to the landfill after every meal.

  I grab a table and dive into my salad with gusto, enjoying the crunch of the fresh green beans. As I spear a cherry tomato, I open a new email to send my mom a cute shot of Nicole, Penny, and me from the other day. My mom is my rock, and she loves seeing pictures of my friends and me.

  When the phone bleats a second later, I swear it’s not me who nearly knocks her water bottle over in a mad rush to see who’s calling. That’s my evil twin sister sliding open the screen, cheering like a Sweet Valley High teen to see the number is a New York cell.