Escalation Clause (Stewart Realty Series)

by Crowe, Liz

  “I don’t wish to replace him, you know.” Rafe’s soft cadence startled her. Her eyes flew open and she stared at him. “Sorry. I just needed to say that.”

  She sat back, and let the utter surreal moment take her. She sent a text to both Ella and Adam telling them to eat leftovers for dinner. That she’d be home in a couple of hours. Then she observed Rafe’s strong, Romanesque profile wondering how in the hell her daughter would accept that she was dating the soccer coach. The memory of their one, brief but very telling encounter rolled through her, making her scalp prickle with the memory.

  Mo stared into the clear liquid in her cup, realizing about ten minutes too late the soccer dad who’d set her up with the drink had merely waved the tonic bottle over the cup of gin and sliced lime. She stared at her phone, the date blurring a little from a combination of way too much booze and the fact of the calendar number that blinked at her like a beacon of evil. Another anniversary of her husband’s violent death—come and gone.

  The girls were settled in a couple of rooms watching a movie after having soundly defeated both top-level teams that day. Just one game remained, standing between them and the state cup championship. The parents were in and out of various rooms, laughing, talking about soccer and getting steadily drunker. She shut her eyes, but the room spun, so she reopened them, and contemplated tossing the rest of the gin down the bathroom sink. But, at that moment, Rafe appeared in the doorway, and was accosted by several parents. Dads wanting to talk about the games, moms angling to flirt. She stared at him, watched his smile, let her eyes trail down the amazing terrain of his torso.

  His gaze met hers. She gulped the rest of the drink, hoping the juniper infused alcohol would calm the butterfly army in her stomach. He stayed at one end of the room, she the other for another hour or so. But her radar was up and every time he changed position she found herself drawn to him. Berating herself she stood, and nearly fell when the booze hit her brain. A hand grabbed her, eased her back to the edge of the table where she’d been perched.

  “I’m okay. I’m gonna call it.” Alarming tears hit her eyes making her blink. Various fellow parents eased in and out of her line of sight, but she made for the door. This date sucked. It always had and always would and no one understood but her. She needed air. She stumbled out into the hall and towards the elevator, trying to look sober as she wobbled into the lift. When she turned and took a breath, she saw Rafe stick an arm in, stopping the doors from sliding together. He stepped right in front of her then faced the doors, ignoring her.

  “Floor?” Someone tapped her shoulder.

  “Seven,” Rafe spoke before she could. She gaped at him. Her room was on the eighth floor. But when the doors opened at seven she followed him out, mesmerized in a wholly tipsy way by the curve of his ass, how his shoulders filled out the polo shirt, giving her just enough of a sense of the musculature beneath the fabric. She caught her foot on something, but as she started to fall, she realized it was nothing. That she’d simply had way more to drink than she should have. He grabbed her arm, eased her to the floor and leaned her against the wall in the hallway. He crouched down, his dark eyes like hypnotic pools of…. She knocked her head back against the wall as a clear shaft of agony hit her.

  “I’m drunk,” she heard her own voice, slurred and lame.

  “Stop that,” he put a hand behind her head to keep her from hitting it again. “Stay here.” He slid his key card and opened his door. She stared at the horrifically ugly pattern on the generic hotel rug until it started to blur. He reemerged, sat across from her, his long legs stretched out and handed her a water bottle. They’d been skirting the edges of flirtation for a couple of weeks. But she could not stop mourning. Her life consisted of moving forward, getting Ella and Adam to and from their schools, practice, events and then collapsing into a heap of tears every night, angry at Brandis, furious with herself for being so in love so early and railing at fate for taking him away. The fact that the very hot new coach, some kind of South American former super star import was fixated on her was a nice distraction but just that, nothing more.

  She gulped the water, which immediately went down her windpipe making her splutter. He leaned over and patted her back, then sat. The silence rolled around them, awkward and painful. She stretched her legs out alongside his. Her head kept pounding. He grabbed one of her bare feet and dug his knuckles into her instep.

  “Holy shit, ow, I mean… oh.” She sagged back, as the startled pain settled into pleasant relaxation. He grinned at her; lighting up his handsome face and making her bite her lip. Then, as he concentrated on her foot, the tip of his tongue stuck out between his teeth. She couldn’t help but smile. The more he worked at her foot, tugging her toes, rubbing his way up her calf, the hotter her face got. The tingling in her core took on a life of its own, making her squirm and pull her leg away as his long brown fingers moved up her thigh.

  He shrugged, grabbed her other foot and repeated the process. By the time he’d worked his way up that leg she was so limp she didn’t care. She opened her eyes, not realizing she’d closed them, at the definite touch of a fingertip to her bare inner thigh. She swallowed, watched him lean into her, run his hand up her skirt. She pulled away, flustered, angry and hornier than she’d been in years. “Um, sorry,” he sat back, adjusting his jeans. A terrifying cacophony of emotion deafened her as she stared up at the ceiling of yet another stupid hotel on yet another stupid soccer tournament weekend. Where the girls all had moms and dads to cheer them on except for Ella.

  They had still not exchanged more than ten words since leaving the room downstairs. Odd, since they’d had plenty of chats in the few months prior, talking late into the night. She knew more about him than she cared to, up to and including the failed marriage to a sexy former underwear model who now lived in California with some B-list movie star. “He’s a kid, Mo. Jesus H. Christ, you are an old lady. This is the worst kind of cliché. Don’t do it,” her inner voice chastised.

  She didn’t know if it was the booze, or her zinging libido, but she found herself face to face with him, on her knees in the hallway of the Marriott, kissing him before she even realized what she was doing. She licked his lips and then forced his apart. He made a lovely low noise in his throat and pulled her leg over his lap so she straddled him as their tongues tangled and hands roamed all over each other. She pressed against his erection, felt his hands slide up her waist and cup her breasts and allowed herself about three minutes of sheer erotic bliss. The sound of parental voices got louder as the elevator door opened. He grabbed her hands and jumped up pulling her with him, tugging his shirt out and over his zipper. She swallowed hard, waved to the moms and dads who shot her funny looks before heading in the other direction.

  He put his hand at her hip, placed a soft kiss under her ear, making her shiver and nearly collapse. But his whisper was practical. “Mi amor, you should go. Although…,” he nipped at the skin of her neck, pressed his tall, strong and definitely aroused self against her back. “I really don’t want you to. Let’s try this again, just not on a trip where everyone can watch, si?”

  She didn’t even look back at him. Just marched to the elevator, hit the right number and took the longest, hottest shower she could stand before falling into bed, every inch of her skin still tingling with longing. She was drunk, yes, but she was also in serious danger of falling deeply in lust.

  They shared a pleasant dinner at Prickly Pear, her favorite downtown Ann Arbor restaurant, sipping fresh margaritas and sharing the distinctive buffalo brisket tostadas. Mo relaxed and tried not to stare too frankly at his dark, handsome face. She settled for letting his full lips and flashing white teeth mesmerize her as he spoke. He kept up his end of the conversation, regaling her with stories from his days as a professional soccer player and how hard they worked to make everything look easy. The soft, accented cadence of his voice hypnotized her. When she looked up from her empty margarita glass, she found him staring at her expectantly. “Um, what?”
She asked, embarrassed to be caught not listening.

  “I asked if you wanted another,” he pointed to the glass.

  “Oh, no thanks.” She put it down, wiped her lips. “Sorry,” She sighed and rolled her shoulders. He gazed at her with those dark chocolate eyes, and the slow burn that had ignited the minute he showed up with flowers flickered again. She put a hand to her flushing face. Calm down, Maureen. He is only humoring you, taking on the challenge of the older lady with gusto, granted, but that is it. He tilted his head, his face curious, as if reading her mind.

  She had to clench her fists under the table when he touched the napkin to his lips to keep from reaching over and running her thumb over them herself. “So,” he said, picking up the string of whatever conversation he’d been having while she gaped. “Tell me about your day.”

  She launched into the saga and relaxed, letting his questions spur her to more details.

  “So these men, especially that pendejo site boss, they didn’t want to listen to you this morning?” He took a bite of his food. She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “No, they didn’t,” she mirrored him, chewed and swallowed as she processed the distinctly angry look on his face. “But I can handle it. Mrs. Perkins is going to fill me in on the gossip, so I’ll see what’s up his ass. Never fear.”

  Rafe put his fork down, kept his eyes trained on her. “Oh, I don’t fear. I just don’t….” He shook his head. “Never mind. Tell me more.”

  She laughed so hard tears streamed down her face. He looked adorably puzzled at her outburst. “Oh, God, sorry,” she fanned her face, tried to still the giggles. “You are worried about me, aren’t you?”

  He frowned, leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “No. I’m not worried at all. I just don’t think it’s appropriate for these…men…to disrespect you.”

  She sipped some water and let the concept of his concern hit her right in the chest. “Lo siento,” he said, and held out his hand on the table. She stared at it long enough to be embarrassed all over again then put hers in it. His touch made her shiver and forget everything but the heat of his skin. “I am too much a South American man. I’ll have to work on being more …what do you call it? Liberated?”

  He squeezed her hand and she wanted to drown in his eyes, jump in his lap and kiss him until her lips were raw. She gulped. “Oh, you can be protective. I’m used to it. My brother has been that way my whole life.”

  “Ah, yes, Jack,” He let her go and grabbed his water glass. She realized at that moment he was just as nervous as she was. Something about that made her release some of her tension. “We are meeting again this week. I have some ideas for his project. Not sure it will work, mind you, but I’m willing to help out if I can.”

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into his head with this damn soccer thing.”

  She sensed him relax into the topic, loved the contented smile he shot her and the obvious lessening of stress across his shoulders. “It’s addictive this soccer thing. I get it. I just don’t know if …never mind. I can tell it frustrates you, your brother’s obsession.”

  She shrugged. “No, I just think he has other things he needs to focus on. Like his marriage.” She nodded to the last bite on the plate they had shared. “Go ahead.”

  He picked it up, dredged it through the rich sour cream and put it to her lips. She smiled and took it. Her scalp tingled when his fingertips brushed her lips. “You are so beautiful, Maureen.” He touched her lip again, startling her, then drew back with a dab of the sour cream and put it in his mouth. She shut her eyes.

  “Stop it.” She said, opening them and glaring at him while her entire body zinged with erotic energy.

  “Sorry,” he said, as he threw some money down and stood up, coming around behind her chair. She was puzzled, until she realized he was going to pull out her chair for her. She blushed again, got to her feet and led the way out of the small crowded restaurant.

  Mo leaned against the door of her house and watched the complex play of emotions cross Rafe’s face. “No, I mean it. We cannot be more than friends. Surely you understand that?”

  When he looked away, she made the crucial error of touching his face. She had only intended to turn his chin back so he could face her but he clutched her hand, closed his eyes and yanked her close so fast she had no time to protest. She only brushed his lips with hers, and then turned her head. He put his hands on either side of her face and burned a hole in her soul with his stare.

  “Maureen, why do you keep resisting me?”

  She frowned, the myriad reasons why bouncing around in her head, leaving her speechless.

  “I mean it. I know you want this as badly as I do. I…I’m not what you think I am.”

  She crossed her arms putting a needed space between their too-close bodies. She simply could not go here with a…a kid. “And what is it that I think?”

  He stepped back, his face hard. “You think I’m a boy, something to humor. But, I am a man. I have been married. I’ve seen those puppet strings, as you like to say. I’ve been a professional athlete for years and know what it is to be treated like an object.”

  “I don’t,” she started but he held up a hand.

  “Friends, you say? Fine. Friends it is. But,” in a half breath he was back, looming over her, his lips less than an inch from hers. She didn’t move, just let him hold her another minute. “I want more. And I will prove it to you. You are too young and beautiful to be unhappy the rest of your life.” He kissed her lightly. “I respect you for honoring your husband. I won’t take that from you, not ever, but I can make you happy. If only you would allow it.” The press of his lips to hers was sudden, startling and urgent. She wrapped herself around him, let their bodies speak what their words couldn’t for a moment too long.

  “Mom?”

  He jumped back and she pushed herself away from the door in time to see Adam, his dark face confused, then understanding, then furious as he stomped over to her. “Mom. I just dropped Ella off for a sleepover.” His voice was low and accusing and made tears spring to her eyes. To his credit, Rafe stood, facing them both.

  “Adam,” he said.

  “Coach,” Adam’s voice was tight, and she knew he was clenching his teeth together, just as his father used to do when he was blind with fury. “I think you should go.”

  Rafe stood a little taller, and her admiration for him grew. “Adam, your mother is allowed to….”

  But her son put his hand up and looked away. “Spare me.” He stomped inside without another word.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched him go. “See?” She hissed, more pissed at herself than at Rafe but taking it out on him anyway. “See what I fucking mean? I can’t do this.” She shoved him away and followed her son inside, her chest on fire with anger, need and yet more God damned remorse.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lila stared out the window, chin in hand, leaning on the crib where her son slept. His eyelids fluttered, his arms jerked in some kind of baby dream. The daze that covered her consciousness for nearly a year, since the moment of horror she’d endured in the hospital, would not lift. Nothing she did, or Rob tried to do, would help. She put her head down on the rail, her hand on Gabriel’s small chest, needing the human connection to someone who loved her unconditionally.

  “Conditions!” Rob had yelled at her last night when she’d said as much. “What fucking conditions are there, Lila? Jesus.” He’d glared at her, shriveling her soul even further. “When you say someone who loves you unconditionally, you are implying there are some kind of conditions around us, around how I feel about you. And there aren’t. Sorry to burst your bubble.”

  He’d brushed aside her attempts to explain, ending the night once more in a whirl of icy, single-word conversation. She wandered out to the kitchen. The sleek stainless steel and granite room had been a refuge at one time, Rob’s second favorite space in the house as long as he could be there with Blake. She choked back tears at the thought of
him. It was unbearable, this grief. It pressed her down, smothered her, made her unable to eat, drink or sleep. And Rob was worse. Even after the calendar pages had flipped over nearly twelve times since the death of their beloved third.

  The connection they’d had was shattered into a million pieces. And she couldn’t seem to reconstruct it no matter how hard she tried. A tear hit the onyx colored counter top, shimmered there, mocking her. She wiped it off, got a glass of water, and resumed her vacant stare out the window.

  Her phone rang. She noted it was Sara, decided she couldn’t face talking to Blake’s sister at that moment, and ignored it. It rang again. Rob this time.

  “Yes?” Her heart pounded at the sound of his low voice. He sounded like he was at the bottom of a well.

  “I need your help. Can you get somebody to watch the boy?”

  She straightened up. She’d never known him to ask her help with anything. Between the three of them, when there had been three, she’d taken the house and yard caretaker role, loving it. Nothing made her happier than nice clean rooms, a tidy garden, a well-organized house. Lame. She knew it now. You could hire somebody to do that shit.

  “Um,” she cast around in her head for someone who could. “Why? I mean, how long do I need to be gone?”