“What the hell is your problem, Nate?” she yells at him. “You have no right to say that to her, especially since you are the man-whore of the East Coast. What could you possibly know about having a good relationship?”
I look at my best friend in awe of her brashness, the hypocrisy of what she has said is not lost on me, but I have to smile as she defends my honor.
“You don’t know shit, Emma!” He slams his drink down. I’m getting pretty tired of being splashed with drinks tonight.
“Hold on there.” Graham puts a hand on his friend’s chest to hold him back. “I think now might be a good time to call it a night.” He looks at me apologetically as he motions for the waitress to come over.
Graham settles the check and we all stand up and go out the door quietly and in single file. I thank Graham for dinner and head over in the direction of Emma’s car to give her and Graham some privacy. Nate follows me.
“Hey, I’m sorry about that. A lot of things have happened since back then, Brooklyn.” He holds out his hand to me and I stare at it as if it might burn me. “Come on, friends?” He looks at me with that smile I haven’t seen since that night. The one that reaches his eyes. The one I thought was just for me.
Since this will be the last I ever see of Nate Riley, I put my hand out to shake his. He takes it as he looks into my eyes. When our hands touch there is a familiar spark of electricity shooting through me and I’m seventeen again. He stares into me for a long minute while he rubs his thumb on the back of my hand. He must feel my scar and he brings my hand up into the light. “You got injured,” he says, tracing the scar carefully. He meets my eyes again. “We all have scars, Brooklyn. Some are simply easier to see.” He leans in and pecks me quickly on the cheek and then walks away.
Confused as hell, I wave to Graham and quickly climb into the passenger seat of Emma’s car to await her. What just happened? He was a jerk the entire night until just now. Maybe he is bi-polar or something. All these years of wondering what happened to him and here he is, whoring all over North Carolina. Then he is talking to me about scars. What scars, the ones on his wrist? His tattoo? I’m not sure how to process this information.
Emma slides into the driver’s seat and looks over at me. “I am so sorry. We should have left when he walked through that door. He is such an asshole.” She leans over the stick shift to hug me.
“I love you Emma, but I will not be doing that again. Ever. If you want to see Graham, you can go on your own and I’ll stay at the hotel.” Maybe I can book a plane ticket home.
“I will do no such thing. I dragged you here. We are going to go out and have fun. I’m not leaving you. I can just eat lunch with Graham at the conference.” She looks sad and I’m not sure if it’s because I am hurt from seeing Nate or because she won’t be seeing Graham as much as she wanted to. Probably both.
“I don’t want to ruin this for you. I can see you really like hi—”
“No way, Lyn. I’m not leaving you alone. We are Thelma and Louise, remember? Well, except for killing someone and robbing a store and driving off a cliff.” She laughs. “Although, I came awfully close to killing someone tonight.”
“Okay, you’ve piqued my curiosity. Let’s go order up some drinks and watch us a movie.”
~ ~ ~
Back in our suite, Emma orders bar service and I head into my room to call Michael at the hospital.
“Hey sweetheart.” He picks up on the first ring. It is so good to hear his voice. I admonish myself at how I could possibly let another man get to me. Michael is my life, he is my future.
I start to choke up a little. “Hey Michael, can you talk for a minute?”
“Lyn, what’s wrong? You sound sad.”
“Nothing, I just really miss you, that’s all.” Nothing—there’s another word that, just like fine, can mean the exact opposite. The problem here is that men tend to take women so literally. When we say nothing is wrong, they move on, when we say we’re fine, they are freaking dandy.
“I miss you, too. Did you have a good time today?” I can hear the smile in his voice.
Did I have a good time today? Uh, let’s see, today was probably the worst day of my life since junior year of high school. And that includes the day my six-year-old cat, Wiggles, got run over by a car. “It was fine.” I mentally smack my forehead. “The conference was huge and there were a lot of cool design displays. I can’t believe Emma knows how to do all that stuff.” Why am I not telling him? I tell him my plans for tomorrow when she is at the conference and he reminds me to be safe when I’m running in new surroundings.
“Lyn, I have to go, there is a new kid being admitted right now. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay, I know. Just text me later if you can.” I learned pretty early on with Michael being a doctor that sometimes, a lot of times, he has to go and go quickly and that for the time being, I get put on the back burner. That is fine with me. I think. I mean, he is saving lives and all. It’s not like he is cutting me off to go draw a stupid sketch of a building or something.
“I will. I love you, Lyn. Have a good night.”
“Love you, too.”
He hangs up and I hold onto the silent phone a little longer, wondering why I didn’t say anything.
I hear some voices in the living room and go out to see Emma thanking someone for our drinks, all four of them. I think I heard her ask him to bring more in an hour. Geez, drink much?
“How’s Michael?” she turns to me, handing me one of the Cosmos.
“Huh?” I squeak about an octave too high.
“Michael. You called him, right? What did he say about you seeing Nate? Did he freak out? I bet he asked you to come home, didn’t he?”
“What?” I don’t meet her eyes while I slurp my drink and move over to the couch.
“Oh my God, you didn’t tell him, did you?” Her eyes widen. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Uh, I guess I just didn’t want him to worry about me. I don’t see the need to upset him when I’m going to be gone all week. He needs to concentrate on his work. I’ll tell him when I get home and he can see that I’m okay.” I’ll be okay by then, right? “Plus, I’m never going to see Nate again so it really is no big deal.”
She narrows her eyes at me and takes a drink. “I guess that makes sense. You know we can talk about it if you want to, right?”
“I know, and thanks, but I’m done talking about Nate Riley. Let’s just please watch this movie so I can figure out who the hell Thelma is.”
Chapter Four
My eyelids flutter and struggle to open against the early morning light dancing through the heavy curtains in my room. I think I’ll sleep a little longer; after all I don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn and start baking today.
Why am I so warm? Then I smile as I feel Michael run his hands over my stomach and up to cup my breasts. He has his leg draped over both of mine, holding them captive and is moving his hands in a sensual way I’ve not felt before. He is paying special attention to my nipples. Pinching, tugging, running his thumb around each stiff peak, sending little shock waves down to my core and turning me on in a way I’ve never experienced. Mmmm, that feels good. A moan escapes my throat.
“Oh, baby, let me hear you,” he says.
Wait . . . that’s not Michael’s voice! I stiffen and in a millisecond, my mind goes over the events of last night and the five . . . no, six Cosmos I had with Emma. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, what did I do? I look down to see the top of a dirty-blonde mess of hair just as my nipple is being sucked into his hot, wet mouth. I try to ignore the incredible sensation rippling through my body as I attempt to process what is going on and what the ramifications might be.
He looks up at me with those deep blue eyes and that magnificent smile, the one that is only for me, and he says, “Brooklyn, I’m leaving you.”
I blink down at him. Leaving me?
“Lyn . . . Lyn . . . Brooklyn, I’m leaving now.” I snap awake and frantically l
ook around the bed, under the sheets and behind Emma who is now looming over me with a very confused look on her face.
“Lyn, are you okay?” she asks. “We got a little carried away last night with all the drinks.” She puts a bottle of water on the night stand. “I thought you could use this.”
Still coming out of my haze I’m not sure if I’m relieved that it was a dream or disappointed that it was.
What? No. Of course I’m relieved it was a dream. I would never cheat on Michael, especially not with someone who thinks he is God’s gift and goes through girls as quickly as most people go through a pack of gum.
Then I discover the horrid taste in my mouth. It is bad. Like something actually crawled in there and died. I silently thank God that there really is nobody in bed with to me to breathe in the nasty smell that must be coming from me right now. Then there is the slight pounding at my temples to top it off. I swear off drinking. Yes, yes, I know I’m fooling myself but I do it anyway.
I pull the sheet up over my mouth and tell Emma, “Thanks for the water. I’ll be fine. Go have fun at your conference and I’ll see you later.”
“I ordered breakfast if you can stomach it. Some toast and cereal, I figured you couldn’t do much more than that.” She twirls around in her floaty skirt that may be a few inches too short of professional and says, “How do I look?”
One thing I know about Emma is that she never asks anyone, not even her best friend, if she looks okay. I always thought it was because she was so confident, or maybe because she simply didn’t care what other people thought. Now I wonder if it was because she just didn’t have anyone interesting enough to care about looking good for. I’m not sure how to deal with this new side of Emma. I wonder if I should call her out on it or merely go with it and see what happens. I decide on the latter and say, “Emma, you look gorgeous and he will want to eat you for lunch.”
Her eyes widen and she doubles over in laughter.
I blush and say, “I didn’t mean. Um . . . I didn’t say that—”
“I know what you meant. God, you are adorable sometimes.” She turns to leave my room and shouts back on her way out, “Text me if you need anything. Bye!”
I practically chug the bottle of water she left for me and then I lie back on the lavender-scented hotel pillow and contemplate the dream I just had. It makes sense. I did just see Nate yesterday after all these years. I was bound to have some kind of subconscious reaction to him. The thing is, I swear I could feel him. I could feel the heat coming off him. I could feel his hands on me. It was so real.
I need to go for a run. Yes, that will help clear my head. I get out of bed and pad over to the en-suite bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I look like I feel. Death warmed over. I put my dark hair in a messy bun, splash water on my face and wash off last night’s mascara that now makes me look like the walking dead. I have two more glasses of water, brush my teeth and then head out to the living room for a light breakfast.
Feeling a little better after some toast, I throw on my running clothes, grab my pack and go downstairs. I head out the back door of the hotel where there is supposed to be a nice running trail. It looks to be a beautiful day with a bit of a morning chill that will make for a good run. I sit down on a patch of grass to stretch out before heading off. I’m not always that great at remembering to stretch before my runs, but I figure with the damage I did to my body last night, I’d better not push my luck today.
After a few minutes I get up and strap my pack around my waist. It is a pack that Michael insists I wear whenever I go for a run. He personally put it together for me. It consists of a bandage, antiseptic wipes, an emergency contact card, a small bottle of water and of course my phone which also has my music. I can almost hear him say, ‘Don’t turn it up too loud or you won’t hear your surroundings. You can never be too safe’. That’s my Michael, always the caretaker.
I push the pack around to my backside and pick up the pace as I think back to the first care package Michael ever gave me. It was two days after I met him in the ER.
“Delivery for a Miss Vaughn?” a teenage boy said, walking through the front door of the shop. He was carrying a gift bag with a Mylar balloon attached to it. The balloon had a picture of a large Band-Aid across it.
“That’s me,” I said, all excited to get a delivery that looked like it didn’t have anything to do with the bakery. I thanked the kid, letting him pick out a cupcake to take with him and sat down to remove the contents of the bag.
“What is it?” Kaitlyn came over to see what I had laid out on the table before me.
It was a care package complete with sanitizing wipes, new sterilized bandages, anti-bacterial gel, latex gloves, cream for reducing the appearance of scars, and instructions on how to use all of the contents. But what really impressed me were the Band-Aids he included. They had pictures of little cupcakes on them. And when I turned over the paper with the instructions, on the back side was Doctor Michael’s name and cell phone number with the handwritten words . . . ‘House call included with care package. Please call to set up a time.’
I thought it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done and I took the leap and called him that very afternoon.
I find my stride as I run through the lovely grounds of the hotel and adjoining park. I admire the beautiful oak trees that line the trail. They make it seem like I’m running down a tunnel with streaks of light peeking through the heavy branches. As I make my way through the trail that winds all the way around the back of the convention center, I start to wonder if he is in there. Is he pushing another tall, beautiful blonde or redhead up against the wall? How many of them has he handed his business card to? Most likely with his cell phone number and maybe even a hotel room number printed on the back. I wonder what he does with them. Is he gentle like he was with me or is he rough and dominant? Does he even take the time to get to know them like he did with me? Maybe that is his MO, he makes you think that you are the only girl for him and then once he has what he wants, he leaves you broken and tattered.
Snap out of it, Lyn. I reach around to my pack and turn up the music, hoping it will drown out these ridiculous thoughts. I pass by a few vendors selling coffee and pastries and the smell has me thinking about Brooklyn’s and how I hope that Kaitlyn is managing okay. I must remember to call her as soon as I get back, after her morning rush.
I’m lost in my thoughts, mentally going through the inventory I need to order when I get back on Friday when I spot him. At first, I simply see a guy stretching out on the grass up ahead. Good looking, yes, but that body in those tight running shorts with a t-shirt slung over his shoulder makes me envy the grass he is sitting on just a little. Okay, a lot.
My heart is already beating quickly with the pace I’m keeping but I swear it increases to Mach Two when my eyes meet his and realization dawns that this is the very man that was in my dreams a short hour ago.
Oh God, don’t trip, don’t trip. It takes all my strength to keep my eyes front and center on the pavement in front of me and to run right past him without so much as a wave or tip of the chin.
What is he doing here? It takes a boatload of willpower not to turn around and look to see if he is behind me. I know that he is. I can feel it. Crap. What do I do? Should I stop running and lay into him . . . do I keep going as if I didn’t see him . . . do I act like it doesn’t bother me that he is here? What if he runs here every morning? He did say that the hotel has a great running trail so maybe this is just his beat. This is purely coincidence, nothing at all to do with me being here.
Just as I’ve convinced myself to do nothing and pretend he isn’t running behind me, looking at my ass jiggling all over kingdom come, I see out of the corner of my eye that he is coming up to run beside me. I can also see out of the corner of my eye that he has a huge smile on his smug little face.
This running trail is a pretty wide trail, about the size of a golf cart path, bigger than a regular sidewalk but smaller than a one lane road. And keepin
g with Running Etiquette 101, I must stay to the right side of the trail to allow oncoming runners their own space. I can’t very well distance myself from him without breaking this rule and I’m nothing if not a rule follower.
I slow down and he slows down with me. I increase my pace in hopes that he will get the hint but there he is right alongside me, step for freaking step. I keep this up for about a mile, but at the pace I’ve set I am getting a serious side stitch and I can’t keep going without the possibility of another public vomit session. I slow down to a walk and then head over to a large grassy area. I walk around in circles for a minute and then I succumb to my exhaustion and sit down on the damp grass. All the while he is just staring at me with a big grin.
“What?” I practically scream at him and he holds his hands up in defense. “Are you stalking me? Were you just going to wait here all day? Don’t you have a conference to go to?”
He walks over and sits down a couple of feet from me. “Well, in no particular order, I’m not stalking you but I did want to talk to you today and I remembered that you like to run in the morning. And, yes, I’ll probably hit the afternoon sessions but I hate these conferences. I only go because my dad wants me to try to drum up more business.”
I vaguely remember he said his dad was an architect. He must work for him. I decide not to ask about his dad or his business as that might seem like I’m interested in conversation, which I’m not. I settle for, “How exactly do you know I like to run in the morning?”
“Back in high school, I would see you run the track every morning before school. The baseball team had some morning practices and you were always there. It didn’t matter if it was freezing cold or raining, you always showed up. I was impressed.” He takes off his shirt again, throws it over his shoulder and stretches his arms over his head.
Holy God, look away. He may attract every single lady within eye-shot but this isn’t going to work on me. And there is that tattoo again, on his right bicep. I dare not stare at it but it looks like script that goes all the way around his arm. The script is printed over the outline of something on the underside of his arm but I can’t make it out.
Be My Reason Page 6
