by Alison Ryan
Ellie dreaded sounding forward in any way, saying or doing anything that might make Patrick reconsider whatever direction their budding relationship was going, but she had to know.
“Patrick, can I ask you sort of a personal question?”
“Anything. Please do.”
“OK, well, I just want to know, I’m curious . . .”Fuck, Ellie, get it together, “Why isn’t there a Mrs. Patrick Sievert? Or is there? Or do you have a girlfriend or something? I mean I don’t know how all this works, besides meeting a few authors at book signings and growing up with my dad and, like, people who would be on the local news or something, I’ve never met anybody as famous as you are. And you have money and you must have, I don’t know, would they be called ‘groupies’ over here? I just want to make sure we’re on the same page, or even in the same book?”
Patrick was silent but for some small splashing movement of water Ellie could hear in the background, and Ellie was sure she’d pushed too hard, that he’d hang up or laugh at her. The blissful relaxed look on her face had been replaced by a scrunched up countenance, full of worry, as she waited to hear Patrick’s voice again.
“Do you ever listen to George Strait?” If Patrick had replied by listing the moons of Jupiter, his answer couldn’t have come from any further out in left field.
“I know a few of his songs,” a puzzled Ellie responded. “But I’m not a huge country fan, really. I’m more into pop music.”
“I want you to bring up a song on your phone if you can find it. It’s by him, George Strait. It’s called ‘I Can Still Make Cheyenne,’ or some such. Play it. Listen to it. I’ll listen with you. Then we’ll talk about it.”
Ellie was completely baffled, but she did as Patrick asked and brought up the song, closing her eyes to absorb every word.
By the time the song reached the second stanza, tears stung Ellie’s eyes. She didn’t need Patrick to explain it, but she craved his voice, craved him, felt so close to him, having shared something so personal.
“Ellie? Still there?” Patrick asked.
If the hotel were burning down around me I wouldn’t leave this tub or hang up this phone, Ellie thought.
“Yes, Patrick, I’m here. That song was so sad, but so beautiful. Thank you.”
“That song really speaks to me. The same way the bloke in the song has given his life to the rodeo, even beyond his wife, his family, sometimes even his happiness, he doesn’t know anything else, doesn’t know how to stop, how to let anything interfere with his passion for the rodeo. It perfectly describes my career, my pursuit of football. Our season goes the better part of nine months. Past that, as I’ve gotten older I have to train harder, longer, to keep up with the lads. My commitment has to be so complete that I miss out on things most people take for granted. A girlfriend. A dog. Kids. I often wonder if, when I hang up my boots for good, if I pile up all the accolades, the trophies, whatever fame and money comes with this life, if I stack all of that up, can it possibly replace the real stuff, the chance to have real happiness, lasting happiness? Am I doing this because I don’t know what else to do? So when you ask me if there’s a girlfriend, or a Mrs. Sievert . . . no. Besides my mother, there’s no Mrs. Sievert.” The last few words came out choked. Making himself so vulnerable seemed so silly, went against who he always was, a stoic. He didn’t know why he was doing it, but at the end he was near tears, but also filled with not a small amount of relief.
Ellie was floored. She sat soaking in a tub in a hotel in Glasgow, listening to the most perfect man upon whom she’d ever laid eyes, completely spilling his guts to her. Whose life was this?
“I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you! Patrick, that’s so . . . I’m speechless. I wish I could hug you through the phone!” Ellie instantly regretted the last sentence, but it just came out. It couldn’t be unsaid. She was, again, ready for Patrick to put up the stop sign.
“I’m taking a rain check on that hug. Next time I see you, I’m cashing it in, love. Don’t try to get out of it, either—verbal contract!”
Ellie exhaled a held breath and imagined being hugged by Patrick, a genuine, loving hug, warmer than the tub she was in, imagined what it would be like to be swept up in his powerful arms. Nothing could touch her there, nothing could hurt her, and, it seemed to her, it was where she was meant to be.
“Let me ask you this—are you locked in to leaving on that flight Friday? I mean you aren’t expected to rush to the office when you land or anything, are you? Could you possibly push it back a day? It would cut into your weekend, I know you’ll need the weekend to adjust to the time difference and everything, but if you could stay an extra day I could show you around London or what little of Glasgow I know. Or do you have a hot date planned for Friday night back in the States?” Patrick waited nervously for her response.
Ellie laughed. “No, the only hot date I had planned for Friday night was with Maisie. Work shouldn’t mind if I push the flight back a day, as long as they have a seat for me, I’ll try to make it work.”
“If you’d like, I can have somebody from my agent’s office arrange it. May I do that? Anything to make it easier for you,” Patrick asked.
Maybe your agent could put in a call to my boss about transferring me to the Glasgow office while you’re at it? Ellie thought to herself. The whole business of agents, press conferences, and jumping back and forth across the Atlantic Ocean was so silly to Ellie, who just last weekend was sharing bad Chinese takeout with her beagle while watching hours of Bravo.
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble, but if you’re sure I wouldn’t be interrupting anything, I think I could afford an extra day over here if you wanted to do something,” Ellie offered.
“Ellie, I’ll take care of everything if you’ll let me. I haven’t done this in quite a long time, I don’t want to insult you by offering to pay, but whatever you decide you want to do, as my guest in the UK, please let me be a good host. Just tell me what you’d like to do on Thursday night or Friday or whenever you have time for me and we’ll do it, OK?”
“The UK seems a big place to explore in a day, but you’re the expert. I’m supposed to check out of here Friday morning.” Ellie replied.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll have Tom’s office get you sorted out. Ellie, I hate to seem rude, but this bath has me knackered. Tired . . . sorry. What I mean to say is if I don’t get out and into bed soon, I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep in here and shrivel up. The maids will find a prune in the morning.”
“Not rude at all. I’m exhausted, too.”
“I’ll text you tomorrow when I know something. Sleep well.”
“Good night, Patrick.”
Patrick was quickly out of the tub and into bed, not long in falling asleep. Ellie, on the other hand, was energized. She still had gnawing doubts that any of this was real, that she wasn’t the victim of an elaborate practical joke, but the prospect of spending an entire day with Patrick Sievert was too good to pass up, too wonderful a dream not to throw every penny she had into a wishing well if it would somehow come true.
Just then, her phone rang. Meg.
“’Ello, hen,” Ellie answered, putting on her best British accent.
“Hen?” Meg replied. “Whatever. Tell me everything. How am I supposed to live vicariously through you when you don’t call, you don’t text, you don’t Instagram. I mean come on, all work and no play makes Ellie a dull girl! Or a dull hen, or whatever you are. Who cares, just tell me about Scottish boys and Scottish beer. Give me something!”
“There is a cute Irish guy named Ian who I’ve been working with. Or maybe he isn’t that cute, but the accents here are killing me. You’d be in heaven. But, Meg . . . Patrick. Remember the guy I met on the plane? I just got off the phone with him. We’ve been texting and talking.”
“SHUT. UP. Stop it! The guy you had me look up? How drunk are you right now?” Meg asked.
“I’m stone sober. I know it doesn’t make any sense, i
t’s ridiculous, silly, whatever, but he’s calling me. He’s texting me. I feel like I’m in a movie or a Nora Roberts novel or something. He wants me to stay an extra day here. He invited me to stay an extra day and wants to take me to London or show me around Glasgow or whatever I want to do.”
“I’m hanging up now. I must have dialed the wrong number. Or some doppelganger has replaced my best friend. Did you give him like the best head of his life or something? You slut!”
Ellie laughed.
They both laughed.
“No, it’s not like that at all. I haven’t even seen him since the airport. Meg, he’s so handsome! He has, and I counted them, twelve gray hairs on the left side of his head. It’s so sexy. And just this perfect amount of stubble on his face. And I know I told you about his eyes, but it’s just everything, the way he moves, and the way he walks . . .”
********
“There’s something so sexy about the way she walks. It’s not even a walk, she sashays, and she swings her hips, all slow and sexy.”
The smooth voice of Shelton Guyer laughed into the phone from his balcony overlooking the Gulf of Paria on the west coast of the island of Trinidad. “You like her backside, eh, hoss? The Mad Monk is no more! I knew you had some Trini blood in you!”
“She definitely has a nice bum, Shelt. She has a nice everything. But it’s more than that. I can’t stop thinking about this girl,” Patrick replied.
He’d been asleep just a few minutes when Shelton rang him up, anxious to hear how negotiations had gone with Celtic. Shelton had news of his own, his agent had a promising lead on a club in Portugal, which fit the criteria the striker was seeking—a warmer climate and plenty of Euros.
After comparing notes regarding professional prospects for the upcoming season, Patrick dropped a bombshell on his best mate.
Something Shelton Guyer hadn’t heard Patrick Sievert say since their days together at Furman.
“I’ve met someone.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wednesday was a busy day for both Ellie and Patrick.
The extra work Ellie’s team put in on Tuesday was for naught as their workload increased after Irishman Ian took another of their associates, Helen, out to the pub after dinner. Neither showed up for work in the morning, instead dragging themselves into the conference room together nearer to noon, coffee cups in hand.
Patrick suffered through a press conference and individual interviews in the morning, including one he prayed Ellie wouldn’t watch, hosted by a local B-list celebrity, Diana Weir.
Diana had been a reality television “star,” part-time bikini model, occasional singer, and full-time fame whore. She was dragged out whenever sex appeal was deemed a spice necessary to the success of a dish one of the Glasgow networks had in the oven, and Scottish tabloid television had its sights set squarely on Celtic’s newest signing, the city’s newly minted most eligible bachelor.
More than six feet tall in heels, the brunette bombshell sauntered over to Patrick practically spilling out of an obscenely low-cut cocktail dress, and the entire interview was conducted as if Diana had been sent to seduce, rather than converse with, Patrick.
When the lewd leaning in, touching, and breathy tone of voice got to be all too much, Patrick excused himself from the proceedings. “I’m not comfortable with the direction this interview is going. I have a girlfriend, this isn’t appropriate at all.”
Removing the microphone from his collar and rising to leave, the enormity of what he’d said stopped him in his tracks. He turned back to the clearly surprised Diana and opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. He’d said it, it had been captured on film, it was probably already on YouTube, there was no way around it.
Once the press junket concluded, and Patrick “no-commented” his way through a series of questions aimed at gleaning the identity of his mystery girlfriend, he was able to touch base with his agent, Tom, who had good news.
He’d arranged her flight back to be bumped back a day, to Saturday, and upgraded her ticket to first class. He’d also had her accommodations for the final two nights of her stay switched from the Marriott to Patrick’s luxury hotel, the Grand Central. In a separate suite, of course, although Patrick hoped two rooms wouldn’t be needed.
He couldn’t wait to give Ellie the good news, but he was also wrestling with how to explain the whole “girlfriend” comment.
In fact, Tom had closed their conversation with his own snide twist on things. “So, when do I get to meet the future Mrs. Ellie Sievert?”
********
Mr. Perfect has a girlfriend, El
Ellie read the text from Meg and watched the video from the link her friend forwarded, furrowing her brow at the sight of the tramp interviewing Patrick by thrusting her fake boobs in his face and using every excuse she could to put her hands on him.
When the video ended with Patrick’s “I have a girlfriend” line, Ellie was torn. Part of her saw it Meg’s way, that she’d been played, that some fitness model or duchess was waiting back in London for Patrick, but she still held out some desperate, infantile hope that she, Ellie, was the “girlfriend” Patrick was referring to.
Did you see the way that skank was all over him? He just wanted to get away from her, Ellie replied after multiple viewings of the video.
Yeah, guys hate having hot girls in tight dresses rubbing themselves all over them. He looked miserable, Meg answered.
You don’t know Patrick
And you do??? After three days? Come on, he just said he had a girlfriend. Do you really think he’s turning THAT girl down for YOU? You have two more nights in Scotland. Hook up with that Ian guy you told me about and forget the soccer stud, Meg suggested.
Ellie felt the familiar sting of tears, something she’d gotten much more used to than smiles when the subject was men. She was torn, not sure how much emotional capital she should invest in a British pipe dream, whether or not he looked like a GQ cover model.
I’ll be careful. Promise. Love ya! Ellie replied, stuffing her phone down inside her bag and turning her attention back to work.
********
Dinner was Pakistani takeout with her coworkers as they went over paperwork and compared notes on the day. A group, led by the incorrigible Ian, were bound for the pub, but Ellie demurred, wanting to get home for a head-clearing soak in the tub and a few chapters of Carson McCullers.
“You’re off the hook tonight, lass, but you’ll be coming with us tomorrow. Your last night in Glasgow you’re getting bolloxed with the rest of us, Ellie. If we have to drag you to the pub with us!” Ian shouted down the street behind Ellie, inspiring laughter from the rest of the group following the Irish Pied Piper out for another night of beer and whiskey.
Ian was cute enough, his brashness and brogue bumping him up a few notches in Ellie’s eyes. If Meg were here, she’d be all over him, Ellie thought, waving good-bye to her new friends as she rounded the corner toward her hotel.
A short walk and an elevator ride later, Ellie entered her room, only to be stopped in her tracks.
She backed out into the hallway to verify the room number, but the room was hers.
Covering the dresser, the desk, the bathroom counter, virtually every flat surface, were flowers. Vases of all shapes and sizes, petals with colors that spanned the rainbow. Blossoms of every variety. Tulips, daisies, carnations, rhododendrons, daffodils, and roses—oh, the roses!—in shades Ellie didn’t even know existed.
She tossed her bag onto the bed and began to laugh. A silly, blissful laugh . . . pure joy.
She began taking inventory of what appeared to be the shrapnel from an exploding flower shop, but after fourteen vases, she gave up, fell back on the bed, and just inhaled as deeply as she could.
She checked her phone, but aside from a picture of a pouting Ian next to an empty barstool, she had no new messages or missed calls.
She walked the room looking for a card among the floral cornucopia, finally finding a small yellow enve
lope nestled among some petunias on the desk.
I didn’t know which flowers were your favorite, so I just went ahead and had them all sent over. Cheers, Patrick.
Ellie was floored. Any seed of doubt Meg planted earlier had withered and died. The smile on her face was that of a child on first viewing the bounty under the tree on Christmas morning. So big and broad her jaw was actually beginning to ache.
She stared at the card, prose more beautiful than anything she’d ever read.
She wanted to speak to Patrick, but more than that she needed to see him. In person. To look into those eyes again, to be swept up in his arms.
She took the best picture she could, filling the frame with as much color as possible, and sent it to Meg, sans caption. The next picture she took, of the card, was all the explanation her best friend could possibly require.
Ellie quickly showered and went through her suitcase, hoping that somehow a brand new, flattering dress and perfect shoes had appeared there, gifts from the Flower Fairy. Alas, just the humdrum wardrobe she knew would be there, leaving her precious few options.
She settled on a sky blue maxi dress with chevron patterns in darker shades of blues and purples, with a white cotton shrug. It was clingy in all the right places, showing off her best assets as well as anything she’d packed, and after a bit of primping she thought she looked as close to her best as she was going to look. She let her hair fall naturally, in dark curls and waves.
Patrick, I just can’t decide which my favorites are. Do you think you might be able to come by and help a damsel in distress?
Ellie hoped her text set the right tone, playful, flirty, and not too forward. A Meg-style booty call wasn’t her intention, although inviting a man to her hotel room could be interpreted as such.
