Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  “All right,” I say. “Tell me about her.”

  “First of all, she’s extremely opinionated,” he says.

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “It is,” he says. “I admire that about her. We don’t really see eye-to-eye, but I respect that she’s willing to stand up for what she believes in.”

  I sit up straight, all ears. “Go on.”

  “Second, she’s beautiful. Like, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

  “Surely you’re exaggerating.”

  “Nope,” he says.

  Lara messages to let me know I’m blushing. Big time.

  “Anyway, the thing about this girl,” he continues, “is she doesn’t think we belong together. But all I want is a chance. We haven’t even tried, you know? How would we know?”

  I sigh. “Does she know this is how you feel? Or do you make it a point to ‘rub her the wrong way every time you see her’ … as you said?”

  I’ll never forget the first time we met. I told him I wrote a dating and advice column and he told me I was “doing the Lord’s work.” He then proceeded to tell me that nobody dates anymore, and that dating was just another word for hooking up.

  To say he rubs me wrong would be the understatement of the century.

  He chuffs. “That’s what we do. She gives it to me, I give it right back. It’s all fun.”

  “Is it?” I ask. “Is it fun for her?”

  “I’ve seen her smile,” he says. “She fights it, but it’s there. And I see the way she looks at me when she thinks no one’s watching.”

  I roll my eyes. Someone’s pretty sure of himself.

  “Ever think she might be laughing at you, not with you?” I ask.

  “She doesn’t want to like me,” he says. “But I think she kind of does. So my question for you, Bostyn, is how can I get her to admit it? And if she won’t admit it, how can I get her to at least give me a chance? All I want is one date.”

  My heart flutters so hard, I think I’m going to pass out. All these years, Locke has flirted with me and checked me out and cracked jokes about us being together—but I never took any of them seriously. In fact, I’m quite confident he treats all women like that… which was the very reason why I never wanted to take him seriously.

  “I don’t know, Caller,” I say, biting my lip. “This is a tough one.”

  He’s quiet, waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t know what to say. If he were some faceless stranger, I’d give him hope. I’d tell him to make it crystal clear that he wants to date her, and then I’d tell him to make some effort, show her he’s not what she thinks he is. But this is Locke. And I don’t want to date him.

  “You still there, Bostyn?” he asks. Every time he says my name, like it’s so natural for him, my knees weaken a little and I didn’t even know that was actually a thing that could happen.

  This is pathetic. I’m pathetic.

  I shouldn’t even be engaging in this conversation. The last thing I need to do is give him hope.

  “You’ll just have to ask her on a date,” I say in an attempt to end this call as quickly as possible. “Either she’ll say yes or she’ll say no. And then you’ll need to be at peace with whatever answer she gives you.”

  Locke exhales on the other side. I’m not sure that’s what he wanted to hear, and I’m sure he can sense the resistance in my tone.

  “All right,” he says. “Will do.”

  3

  Locke

  “Oh, my gosh! Joa can count to ten, did you know that?” Ayla squeals, clapping her hands as Joa bounces in front of her, drooling and grinning.

  “Yep,” I say. “I taught her.”

  “She’s so smart, Locke,” Ayla says, reaching for my daughter and pulling her into her lap. “And her hair. These mini pig tails. Did you do that?”

  I fight a smirk before nodding. “Yep. Watched a video online.”

  Ayla places her hand across her heart. “Seriously, Locke, I don’t know how some woman hasn’t snatched you up yet. This is the kind of stuff that melts hearts all over the world. And the two of you together? Look out, ladies.”

  Rhett rolls his eyes. “Let me remind you that although you bear the Carson name, you’re legally married to me.”

  Ayla swats her hand, rolling her eyes and facing Joa. “Don’t listen to Uncle Rhett. He’s just jealous because your daddy is a big time lady killer and he’s tied up to this old ball and chain.”

  Joa giggles.

  “I heard Bostyn on the radio the other week,” I say.

  Ayla turns to me, her lips pressed flat as she stifles a laugh. “Yeah. I, uh, heard you called in.”

  Smirking, I nod. “Yeah. Think I left her speechless a couple of times.”

  She lifts her brows. “Something like that.”

  “What’d she say?” I ask.

  “Girl code,” Ayla says, zipping her finger across her lips. “Can’t tell you.”

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  “Locke, this isn’t junior high. Just call her and ask her out.” Rhett shifts in his seat before climbing out and taking a spot on the floor next to the girls. Joa quickly abandons her aunt and flies into Rhett’s arms. He’s getting better with her—at least better than he was. He’s still a little awkward around kids, but then again so was I until she came into my life. I have no doubt that one of these days, he’s going to be an awesome father.

  “I don’t want to ask her out if she’s just going to say no,” I say. “I mean, I’ve got an ego of steel, but I don’t want to waste my breath.”

  Ayla sighs. She wants to tell me. She wants to spill it all, I can see it on her face, the way she’s pinching her lips and shifting her legs around. Ayla can’t sit still to save her life right now, and her gaze is darting from the floor to me and back.

  “I can’t tell you what she said,” Ayla says. “But I can tell you my personal opinion.”

  “And what might that be?” Rhett asks with a huff.

  “I think you’re going to have to prove to her that you’re not who you used to be,” Ayla says. “I’ve known you just as long as she has, and I’ve seen how you’ve evolved over the years. But she hasn’t. She only catches bits and pieces of you, small interactions. And I have to be honest, you’re always flirting super hard with her and when you’re not, you’re purposely trying to drive her insane for your own sick amusement. I can see how she might not want to date you.”

  “I’d have to agree with the old ball and chain on this one,” Rhett echoes her sentiments.

  “So just prove to her that you’re different,” Ayla says as if it’s that simple.

  “How? She won’t give me the time of day.” I slick my hands down the front of my thighs before leaning forward, exhaling.

  Ayla shrugs. “I don’t know, Locke. You’re a smart man. Figure it out.”

  I’ve never, in my life, had to chase after women. It’s humbling to say the least. And it’s terrifying. Rejection isn’t something I’m familiar with. And maybe that’s why, four years later, I still can’t get this woman out of my head.

  It’s like I have to have her, and I can’t rest until she’s mine.

  Exhaling, I drag my hands through my hair, tugging on the ends. Next time I see her I’ll ask her out. I won’t take no for an answer. And I’ll prove to her I’m not the guy I used to be.

  4

  Bostyn

  “Bostyn?”

  I’m three blocks outside the radio station when I hear a man say my name. Facing forward, I check my periphery. There’s a group of guys standing on the corner, their hands in their pockets chatting about something … probably sports. They’re probably talking about the Red Sox or something.

  Story of my life.

  My parents thought it was cute to name me after the city in which I was conceived, and they figured if they tweaked the spelling it’d be the perfect custom moniker for their little “souvenir.”

  “Bostyn?” The guy says my na
me again, only this time he sounds closer.

  I slow town and crane my neck to I can see who’s following me all of a sudden.

  “Locke?” I ask, stopping to face him. It’s not like I can keep going at this point. I’m not that heartless. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

  I check my watch. It’s just past ten. I’m shocked he’s not at home, cooing over his daughter like he always seems to be doing anytime I’m around. Part of me cannot comprehend how a man who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants could flip a switch and suddenly become Daddy of the Year.

  That just … doesn’t happen in my book.

  It has to be an act. A façade.

  Deep down, Locke Carson is still the man he always was. A richer-than-sin womanizing playboy with a ravenous sexual appetite. He’s a hunter, and he views me as prey. Extremely hard-to-catch prey, which only makes him want to hunt me more. I know this because … I know things. I studied dating and relationships in college. I wrote a column for one of the most popular women’s magazines in the country. I also wrote a bestselling book: How to be Single in a World Built for Two. Now I’m paid—quite handsomely—to dole out relationship advice.

  I think I know a thing or two about guys like Locke.

  “Got a sitter for the night,” he says, shoving his hands down the front of his jeans pockets. He’s wearing a baseball t-shirt, gray with hunter green sleeves that hit just past his elbow. It’s a far cry from the first night we met, when he wore a navy blue three-piece suit, diamond Rolex, and shoes that cost more than a month’s rent on the Upper East Side.

  My gaze trails down his arms, which are noticeably more defined than I recall. Has he been working out?

  I clear my throat and tighten my resolve. I’m not doing this. I’m not getting sucked into this mental vacuum where I fixate on how unfairly attractive he is with his thick, dark hair and Ralph Lauren model smile and those broad shoulders and that perfect height that makes me wonder if I’d fit just beneath his chin …

  I do every time I see him, and I know no good can ever come of preoccupying myself with this sort of thinking, so I silently chide myself.

  Locke smiles, dimples flanking his full lips and another centered in his chiseled chin. “You just getting off work?”

  My hand tightens around the shoulder strap of my bag, and I hold my head high. “I am. Just going home.”

  “You should come out with us.” He points to the group of guys standing behind him. “We’re going to grab a couple drinks.”

  I hesitate, not because I’m not sure what I want to do—I’m not going with him—I just don’t want to seem rude.

  “I only go out once a month these days,” he says. “Sometimes every other month. I don’t like leaving Joa with babysitters more than I have to. Call me a control freak.”

  Swoon.

  There. I swooned.

  His face lights up when he mentions his daughter, and I vividly recall a weekend we both spent at Rhett and Ayla’s a few months back. He doted on his daughter, waiting on her hand and foot. But when he wasn’t doting on her, he was using every excuse he could to strike up conversations which would inevitably always lead to an argument.

  It wouldn’t matter if Locke was my type—we don’t see eye to eye, and that’s a recipe for a disastrous relationship. You may as well fill us with helium and call us the second coming of the Hindenburg. We’d blow up and catch fire the second we’d attempt to dock.

  “By the way, please don’t call into the show again,” I say, while I have him here.

  His hand lifts to his chiseled chest and he feigns shock. “What are you talking about?”

  I roll my eyes and fight a smile. “Stop it. I know it was you the other week.”

  “I had a legitimate question,” he says.

  “No you didn’t. You were trying to make a mockery of what I do.”

  “No, it was legit,” Locke insists, his eyes holding on mine. “I want to ask you on a date.”

  My heart is racing, and I feel my face flush. All of this is happening without my permission.

  “But not yet,” he says. “You’re not ready.”

  I scoff. “What makes you think I’d say yes?”

  “You will.” He glances behind him, where one friend motions for him to come back and another hails a cab. “You should come with us.”

  I bite my lip. “I have a date tonight.”

  His face falls.

  “With my bed,” I add, giving him a wink. “Have a good night, Locke.”

  I don’t give him a chance to protest—I just walk away, feeling the weight of his stare on my backside.

  Suppose I did give in … suppose I did give him a chance … I would never, in a million years, give it away that easily. A man like Locke needs to work for it. He needs to feel my ambivalence. With every exchange we have, no matter how long or how short, we need to part ways wanting more.

  But all of that is irrelevant because I’m not giving Locke a chance. It doesn’t matter if my stomach takes a seventy-miles-per-hour free fall every time he flashes that dimpled grin my way or if he looks at me like I’m the only girl in the room. I’m sure it’s a skill he’s perfected over the years, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s like that with every woman he’s around.

  This is where women get in trouble. They read into signals and signs, making them into something they’re not. We should be scrutinizing them. Questioning motives and looking for underlying intentions.

  Locke Carson is a playboy who wants to get laid, therefore he makes women feel pretty and special and wanted.

  It’s that simple.

  And I’m much to smart to fall for that.

  5

  Locke

  “Hey, Carrie.” I slip inside the door of my apartment, where everything is dark except for a lamp in the corner of the living room. Joa’s babysitter rocks in a chair, reading a magazine, and she smiles when she sees me.

  “She went down a couple of hours ago,” Carrie whispers, slowly climbing out of the chair.

  “How was she?”

  “Perfect. As always.” She smiles the way I smile when I think of Joa.

  I met Carrie through a nanny agency several months ago. A retired public school teacher and mother of four grown children, she possessed the kind of down-to-earth good nature that made me think of the people I grew up around back home in Ohio. Just regular, salt of the earth people.

  I grab a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and hand it over.

  “You’re home earlier than I expected,” she says, folding it in half and tucking it in her jeans pocket. “Thought you’d be out until at least one.”

  “Just wasn’t feeling it,” I say, my mind traveling to Bostyn. Something changed after I bumped into her. She was headed home, and I was headed out, and suddenly going out didn’t sound as fun anymore. I just wanted to be home, in comfortable clothes, with my daughter asleep in the next room.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Of course.” I offer a smile and walk her to the door.

  “Okay, then,” she says, not believing me, I’m sure. “Just call me next time you need me.”

  “Will do.” I show Carrie out, then head back to the living room. Any other night, I’d be in bed by now, getting as much asleep as possible until my human alarm clock goes off just before sunrise. But tonight, I can’t stop thinking about Bostyn.

  Last time Rhett and Ayla were here, I made a silent promise to myself—to ask her out next time I saw her and to not take “no” for an answer.

  Fucked that up, didn’t I?

  Lifting my fist to my forehead, I pull in a deep breath and let it go. What the fuck is wrong with me? I was on the cover of Time fucking Magazine last year. The Wall Street Journal wrote an article about me. Entrepreneur magazine named me one of the hottest up-and-coming tech moguls this nation’s ever seen.

  And I’m going to let Bostyn Beckford prance away without so much as a fight? I’ve never backed down from a challenge unt
il her. And it’s been roughly four years now if me chasing after her and her not taking the bait.

  It stops now.

  Pulling out my phone, I dial her number, which I’ve kept safely stored since the weekend we shared in Philly at Rhett and Ayla’s a few months back. We were doing some sightseeing and the girls split off for a bit, and she gave me her number so she could call me when they were ready to meet up again.

  It’s shit like that that makes me think maybe Bostyn’s just been fucking with me all along—because why would she give me her number when Ayla already had it?

  God, I’m an idiot.

  Scrolling through my contacts, I find Bostyn’s name and give it a good, hard tap.

  By the end of the fourth ring, she answers.

  “Hello?” she asks.

  “Bostyn.”

  “Locke,” she says, further proving my point. If she really hated me, she’d have deleted my number from her phone shortly after that weekend. “What do you want?”

  “What are you doing right now?”

  Bostyn exhales into the phone. “I have my sweats on and a face mask. I’m drinking a glass of wine. And I’m watching a rerun of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.”

  “Sounds boring as fuck. Come over.”

  She scoffs. “No thanks.”

  “I’m serious,” I say. “I think we should talk.”

  “If this is just another one of your ploys, I’m going to stop you right there. I’m not interested. I’m sorry. And calling into my show the other day? Real cute. But it’s not happening, Locke.”

  “Cut the shit, Bostyn.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Stop pretending like you don’t look at me the same way I look at you.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. You’re extremely good-looking. Like, to the point that it’s unfair. So, yeah. You got me there. I think you’re hot. Busted.” She laughs, and I hear the phone shift on the other end. “But you could be the hottest guy on the planet, and I’d still turn you down because you’re a manwhoring jerk.”