“I like that. Good luck.”
We amble along the sidewalk, sometimes bumping into each other, but I keep my hands completely to myself like a good boy despite the fact that I want to touch her every time I look at her.
“You asked me once why I broke up with my last boyfriend,” she says, exhaling like she’s nervous. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I guess I felt kind of bad blowing you off. Now that I think about it, you seemed genuinely curious.”
“I was.”
“The last guy cheated on me,” she blurts, her heels scuffing on the concrete as she stares blankly ahead. I let her soak in the silence for a second, not wanting to give an immediate reaction because that would seem trite. “So did the guy before him. And the one before that.”
Her chin tucks against her chest, and she tucks a stray strand of hair behind one ear.
“Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to be a so-called ‘relationship guru’ but you can’t pick a boyfriend to save your life?”
“It’s not you.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s us. It’s men. We’re like that. And we’re really good at pretending we’re not.” I realize I might be dogging myself out here, but I hope she listens. “You were right about me—about the old me.”
She’s quiet.
But I mean it. Had we dated four years ago, I’d have used her and tossed her to the side. She was a hot piece of ass, and I was horny as fuck. The city was an all-you-can-eat-buffet of gorgeous women, and at the time, none of them seemed to satisfy my appetite.
It was never them.
It was always me.
“I thought I knew how to differentiate between the good ones and the bad ones,” she says.
I scoff. “It’s not like you’re picking a piece of fruit, Bostyn. Sometimes the perfect-looking ones are rotten on the inside. And you don’t know that until you taste them.”
“You know what’s wrong with dating today?” She straightens her spin, her fist clenched in the air and her eyes narrowed toward the distance.
“What’s that?” I ask, chuckling.
“Nobody’s honest about anything anymore. We’re all just trying so hard to be what we think the other person wants,” she says. “And we work so hard at it that we forget who we are, which means, at the end of the day, we’re not honest with ourselves. And if you can’t be honest with yourself, how can you be honest with someone else?”
“It’s like one vicious circle.”
“Exactly!” She turns to face me as we walk, placing her hand on my arm before letting it go. “You get it.”
“I agree.”
She smiles before exhaling, and I catch a whiff of her sweet perfume as it travels on a warm breeze.
“When you find someone who’s willing to be real,” she says. “One hundred percent real …”
“You have to lock it down,” I finish her thought.
“Right.” Our eyes meet. “I’m sorry I wasn’t real with you before, Locke. You were just … so attractive … and so annoying … and everything I try to stay away from for a myriad of reasons … and when you wanted me … and I thought maybe I might want you too … it scared me. No. It terrified me. So I pushed you away without giving you a chance.”
I smile. “I know.”
“I was a huge bitch to you. And for that, I’m sorry.”
I glance up at the building to my left, and then I stop. She seems confused for a second until she realizes we’re standing outside her apartment.
We stand facing each other, the sidewalk filling with a group of tourists taking photos outside a landmark café on the corner. The city no longer belongs to just the two of us, and neither does the night.
“I had a nice time with you tonight,” I say.
Our eyes hold for a single endless second, and if I wasn’t so restricted by her rules, this is where I would kiss her. This is where I would slip one hand around her waist and the other in her hair. This is where I would press her back against the brick wall of her apartment and give her a kiss that would rival the very first one we shared four years ago.
“This is where I leave you,” I say, and she nods in understanding.
After all, these were her rules for tonight.
“Goodnight, Locke.”
“Goodnight, Bostyn.”
13
Bostyn
“Hi, if you’re just tuning in, this is The Single Girl’s Guide to Love and Dating, and I’m your host, Bostyn Beckford,” I say into my microphone Monday evening. “Before we take any calls, I want you guys to do one thing. I want you to take all the books I’ve written. Go on. Go grab them. I’ll wait for you … okay, you have them? Now I want you to throw them in the trash. Next, I want you to grab a match.”
I glance across the room to a flailing-armed Lara. She’s scowling, mouthing something along the lines of, “What the fuck are you doing?!”
I hold up my finger.
I’m not stopping.
“Ladies, I was wrong. Dead wrong. Everything I told you before? About playing hard to get? Forget it.” I swipe my hands across the air. “Forget everything I taught you. Girls, we’re starting from scratch here. We’re going to navigate these waters together.”
Lara’s hands on on her hips. As my producer, nothing irks her more than when I go off-script or off the neatly planned schedule she lays out before me each night.
“I’m sorry, my producer is shooting death stares my way. Let me explain what’s going on here.” There’s a chuckle in my tone, though admitting I was wrong hurts—physically hurts—especially to the tens of thousands of listeners tuning in live at this very moment. I glance at my screen, pulling up my Twitter and Facebook and watching the mayhem unfold as fans ask each other what the hell is going on. “I had a date the other night. An amazing, perfect, beautifully magical date. And you know what I did? You know what made it so beautiful and amazing and magical? I looked at this man—this man I’d rejected for years—and I decided to drop the act and just be myself. I did what I always tell you guys not to do: I opened myself up completely. I was honest with him. I told him things I’d never told anyone. And in return? He opened up as well. And we discovered we had more in common than we realized. Or at least I did. Maybe he kind of always knew because he was the one chasing after me all these years.”
I mute the microphone and grab a drink of water. I’m going to need my voice to be as clear as possible, because this message I’m conveying tonight needs to be heard and understood.
“Ladies, no more games. It’s exhausting isn’t it? Always trying to be one move ahead?” I sigh. “Dating is not a game of chess. They are not lions and we are not cheetahs. I was wrong.”
My chest squeezes with those words, and yet I’ve never felt so weightless.
“I was wrong,” I say it again, this time with more conviction. “We have to stop letting fear—fear of rejection, fear of getting hurt, fear of whatever—keep us from happiness.”
Lara’s all but pounding on the glass, but I’m doing my best to ignore her.
This is more important than the verbal lashing I’m going to take. Besides, what is she going to do? Fire me? I’d rather lose this job than rake in all these pretty pennies by pushing the kinds of things I no longer believe in.
I don’t want to be a phony.
I want to be real.
We need more realness. More honesty. More truth. There isn’t enough of it anymore.
“Anyway, guys, this guy and this date … it was a life-changing experience, and I don’t say that to oversell you on anything. I mean it. I literally sat down on Sunday and spent hours wrapping my head around all of this,” I say. “For four years, I rejected this man for reasons that, truthfully, are rooted in fear. Think of all the happiness I’ve missed out on? And for what? Because I was scared?”
Lara sends me an instant message that reads, “TAKE A CALL RIGHT NOW. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.”
“Okay, we’re going to take
a call. I’ll get back to this in a little bit,” I say, clicking on the call button. “Hi, Caller. What’s going on?”
“Hi, Bostyn,” she says, her voice vaguely familiar. “I called the other night. Last week. About the guy at work and how I played too hard to get?”
“Yes, I remember.” I remember how she hung up on me too.
“I just wanted to apologize,” she says. “I’m still a huge fan, but I was disappointed, and I shouldn’t have called your advice stupid. Listening to you say these things now, I realize you’re just like us. You’re human. And you have the same wants and desires and fears, and you only ever meant well.”
I place my hand on my beating heart, my chest expanding. “Thank you. That means so much to me. I appreciate you calling in.”
“You know, I don’t think there are any right answers when it comes to this stuff. It’s all so complicated.”
“You’re so right. Dating in the twenty first century is extremely complicated.” And pretending I have all the answers? I’m not doing anyone any favors. Not even myself. “Thanks for calling, love.”
Lara tells me there’s a second caller on line two.
“Let’s take another call,” I announce. “Caller two, hi. You’re on the air with Bostyn Beckford.”
“Bostyn.” It’s a man’s voice. His voice.
“Yes?” My stomach swirls, and I get that sensation—like I’m at the top of the biggest hill on the tallest, fastest rollercoaster, seconds from taking the plunge. “What’s your question, Caller?”
“My question, Bostyn,” he says, carefully, drawing in a deep breath and taking his time, “is … did I leave you wanting more?”
I smile, blushing and grateful that Lara’s the only one who can see it.
“Yes, caller,” I say, pressing my lips together and fighting the world’s biggest grin. “You left me wanting more.”
“So I can see you again?”
“Yeah.” I rest my chin against my hand and my elbow against the desk. I want to know what his kisses feel like, his non-drunk kisses. I want his hands on me. His whispers in my ear. I want to watch him dance with his daughter and carry her on his shoulders. I want to laugh with them. I want to lounge around in sweats and force him to binge watch Real Housewives on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I want to meet his parents. In the blink of an eye, I realize I want it all. And I want him. “You can see me again.”
14
Locke
“I hate being wrong.” Bostyn stands on the other side of my door late Monday night. She must have come straight here after her show.
“Shh … Joa’s asleep,” I whisper, pulling her in. “I love being right.”
She smiles, and I slip my hands around her waist, pushing the door closed with my foot. We amble backwards, until I have her pressed against the wall, and when our eyes meet, there’s a silent understanding.
I’m going to kiss her.
And she’s going to let me.
For the first time since I’ve met this woman, we’re finally on the same page.
“This has been a long time coming,” I say, keeping my voice down. “I’ve waited a lot of years for you to come to me.”
“You have,” she says. “But I hope it was worth it.”
“Not a doubt in my mind,” I say, bringing my mouth closer to hers.
“But answer me this,” she says, head tilted. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you keep fighting for me and chasing after me all these years? I was horrible to you. And you were horrible to me. I don’t think the true versions of ourselves officially met until the other night. How could you possibly know I was worth all this trouble?”
I bite my lip, concentrating as our eyes hold. “Because you’re smart. And you don’t settle. And you know your worth. They don’t make ‘em like you, Bostyn. Trust me. I’ve been around the world long enough to know that’s true. I struck gold meeting you.”
She blinks slowly, her lashes kissing the tops of her cheeks as she lets my words sink in.
“That and you’re crazy hot,” I add. “That helps too.”
She smacks my chest playfully, but I catch her by the wrist and pull her tighter against me. A moment later, I cup her cheek in my hand and crush her lips with a kiss four years in the making. Somewhere between tender and fierce, hungry and satisfied, our lips meet, settling into the perfect cadence.
Bostyn’s body melts against mine, and I hold her close.
“I’m never letting you go,” I whisper, my lips grazing hers.
“Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Let’s take it slow,” she says. “I want to savor this. Something tells me this is going to be unlike anything the two of us have ever known.”
My lips press against hers again, a quiet promise of sorts, and I nod.
“I promise,” I say.
—
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For my husband. Ours is the most priceless adventure of all.
xoxo
Winter
Description
One cancelled flight.
Two stranded travelers.
Three thousand miles in a car together.
Four nights until the truth is revealed.
Trekking across the country with an alluring stranger was certainly one of the more adventurous moments of my life. Falling for him was certainly one of the most daring. But uncovering his secrets? That was the most challenging. And the truth I learned . . . would shatter us both.
1
Daphne
I’m pretty sure wine is the only thing that is going to save me today.
Or one of those tiny bottles of vodka they give you on the plane.
And at this point, I’m willing to save a little time and drink it straight: no mixer, no chaser.
Checking my watch, I mentally calculate that I’ll be on my flight in less than an hour, biting my nails until we take off and the in-flight beverage service comes by.
Shoulder to shoulder with grouchy holiday travelers on New Year’s Eve in a small, southern California airport isn’t ideal, but my twin sister, Delilah, called me this morning, frantic and telling me the doctor thinks she’s going to go into labor any day now despite the fact that she’s not due for two more weeks. She was spouting off a bunch of things about centimeters and contractions, all the while sounding
like a crazy person. I tuned out the part where she discussed the current state of her cervix in great detail and tuned back in just in time to hear the panic in her voice when she realized there was a good chance I might not make it home in time.
“I’ll be there,” I promised her at the time. “No matter what. I’ll move heaven and earth. I won’t miss it. Don’t worry. Just keep your legs squeezed together really, really tight.”
She laughed at the time, but I still heard the worry in her voice. Our oldest sister, Demi, will be there, and obviously Delilah’s husband, Zane, but being twins, we’ve always done everything together. We’re impossibly close. And it would break my heart not to be there.
Glancing around the crowded airport, I scan the length of the line before me. At least eight people wait ahead, and the woman currently congesting this process seems to have her shit strewn out on the tile floor, rearranging items and shoving her giant hair dryer and moving several hardcover Stephen King books from her checked bag to her carry-on.
Sighing in commiseration with my fellow travelers, I watch as she zips her bag and hoists it back onto the scale. The face of the Jet Stream airways attendant says it all, and the woman begrudgingly yanks her bag away and attempts to reconfigure her baggage situation once more.
It’s safe to say we’re going to be here a while.
Out of pure boredom, I take another gander at the folks in line behind me. It appears I’m in the company of predominantly baby boomers and parents with young children who aren’t having any part of this travel stuff. I’m guessing all the people my age are wisely out living it up, ringing in the new year with cheap champagne and bad decisions.
God, I was hoping I’d get a chance to make a bad decision tonight.
Cold Hearted Page 25
