Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  I fold my arms across my chest, the way I do when I’m about to lecture my art students when I feel like they’re not grasping the weight of my lesson.

  “Look,” I continue. “I spent the better part of today frantic and anxious and stressed and moody, and it got me nowhere. It did nothing for me. It is what it is and there’s nothing we can do but try to get the hell out of here as soon as possible tomorrow.”

  He sinks back in his chair and glances out the balcony window. “They better have us on a flight first thing in the morning.”

  Chuffing, I say, “Um, have you looked at the weather out east lately?”

  He pulls his phone from his pocket, his hand engulfing it, and drags his thumb across the screen a few times.

  “Well, shit.” His head tilts back in defeat as his hand falls against his jeans, landing with a clap.

  “I’m checking out first thing after breakfast,” I say. “I’m renting a car, and I’m driving home.”

  “That’s stupid.” He frowns. “You’re going to drive almost three thousand miles instead of waiting for the weather to clear?”

  “You sound like my sister.” I exhale, rolling my eyes. “I’ve done the math. Three days of driving thirteen hours a day. I’ll be home by Saturday.”

  He shakes his head. “You have to figure in bathroom breaks, gas, food stops. You might be driving thirteen hours a day, but it’s going to be fifteen hours of traveling. Minimum. And you’re not accounting for traffic. And what if you get tired and can’t do thirteen?”

  Lying back on the bed, I fold my hands across my stomach and stare up at the ceiling, groaning. “I know you have some valid points, but I’m also determined to do this, and basically anytime I have my mind made up about something, there’s pretty much no talking me out of it.”

  “Don’t let me stop you from being a dumbass,” he says, scoffing.

  “Yeah, well, I’m going to be home in time to see my sister give birth and you’ll still be sitting around Seaview twiddling your thumbs and waiting for the storm to pass so you can hopefully find a flight out of here.”

  “Give it a day or two. There’ll be a flight.”

  “This storm’s supposed to last another two, maybe three days. By the time Saturday rolls around, the storm will be gone and the roads will be cleared,” I argue. “Besides, I can’t sit around and wait. I’ll go stir crazy. I’m serious. I can’t sit still and do nothing. I just . . . can’t.”

  I glance at him, watching him sigh as he lifts his hands behind his head and stares, dead-eyed, ahead.

  “I’m going to make the best of this,” I elaborate. “This is going to be a little adventure. I’ve never road-tripped across the country before.” Rolling to my side, I cup my hand under my jaw and say, “I’m probably the most adventurous person you’ll ever meet. Just so you know.”

  His dark gaze flicks my way, and the corner of his mouth pulls up just a hair. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Oh, look, you can still smile,” I tease. “I was worried you lost that ability down in the lobby.”

  His expression fades. He’s probably not in a mood to be messed with, but I don’t care. I’m not spending the next fifteen hours holed up in this hotel room with a six foot three, male model version of Grumpy Bear.

  “I think I liked you better at the airport, when you were trying to hit on me,” I say, though I’m merely trying to get a rise out of him.

  “I wasn’t hitting on you.”

  “Bullshit,” I cough.

  “If I was hitting on you, trust me, you’d know.”

  “Mm hm.” I rise, grabbing my suitcase and tossing it on the bed.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” he says.

  “Do what?”

  “You shouldn’t put your luggage on the bed,” he says. “In case of bed bugs. That’s how they come home with you. They climb into your suitcase and your clothes and . . .”

  “Fine.” I yank it down and sit it on a nearby table. This guy is like a wealth of Pro Life Tips when it comes to traveling, and it’s kind of annoying. “Better?”

  He doesn’t answer. He’s still in a mood. Must be his time of the month.

  That’s a thing – male PMS. It’s actually called Irritable Male Syndrome.

  My sister, Delilah, has her masters in social work, and she’s taken several psychology classes, and she verified that some men suffer a drop in testosterone during certain times of the month. It’s cyclical. So basically men have a time of the month and it causes them to be irritable jackasses that nobody wants to deal with.

  Unzipping my bag, I pull my toiletry pouch from a side pocket and fish out my toothbrush, toothpaste, and some makeup. Shuffling to the bathroom, I freshen up because judging by the state of my haggard appearance, I’ve definitely seen better days. When I’m finished, I return to my suitcase and pull out a black dress I’d packed just in case. I waited a full hour and fifteen minutes to get this thing back after I’d checked my bag earlier. For a brief moment, I full on panicked. Lost luggage would’ve been the cherry on top of this shit sundae, but thank God, it didn’t come to that today.

  “Where are you going?” he asks like he’s my father. All he’s missing is the kind of mustache that would make Tom Selleck green with envy.

  “It’s New Year’s Eve,” I say with a shrug. “I’m going to treat myself to some wine and a nice steak dinner, and maybe some free champagne if I’m feeling saucy.”

  “Alone?”

  Turning slowly to face him, I nod. “Right. Haven’t you ever had dinner alone?”

  “Hundreds of times,” he says, expression bored. He may as well be polishing his nails on his shirt pocket.

  Maybe I’m being rude here. Maybe he has a funny way of fishing for an invite.

  “You want to come with me?” I ask.

  He stares off to the side. “No.”

  Flinging my dress over my shoulder, I return to the bathroom and shimmy into it. Combing my fingers through my hair, I pile my hair on top of my head and twist it into a loose bun. A slick of red balm on my lips finishes the look. Fishing a pair of heels from my bag, I toss them on the floor and step in.

  “Last chance . . .” I say, grabbing my purse and checking that I have my room key. “Sure you don’t want anything?”

  “Not hungry.”

  “Okay.” My voice is a barely audible whisper as I head for the door.

  Funny how our personas have completely flipped a la Freaky Friday. Maybe when we wake up tomorrow, I’ll be the bitchy one again and he’ll be trying to charm his way into my cold, dead heart.

  This is nothing more than an adventure, I remind myself as my heels scuff along the carpet a moment later. The light above the elevator indicates it’s several floors above yet and still traveling down. Pressing the call button, I clasp my hands in front of my hips and wait.

  Several seconds later, the elevator dings and the doors part, and a man with inky black hair, crystal blue eyes, and a deliciously wicked smile steps aside to make room.

  “Good evening,” he says with a quick flash in his baby blues. His jacket is a deep shade of blue, and as I step on board, I spot the four gold stripes on his shoulder and a winged badge on his lapel that identifies him as Captain Conrad. “Going down?”

  3

  Cristiano

  I haven’t moved in hours, and maybe it’s pathetic, but I’m sitting here like a pissed off lump, thumbing through my phone, looking at all the pictures and posts my friends back home are flicking up every ten seconds.

  It kills me that I’m not there. My body heats up, flashes of powerless jealousy washing over me. I can almost hear them laughing, clinking glasses, toasting to the bride and groom’s future together and making memories that I’ll never be a part of because I’m stuck here.

  Joey’s been my best friend since we were ten, and I’m so supposed to be there. In Jersey. With all our friends.

  Instead, I have the good fortune of being stranded in Seaview. I’d spent the la
st month hanging out with my oldest brother, Alessio, and his new wife, Aidy, in Malibu. One of my friends from college moved to Seaview a couple years ago, so I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. Come visit him. Fly home from here. The flights were cheaper coming out of here than LAX anyway. Nothing but budget airlines nobody’s ever heard of.

  Worst. Decision. Ever.

  And I’ve made plenty of bad ones in my day.

  My stomach growls, but I’m too pissed off to eat.

  I check the time. Daphne’s been gone for over two hours now. Deep down, I know she’s right. This whole thing is what it is. We can’t change it. We have to think of it as an adventure. And I, of all people, should have no problem doing that because I came out of the womb with an appetite for adventure.

  It’s just hard to shake that powerless, trapped feeling that washed over me the second I heard them say our flight had been canceled.

  For the first time in years, I just want to go home.

  I need to go home.

  Forcing myself to stand, I head to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face and take a good look at myself.

  It’s New Year’s fucking Eve.

  I’ll be damned if I sit up here all night alone and feeling sorry for myself.

  Stripping naked, I hit the shower and begrudgingly decide to haul my ass to that party downstairs.

  A pianist in a penguin suit plays an instantly recognizable Frank Sinatra tune on some makeshift stage in the Hixson ballroom. Dozens of small crystal chandeliers hang from the extra-tall ceiling and guests dressed in varying interpretations of formal wear dance and chat, champagne flutes in hand and carefree smiles on their faces.

  “Champagne, sir?” A young male server balances a plate on his flat palm.

  I take a flute and mouth the words, “Thank you.”

  I scan the party crowd a bit more, gaze landing on a dark corner of the room where a man and woman sit with a flickering candle between them. Staring harder, their outlines grow clearer, and I recognize the one on the left as Daphne.

  The man on the right has something on his sleeve. Squinting, I can’t quite make it out from all the way over here, so I move closer, navigating through the thick crowd. As soon as it comes into focus, I realize he’s an airline pilot. A captain no less. And he showed up to this party in full uniform.

  Fucking douche.

  He just wants to get laid.

  I sip my champagne, observing the dog and pony show going on before me. The asshole laughs at everything Daphne says, reaching his hand across the table and finding every excuse to touch her. He sweeps hair from her face. Places his hand over hers. Scoots his chair closer. His attention is laser-focused on her, like she’s the only woman in the room, and she eats it up like this is the first time anyone’s ever used that trick on her before.

  Psh.

  The pilot points to her champagne flute and she nods. He lifts it with ease, so it must be empty. He excuses himself, flashing her a devilish smile, and walks off, and I use this opportunity to steal his spot because I’m an asshole like that.

  “That was qui-” Daphne freezes when she realizes it’s me and not Mr. Sexy Pilot Pants. “Cristiano, what are you doing here?”

  Tossing back a sip of champagne, I cross my legs and lean into the chair, making myself comfortable.

  “Never mind what I’m doing here,” I say. “Can we talk about what’s happening here?”

  She scrunches her nose, balking.

  “Please tell me you’re not seriously considering fucking that douche tonight,” I say.

  Her arms fold across her chest. “I’m not sure how it would be any of your business.”

  “It isn’t.” I shrug. “I’m just saying, he came here to get laid. He set a trap and you walked right into it. I don’t know you, Daphne, but I’m pretty sure you’re smarter than that.”

  She refuses to look at me. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “He’s wearing his pilot’s uniform to a New Year’s Eve party for god sakes,” I say.

  “Maybe he’s stranded like us and it’s all he had.”

  “You mean to tell me pilots don’t carry a spare change of regular clothes in those little suitcases they wheel through the terminals?”

  Her gaze flicks to her right. “He’s coming back. Stop talking.”

  “Daphne,” the pilot says when he returns, placing their filled flutes on the table. We make eye contact and I give him a wide smile that more or less says, “I dare you to fuck with me because I’m onto your shit.”

  Daphne’s stunned expression leads the pilot to immediately move closer to her.

  “Everything okay?” he asks. “Do you know this guy? Is he bothering you?”

  Her lips part and her gaze travels between the two of us.

  “He’s staying with me,” she says to him.

  The pilot steps back, his posture straightening like he’s suddenly reassessing the situation. He still holds two champagne flutes in his hands, and my gaze focuses on his left ring finger, where a lily-white tan line practically shines in the dark where his wedding ring should be.

  “I don’t know him, know him,” she says. “I just met him today.”

  The pilot snorts, offering an insecure smile as his gaze passes between us. “Look, you seem like a nice girl and all, but I’m not into that kind of . . .”

  “No.” She rises, her hand splaying across her chest. “It’s not like that. That’s not what I meant. And he was just leaving anyway.”

  She motions for him to come back but he continues moving away, his face wearing the phoniest apologetic smile I’ve seen in my life. Leaning back in my seat, I’m sure I’m beaming with pride because mission fucking accomplished.

  She’ll thank me later.

  “You happy now?” She hunches forward, giving me the evil eye as soon as the pilot’s out of sight.

  “Exceedingly.”

  Rolling her eyes, she lifts a brow and says, “I hope you didn’t cock block him because you wanted me all to yourself, because I can promise you that’s not going to happen tonight. Or ever.”

  Scoffing, I fight a smile and lean in. “You’d be so lucky.”

  “Are we done here?” She rises, slipping her bag under her arm and scanning the area. I hope to God she’s not looking for that asswipe.

  “No,” I say. “Sit down.”

  She flashes me an incredulous glare and keeps her feet firmly planted, completely disregarding my request for her company.

  “Daphne,” I say. “Sit.”

  “I’m not a dog.”

  “Clearly.”

  “What do you want? You don’t even know me and you’re acting like a crazy, jealous boyfriend. I’m starting to regret taking you in off the streets today.”

  Chuffing, I rise. If she won’t sit with me, then I’ll stand with her. “First of all, I’m not the crazy, jealous type. Second of all, you took me in off the streets because you stole my suite. The suite that I reserved.”

  Her arms fold along her chest and she pulls her shoulders back, nose lifted. “And is there a third?”

  “Yes.” I clear my throat. “You should be thanking me right now.”

  “For what?” Her face is pinched.

  “That pilot you were about to fuck was married,” I say. “Or did you not notice the indentation on his left ring finger?”

  Daphne glances to the side, and I watch her expression change from angry to confused. “I didn’t look at his finger.”

  “Yeah, well, I did.” I shrug, boasting like a proud asshole. “Anyway, maybe you’re into screwing married men. I don’t know.”

  “I’m not,” she says with a sigh. “But I wasn’t going to fuck him. For the record, I wasn’t.”

  “Mm hm.”

  She smacks me across the chest. This girl has balls. “Just stop, okay?”

  “Stop what?”

  “Gloating,” she says, re-crossing her arms. “And stop following me around. And stop trying to i
ntervene with literally everything I’m doing. I can’t get away from you. And you’re kind of a know-it-all, which annoys the hell out of me, but you’re also extremely attractive and those two things put together confuse the hell out of me.”

  Inhaling, I let her words marinate for a bit. I suppose, from the outside, it seems like I’m following her around. I’m not. I understand her concern, but if she was truly that concerned, I doubt she’d have offered to share her suite with me.

  “I get that you’re pissed about being stranded,” she says, “and you were probably bored up there in that room all alone, but coming here and ruining the perfectly enjoyable evening I was having is beyond shitty.”

  Our gazes meet, but I can’t get a read on her. It’s like she’s sad and angry and confused and maybe even slightly . . . turned on? Her chest rises and falls and her full, bee-stung lips are slightly parted.

  “I didn’t know he was married, Cristiano,” she continues. “On my life, I didn’t. And I wasn’t going to screw him. I just thought it’d be nice not to have to spend New Year’s alone. He was funny. And he had so many incredible stories because he’s traveled all over the world. Do you know how rare it is to meet someone like that? Someone who’s traveled to all the places I want to go? Someone that’s slept under the Eiffel Tower and climbed Mount Kilimanjaro? We were just talking . . . as new friends . . . having a nice time. And then you showed up.”

  Her gaze falls to the floor and she turns her face away. I don’t care what Daphne says or how she spins this, that pilot wanted to fuck her. And who wouldn’t? She’s beautiful. Long legs, platinum blonde hair, full lips and baby blues. Everything about her is perfection from the tip of her pointy nose to the subtle sway in her hips when she walks.

  “Guess I’ll just go up to the room,” she says. “Happy fucking New Year, Cristiano.”

  4