With a loaded cup of ice cream in each hand, she gestured toward a long, narrow table tucked up against the street-side windows. "Stay or go?" she asked.
It was another late evening for us and the streets were dark. After this morning's spectacular turn of events, I wasn't going to complicate matters with walking and eating. I pulled out a chair for her. "Stay," I said. "Then we can go."
She dropped into the seat, letting out the tiniest yelp of pain when her backside met the hard plastic. I had a mess of thoughts about that. First and greatest—fuck yeah. I was the one who left her sore, I was the one who could draw a topographical map of her ass from memory, I was the one who knew how to make her scream.
Next up came the questions. Would she let me under that raincoat tonight? Would she let me taste her tonight? Would she let me keep her tonight?
"Dude, you gotta sit down," Stella hissed. "It looks like we're doing some kind of lady and her manservant role-play. That sounds fun but for someone else."
I yanked a chair out and sat. "Someone you know?"
"I'm willing to bet my boss plays lady-and-the-manservant every night. I bet he's the one keeping her wig in such great condition." She handed me a spoon as she laughed. "Listen, I'm not going to yuck all over her yum but I'm comfortable saying it's not for me."
I was wrong about not needing to touch her. Whatever I'd been thinking a few minutes ago was incorrect. I didn't have the patience or strength necessary to be this close to her without touching her. I'd waited months—yeah, that one was on me—and I didn't want to wait a second longer. I motioned toward her legs and then patted my lap. "Come here, sweet thing," I said.
"Don't mind if I do." She leaned back and settled her legs on me, her ankles crossed. "Careful, Cal. I could start to expect this every night."
"Careful, Stella," I replied. "I could start offering every night."
I glanced up from her legs at the moment her smile flattened, her dimples disappeared. Her eyes flashed dark. She stared at me, pointing with her plastic spoon. "It's always the nice ones. They're the most trouble."
I dragged my fingertips up her calf to the tender space behind her knee. "Is that how it goes?"
She met me with a wide-eyed nod. "Mmhmm. The bad boys have hearts of gold and the rebels just want to be understood. The nice ones though, they show up and cause all kinds of trouble."
"I don't know," I hedged. "I seem to recall you enjoying all kinds of trouble last night."
Bobbing her head from side to side, she replied, "That's where the nice ones nab you. They reel you in with the good-boy manners and complete absence of douchebaggery. Everything is fabulous until you realize you brought a throw pillow to the office because your ass hurts and you've seen him two nights in a row despite your personal commitment against agreeing to back-to-back outings." She drew a checkmark in the air with her spoon. "That's how the nice ones nab you."
I stared at her a moment, not sure which thread to pull first. She didn't make a habit of seeing the same person on consecutive evenings. That was an interesting nugget. Then there was the entire analysis of nice guys and our faults. Our penchant for nabbing otherwise hard-to-get women. I was starting to see Stella as just that: hard to get. It wasn't a prop so much as the set she'd chosen for herself.
If the past two days proved anything, it was that Stella wasn't nearly as unattainable as she wanted me to believe. And I was holding on to that interesting nugget.
I waved toward her seat. "I'm sorry you're uncomfortable today."
She scooped up a bite of black raspberry, smiling. "I know. You're a good guy. You give a shit about how I feel and you want to make it better when things are bad." She ate that spoonful of ice cream and went hunting for another. "You also want to destroy me on every solid surface in your apartment and meet my parents and build particle board furniture on your day off, and that's why you're trouble."
I couldn't square the circle she'd drawn for me. I was missing something here. "Try the chocolate," I ordered, pushing the cup closer to her. "Then explain why any of the things you just said are problematic."
She reached for the cup of chocolate ice cream and passed the black raspberry to me. "Don't you want to talk about sports?"
I narrowed my eyes at Stella, frowning. "I'm sorry, what?"
Still focused on the chocolate, she said, "I can talk about sports. I can tell you about the players I've met and the games I've seen. I can talk about coaches and stadiums and unusual team rituals and the best place to get a beer in dry counties in the South. I have thoughts on pro football and the changes we're going to see over the next decade as well as some of baseball's more asinine rules and reasons why women's basketball isn't getting the attention it deserves despite being the best game around." She set the cup down and looked up at me. "I can talk about all these things. We don't have to do the personal details and heavy emotional stuff. We don't have to do any of this."
I slipped my palms down the outside of her legs, pausing at her ankles. As far as talocrural joints went, hers were lovely. "Would you like to hear about the hearts or lungs I've fixed? I have thousands of photos of them on my phone. I can tell a damn good surgery story. Or I can talk about the hospitals I've worked in or the ones I've visited to observe or instruct."
Stella glanced out the window at the passing cars on Charles Street. "I think your profession is crazy impressive and I can't imagine how hard you've worked to reach this level in your field," she said, her words tipping into that serene tone I'd come to think of as her publicist voice. I wasn't sure whether she lapsed into it consciously or it had become as natural as a second native tongue. But it was clear she did it when she needed to remedy something. Yesterday it was to determine whether I was the creepy stalker I seemed to be. Last night it was putting McKendrick in his place. And now she was juggling the off-topic balls I'd thrown at her.
She continued, "It's incredible what you do. But I'm happier when I don't think about the precise details of cutting into people's bodies and fixing their organs. I don't think I could handle seeing the photos. It's bad enough when people post their cuts and bruises or IVs on Facebook." She coughed, gagged a bit. "Sorry. Thinking about that is too much for me."
"That's fair. Expected, even. It didn't occur to me you'd want to talk surgery."
She picked up the chocolate ice cream again. "I get what you're doing here but we can still talk sports. It's fine, Cal. Everyone does it."
I wasn't certain whether my mind was leading me to these conclusions or Stella was implying that most of the men she dated kept the conversation confined to her profession. Maybe that wasn't it at all. Maybe she was suggesting she kept the conversation confined to her profession.
"Is that what they do with you?" I asked, wading right into that murk. "They test you, right? They doubt your bona fides so they interrogate you and then find out you're smarter than a snake charmer. Is that how it goes?"
Her lips twisted into a fake scowl and she glanced up at the ceiling. "Not sure how I feel about being compared to a snake charmer."
"I'm taking your deflection as agreement," I replied.
Stella ran her spoon around the inner edge of the cup, scooping up the melted ice cream. "I like this one but that one's good too." She jabbed the spoon in my direction. She was finished with the last leg of our conversation. Whatever it was, it was over. "It's early for raspberries. Right? Yeah. Raspberries come out in the summer. But I guess it doesn't matter. They were probably frozen or shipped in from somewhere." She shrugged, repeating the process. "Still good."
I pushed the black raspberry toward her. "All yours."
She nibbled each flavor with tiny spoonfuls followed by thoughtful pauses and commentary, but the only thing I could see was her mouth. The way it curved into a smile or a pout, the way her lips closed around the spoon or folded together, the way I imagined her lips on my cock.
Yeah, I couldn't think about that right now. Not one bit. We weren't talking about sports or why it was ba
d to be good, and me thinking about cocksucking was the last thing that should've been on my mind.
But there it was, flashing like an oasis in the desert. And I lived in a blowjob desert.
I cleared my throat, asking, "Are you ready for your trip to Los Angeles?"
She frowned. "I haven't packed. I'm a last-minute packer. Everything in, hope for the best. If I screw it up, there will be shops in California. But it would be good to get that done tonight. Knowing my current client list, I'll wake up with my phone on fire because five of them failed their drug tests and I'll have to buy a toothbrush from the hotel gift shop."
"I shouldn't keep you." I glanced at my watch but didn't register the time. It didn't matter. "It's getting late," I said. "Let me take you home."
Stella slowly dragged the spoon from between her lips and then her tongue shot out, tracing the plastic edges. I'd challenge any red-blooded, heterosexual man to watch a show like this one and not find himself at half-mast.
"What if I'd rather," she started, torturing me with another bite of ice cream, "walk for a bit? With you."
I leaned back in my seat, surprised that option was on the table. Shocked. The entire evening was a sampler pack of mixed signals. "I'm always up for a walk around Beacon Hill but I don't want to be to blame for any hotel gift shop purchases."
She considered this, nodding. Her spoon hovered over the duo of ice creams before diving for the remaining portion of creamy purple. One taste of the black raspberry had her eyes fluttering and a low hum of pleasure rumbling in her throat. Torture. Plain fucking torture. She licked her spoon again and I damn near snatched it out of her hand and threw it across the store.
She twirled her spoon in my direction as if she was casting a spell. "Use your words, Cal. I don't speak man-growl."
My gaze was glued to her mouth. If there was anything else in the world to see, I was unaware.
"That was another one of those rumbly-grumbly not-words situations," she said.
The responsible, Army-precise side of me desperately wanted to walk her home, leave her at the door, and allow her to prepare for her business trip. The other side of me, the one concerned with dragging her lower lip between my teeth while my hand slipped under her panties, desperately wanted to get her behind closed doors.
"I can promise you one thing," I said.
"Just one?" Stella asked, a skeptical scowl on her face. "You seem like a multiple promises kind of man. I feel like you've already promised me a boatload of things. Actually, where is my pony?"
I shook my head once. "I expect I'll give you more satisfaction than that ice cream."
She glanced at the cups before her, her lips pursed. She scooped up another bite. The chocolate-pretzel-chaos flavor this time. She damn near sucked the shine off that spoon before asking, "Is that so?"
There was a weight associated with articulating all the things I wanted with Stella. It piled up around us like a drop in the air pressure. My shoulders were bunched tight and my cock was heavy, and I was working hard at keeping cool even when I wanted her to tell me she wanted it too. That was all I needed to hear. Then I'd toss her over my shoulder, hustle her home, and make good on those promises.
"I think you know it is," I said.
Stella smiled down at her spoon. I was really fucking jealous of that plastic. "Where do you come up with all these dirty thoughts?"
Watching your ass for the past eight months.
Stroking myself to memories of your smile in the shower every morning.
Hearing your laugh every time I close my eyes.
Last night. Last fucking night.
"You," I said. "You bring it all out, sweet thing."
She turned her attention to the table and busied herself with balling up the napkins and gathering the ice cream cups, but I noticed a rosy flush creeping across her cheeks. "Always the nice ones," she murmured. "The awkward ones too. Oh, they're even worse."
I stood, squeezing her hand and tilting my head toward the exit. "Come with me. Let's see where the streets take us tonight."
The evening air was cool and damp, and puddles dotted the sidewalk from today's on-and-off rain. Fog and clouds hung low over the city, and it gave me a valid excuse to keep Stella tucked close to my side. It wasn't a good night for walking, no more than necessary. But she asked for this and I was willing to do a great many things to keep this woman in my company.
We made our way around one side of Beacon Hill and down the other. The logical next stop was my apartment, the one I'd selected for its proximity to the hospital. I could be dressed, out the door, and inside the facility within minutes. The greatest variation in my commute time was my willingness to jog through oncoming traffic.
She led the way, urging me down narrow side streets and around corners I'd never noticed. I was certain she was leading us on the most circuitous path to my building but I didn't know whether she was waiting for me to insist on taking her home like I did last night. I wanted to. I wanted her. But with every step we took, one fact became arrestingly clear.
This wasn't last night. The vibe was wrong, the gravity was off. Yesterday was cosmic. It was fairy dust and sliding doors and a rowdy beaver. Today was the hangover. Even if I loaded up on fairy dust and went looking for a beaver, I wasn't getting yesterday back.
When we reached my building, I tipped my head toward the door before wrapping my arms around her waist. "Here we are again."
She hummed in agreement as she stared at the building. "We are. It's funny how we have this small circle of places. The trail, a place to eat, your apartment. We keep going around and around."
"We do." I leaned down and pressed my lips to hers. She tasted of cold and cream and sweet berries, and I kissed her as if I wanted that flavor all for myself. I didn't mind ice cream when it was on her tongue.
But Stella stepped back, denying me those berries. "There are a few things I should tell you."
I gestured for her to continue but she said nothing, instead staring at me.
Finally, she said, "I have to tell you this and I'm sorry it took me so long to get it out." Her expression softened and she tilted her head to the side as if she was looking at a one-winged duckling. "You're such a nice guy and I don't want to hurt you."
Oh, fuck. Not this again. I knew it was going to come back and bite me. I knew there was something I was missing.
"I'm not," I argued. "I'm not even close to a nice guy." I hooked my thumb over my shoulder, toward the hospital complex. "I can get twenty interns and residents over here right now who will tell you I'm an asshole. One of them made a dartboard with my picture on it. Rumor has it someone made a voodoo doll a few intern cohorts back."
"You're a nice guy, Cal," she repeated, laughing. "You're a nice guy and I don't want to give you the wrong idea about me." She circled her hand between us. "I don't do this. I do that." She pointed toward my building. "I like to keep it casual. I don't do this. The relationship thing. I don't talk about feelings or families or—I don't know. Lasagna. I don't do this. I don't do the thing you want."
"How do you know what I want?" I laughed to soften the snap of my words. "You don't know what I want, Stella. You don't."
She clasped her hands under her chin and gave me an evilly angelic look. "You asked me to marry you yesterday."
"You keep mentioning that."
"It's worth mentioning," she replied. "It's kind of a big deal."
"Only because you haven't given me an answer," I said.
"Yeah," she murmured, nodding. "That's the point."
She glanced up at the building again. Stared at the windows, the old brown bricks. Stared so long I thought she was waiting for me to walk away. But I wasn't going to do that. "I hate to break it to you, Stel, but if you're expecting me to leave, you'll be waiting a long damn time."
"And why is that?"
I had to close my eyes to keep from rolling them. "Because I spent eight months trying to figure out the right way to say hello to you. Because you clim
bed into my lap and kissed me yesterday morning. Because I made you scream the very first time I tried. Because the best and worst thing about me is I don't know how to give up. Because I think we want the same things but we're saying it in different ways."
She waved her hands at me as if she was trying to stop traffic. "Cal, no. We are not saying the same things. I assure you."
This woman was all kinds of headstrong, and I walked a line between admiring the shit out of it and wanting to club her over the head and drag her back to my prehistoric cave.
"Then help me understand," I said.
Stella stared at the intersection, her gaze far away. Eventually, she glanced back at me and said, "If we go upstairs right now, if we go to your apartment, we'll have sex." She eyed me up and down, giving extra attention to my crotch. "Good sex. Like, phenomenal sex. The kind of sex where you murder my vagina and then shapeshift into a bear."
"I'm not going to shapeshift into a bear," I said.
She held out her hand. "But you will wreck my vagina."
"I—I don't even know what that means," I replied.
She folded her arms across her chest. As if I was the one being ridiculous here. "I had to sit on a pillow today," she said, "and that was just from some light—you know—whatever it was we did last night."
"God help me, Stella," I growled.
"If we go upstairs right now and have vagina-murdering, bear-shifting sex, it will be nothing more than that. Sex. It will be amazing and I'll enjoy the hell out of it and trust me, I'd really love to go upstairs right now. You don't even know how much I'd like that. But it would be sex. In and out. One and done. No lasagna, no Ikea. That's not who I am." She stared at me hard, pushing me to recognize something I was obviously missing. "Just sex. Just the one time."
"I guarantee it will be more than one," I replied.
Her lips tipped up in a coy smile. She winked at me. It zinged right into me, landing somewhere near my belly button and melting me from the inside out.
Before Girl Page 10
