"What are you doing tonight, Stremmel?" I asked. "Don't answer that. You're getting a beer with me because I've never heard anyone put vascular ahead of cardio—"
"Or neuro," Nick added. "I'd join that beer but my wife flies in tonight and I'm going to know you're both wrong while spending time with her."
Alex gave him an impatient glare. "I'll be with my fiancé at the ballgame so I'll also skip that beer but I'd like to state one more time that without gastro, everyone would be literally full of shit."
"Goddammit," Stremmel muttered. "I should've kept my mouth shut."
"That's the spirit," I said, clapping him on the back.
15
Stella
I wanted to go straight home after arriving back in Boston. Go home, do laundry, change the sheets, shower away the flight, look over my calendar and plan out the week. That was my routine and I loved it. It staved off the jet lag and put me in the right mood to get back to work bright and early. To get back on the trail.
But I wasn't doing any of that. Nope, the car service was driving right past my neighborhood and into downtown Boston where Lucian McKendrick was dirty dancing—pants down—on a bar. Thankfully, it only took me whistling at him from the door and my sharpest glare to get him down and the pants up. I'd called ahead and handled his tab and Flinn already had a jump on minimizing the social media impact.
McKendrick complained about leaving, of course, whining and moaning to his adoring fans as he shuffled toward me. None of that mattered to me. He was allowed to save face. Hell, he could throw me right under the bus for all I cared. I didn't mind being the villain here. If I played this situation right, I'd be the villain with the corner office and the kind of raise that said "vacation in the south of France."
I held the car door open for McKendrick, waiting until he scooted to the far side before climbing in beside him. The driver already had McKendrick's address and orders to take us there regardless of the bribes and promises lobbed at him.
When the car turned onto Storrow Drive, heading out of the city, I glanced at the man to my left. "What was that all about?"
He shrugged. "I'm twenty-seven years old and really fuckin' rich. What am I supposed to do with myself on a Monday night?"
"Honestly, McKendrick, I know a lot of rich dudes. Rich ladies too. You're the first one I've met who entertains himself by gettin' low on a bar, rubbing a bottle of Hennessy on his junk, and then dousing a bunch of chicks in that ball-sweat-anointed Hennessy. But here's how I see it," I continued. "You're an individual. You follow your own drummer. You want to rub your jewels on that whiskey and there's nothing anyone is going to say to change your mind."
"Thank you," he cried, slapping his palms on his thighs. "Thank you. Finally. Someone who gets it."
I didn't get it but I wasn't telling him that. It only mattered that he felt heard, seen. "We're headed to a number of goodwill appearances and charitable events in the next few weeks," I said. "I want you to think about limiting the balls-and-whiskey situations to private spaces. You can't take your picture with sick kids in the morning and then go buck wild at night. It's incongruent. People won't let you near the sick kids if your sac is all over social media." I gestured toward his lower body. His manspreading claimed two-thirds of the back seat. "Unless you'd rather we visit the testicular cancer floor."
He grabbed his crotch, shivered. "Why in the fuck would I want to do that?"
"Because the only reason you'd have your balls out in the middle of a bar—not a very good one, I might add—is to remind men to get them checked. Clearly, you're raising awareness about a disease that few discuss," I said. "With the exception of men growing beards in November."
He shifted, staring at me with a pensive expression creasing his forehead. "What are you talkin' about, lady? I don't grow a beard for ball cancer. I grow a beard for the World Series."
I bit my lip to hold back a laugh. "And here you are, raising awareness in April."
"I'm a hero. Obviously," he replied, still watching me with that confused look. "Who are you, lady? What's your story?"
I gave him a warm smile, dimples and all. "No story, McKendrick. I love the game. I love helping players position themselves for long-term success."
He chuckled. "That's a load of bull, honeycakes. That's something you read off a motivational poster or a fortune cookie. No one says shit like that and means it."
"I mean it," I replied, laughing. "I do love the game and I do love helping my players. Especially when they get into trouble."
"You might mean it but it's not your story," he said, turning his attention to the window and the dark countryside beyond. "You married, lady? Kids?"
"No and no," I replied, wiggling my ringless fingers at him.
"You looking?" He gestured to his lap like he was a model on The Price Is Right and his dick was the showcase.
I worked hard at keeping my expression even. Experience had taught me that laughing at this moment was the wrong response. "I'm actually seeing someone." It was my standard response but it wasn't my usual stiff delivery. My voice softened, my head tilted to the side, my cheeks burned at the memory of Cal's tongue between my legs. I didn't expect any of it. I wasn't sure I liked it. "I'm seeing someone," I repeated.
McKendrick rolled his hand, wanting more. "You can't say that, honeycakes, and leave me hanging. I have the gym and my shenanigans. Nothin' else. No ball, no boys, no workouts with the team, nothing. I'm not even getting laid on the regular because someone won't let me socialize." He pinned me with a sour glare. "What's his name? What's he do? Where's it going?" He nudged me with his elbow. "Or is it a she?"
I gave McKendrick credit for asking if I was seeing a woman without a leer or suggestive tone. That was an accomplishment. "He. His name is Cal. He's a heart surgeon."
McKendrick drummed his fingers on his thigh. "And where is it going, lady? You serious? Will I get a plus-one to your wedding or will I have to plow all the bridesmaids to keep myself entertained?"
"I'm not inviting you or your scrotum to my wedding," I deadpanned. "I'm not getting married."
"That's a shame," he groused. "My Electric Slide is on fire." He rolled his neck from side to side, a loud crack accompanying each movement. "It's serious, huh? You're feelin' this guy?"
"I, uh, I don't—I don't know," I stammered. Fuck, why did I say that? Why did I say that? I made a point of keeping my personal life private. The last person on this planet who needed an update on the ongoing saga of Stella and Cal was Lucian McKendrick. Aside from the fact he was my client, he was gossipy as hell. "It's new. I'm not sure it's going to last."
Stellllllllla.
He regarded me for a moment before saying, "You wouldn't be thinking this hard if you didn't want the show to go on." He nodded, pleased with his assessment, and winked at me. "It's gonna last."
Because there were small miracles in this big world, the driver pulled to a stop at McKendrick's sprawling mansion. Another five minutes and I would've spilled the whole mess I'd made with Cal. Wanting him but not wanting him on my calendar because he'd never slide into that slot. Wanting him but not wanting the deep, all-encompassing relationship he offered. The one he craved. Wanting him and not being able to send him away, forcing him to do it instead.
That part was the worst of it. Cal's adoration was a drug to which I was already addicted. Even if I knew it was wrong, even if I knew I couldn't keep it, even if I knew it wouldn't last. And that was why I had to give him the scissors and force him to cut the cord.
"It looks like we're here," I sang. "My assistant will pick you up for your appearances tomorrow. Sleep tight."
The driver opened McKendrick's door and he stepped out. "It's gonna last," he called to me. "I'm gonna dust off my dance moves for you, lady."
It was too late to change the sheets or start a load of laundry when I got home, and without that part of the back-from-business-travel protocol in place, I forgot to shower before flopping into bed. I scanned my calendar from
under the covers, looking only for critical events and deadlines.
I noticed Harry's name later in the week. Deleted it. I promised myself I'd shoot him a text in the morning. I had a policy against texting after midnight. Even if I was texting to cancel on him, a one a.m. text screamed "thinking about you while in bed!" and I didn't want to go there. Instead, I set my phone in its charging cradle and burrowed under my blankets.
The next morning, it took me a solid minute to figure out where I was when I woke up. That sumbitch McKendrick. Fucking up all my systems.
I threw on a workout top and a pair of running tights that seemed mostly clean, didn't bother fixing the ponytail I'd slept in, and left the house without tying my shoelaces. I was groggy as hell and cursed myself for my strict adherence to routine. It was a good problem but it was still a problem. Once I got into a habit, breaking it was damn near impossible.
Thank god I'd never tried hard drugs.
As I maneuvered into a parking spot near the trailhead, I found myself staring at Cal's SUV. It was such a shock, I nearly backed into the car behind me. I'd spent the past few days convincing myself he wasn't coming. Of course he wasn't.
And yet here he was.
I stole a moment to fix my hair and run some tinted balm over my lips but that was the best I could do. "This is going to be great," I announced to my empty vehicle. "A nice morning. A good walk. Maybe a conversation with a man-brick. All good. It doesn't matter that I have nothing planned because I promised myself he wouldn't come here after that shit show in front of his apartment but it's going to be great. No worries."
Blowing out a breath, I forced myself out of the car and onto the trail. I found him just beyond the park gates, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at the pond. If I was in the business of staging advertising photo shoots, the picture in front of me would've sold a million pairs of track pants, running shoes, form-fitting shirts, anything. Anything, this portrait of quiet strength would've sold it.
As I neared, Cal glanced over his shoulder. A smile pulled at his lips and he turned, but he didn't approach me. No, that was on me. He'd done his part. He came and now it was up to me.
"Hi," I said, stepping closer to him.
"Hi," he answered.
I started to wave but that gesture morphed into me opening my arms and wrapping them around Cal. Yep, I hugged him. I was hugging him. I was letting him hug me back.
That wasn't true. It wasn't a hug. It was an embrace like long-lost lovers and sex with your pants on. It was fingertips digging into skin, digging, digging. It was sucking in a lungful of manly pine trees and needing another hit. It was sighing at the feel of his hands on my waist, his chest under my cheek, his lips on my hair. It was the best thing I'd experienced in days and I could stay right here, just like this.
And that was why I broke out of his hold and rubbed my palms together. I was plenty warm but I needed something to do, somewhere to put all this energy. "It's good to see you," I said, hazarding a glance at him.
"I could say the same to you," Cal replied with a chuckle. "How was Los Angeles? Did everything go as planned? Did you slay?"
I thought about his question for a moment, the automatic slide back into comfortable territory. "Let's walk," I said, pointing down the trail. "I had an issue with a client last night and didn't get home until much later than intended so I really need to get moving if this day has any hope of staying on track."
Cal nodded, gesturing for me to lead the way. Once we got into a brisk pace, he asked, "An issue with McKendrick?"
I barked out a humorless laugh. "Seems like I didn't clean things up as well as I thought I did if you heard about his night on the town."
"I wouldn't jump to that conclusion," he said easily. "I haven't looked at the news today. It was a guess."
We continued along, silent for several minutes. When I couldn't take it anymore, I jabbed my finger into the hard stone of his bicep and blurted out, "You don't like ice cream."
Cal stopped but I didn't realize it until I glanced over and found him ten feet behind me. "Did you figure that out right now?" he asked. "Or did you know that night?"
I pivoted, traveled back to him. "I knew that night," I said. "When you suggested we share but didn't eat one bite."
"Maybe I was being generous," he argued, his eyes hard. "Letting you have both since you clearly enjoyed them."
"Maybe you were," I replied. "But I don't think that's the case. I think you let me believe you liked ice cream because I'd already announced it as one of my favorite food groups."
Cal dropped his hands on his hips and stared at the trail. After a moment, he said, "This isn't about ice cream."
I shook my head. "A little bit. But no. Not really."
"Could you help me out and tell me what it is about?" I didn't say anything. He tipped his chin up, toward the bend of the trail. "Come on. Keep walking."
I followed him and we fell into a companionable silence again. I would've been past the third or fourth song on my playlist if I was alone. Eventually, I said, "I like routines. There's not much predictability in my work so I need it in the rest of my life. I rely on my routines when everything else is chaos."
Cal squinted at me, fine pleats forming at the corners of his eyes. "You don't have to explain any of this to me, Stel," he said. "You walk at the same place, at the same time, in the same lime green sneaks every damn day."
"It's good self-care," I said, nodding toward the trail.
"Sure," he replied easily.
"I like routines," I repeated. "I also like having an active sex life. I don't need deep, complex reasons to justify either."
"No, you do not," Cal agreed.
"And if I do have reasons," I continued, "they don't have to define me. I am not my reasons."
"Agreed. On all counts."
"I can blame my work. I can blame my past relationships. I can blame my upbringing. But the truth of the matter is that I don't want to assign any blame. I don't have to. I'm allowed to enjoy sex. I don't have to be broken or fucked up."
"I get it," he said, and I believed him. Despite the fact I was tossing out random declarations that didn't neatly connect, he seemed to genuinely accept my comments. I needed that. "I can blame work. Past relationships too. And let's not even touch the upbringing. We'd need a marathon course to unpack that."
"But you're not," I said. It was more of a question.
He nodded. "No. I'm not." He gestured toward me. "As I believe you're aware, I can be painfully awkward."
"There's been a moment or two," I conceded with a smile. "I realized years ago that relationships aren't my thing. They don't work for me. They don't make me happy."
Cal hit me with a sidelong glance before asking, "What does work for you?"
This was easy. I had this one down to talking points. I'd smoothed it and evened it out over the years, eliminating terms like fuck buddies or friends with benefits because neither were appropriate. "There are a few men I see on a regular basis," I said. "It's casual and easy, and completely free from emotional attachments. No families, no friends involved, nothing too personal. There's some mutual fondness, sure, but no one is asking where it's going because it's not going anywhere." I glanced up at him, witnessing the exact moment when he turned to stone. If it was possible, even the morning sunlight shining down on him dimmed. "Everyone prefers it that way."
Silence settled around us for a few minutes. I expected the silence. I understood it. My statements offered no room for flexibility, no alternatives.
"You know your mind, I have no doubt of that," Cal said. I started to interrupt but he brought his hand between my shoulder blades, stopping me with a single touch. "But I doubt you're giving yourself a real chance, Stella, not to mention me. I doubt you're remembering that first morning when"—he paused, shaking his head by small degrees as he stared at the pond—"when everything happened. You felt it. I know you did."
I thought of fifteen different reasons why he was wrong
. Rebuttals and arguments, anything to get him out of my softest, weakest spots. I thought of them all but I couldn't bring myself to deliver any of them. I didn't want the arguments. I didn't want to defend myself. I didn't want to say anything.
Then, I said everything.
"I was engaged once." Cal's gaze snapped toward me, stayed there. But I couldn't meet it. I couldn't let him see everything the way he always did. Instead, I stared ahead. "I lived at home through college. Paying for state school was a stretch for my parents. Campus housing was out of the question. So, I lived at home. Commuted to Bridgewater." I shrugged but my hands took on a life of their own, fluttering against my thighs as I spoke. "There was a boy from my neighborhood and—and we were together. Getting married seemed like the right thing to do. My younger sister was already engaged and I thought I was ready and I wanted it and it seemed like the right time but then—then I called it off."
Cal didn't say anything but he didn't stop staring at me either. Then he reached for my hand, folded it into his.
"I can't explain why but I did, breaking it off with him. I couldn't go through with it." He squeezed my hand like he was trying to transfer strength through his skin. "I'd worked hard at getting a good internship that summer but nothing panned out. At the last minute, a position opened up at a sports management firm in Seattle and I took it. I canceled my wedding and flew to Seattle and didn't come back for three months." With my free hand, I touched my forehead, traced a finger over my left eyebrow. "I didn't want to see the fallout so I left."
"You didn't do anything wrong, Stel."
I blew out a breath. "Maybe not," I said with a bitter laugh. "I couldn't hide in Seattle forever. I had to go back to school. I had to go home and I had to see him again. We talked and then—then we got back together. Got engaged all over again. It just happened. I knew it wasn't right for me but I let it happen. I knew I wasn't happy but I didn't know how to say that without making everyone else unhappy."
Before Girl Page 12
