Down with Love

by Kate Meader

  I punctuate this last statement with a swallow of the final drop in my glass. So, there!

  Penny is still staring, her navy-dark eyes over-bright, her lips in a curve. Here it comes…the finger wag.

  “You want him.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Oh, you do. You’ve never been so affected by a guy in all the time I’ve known you. Not even Jeremy. With him, you were so…careful.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Not the “careful with Jeremy” observation because she’s right. I maintained a very precise image around him. But we all do that until we’re sure it’s safe to show our true selves, don’t we? Problem is, that as soon as I let him see the real me, he wasn’t interested. “Did you not hear a word I said? Max Henderson is the complete opposite to what I want in a guy. Rich—”

  “Not so much. Cancer wing, or at least a quarter of it, is Henderson money.”

  “Entitled. Cynical.” I’m counting off on my hand, hoping I have enough dickish traits to make at least five. Coming up short on the ring finger is a little too symbolic and just won’t do. “Smug. A player.” Yes!

  I could start a count on the other hand. Charming. Attractive. Sexy. Funny.

  Just four, and at least two of them are synonymous. The cons have it!

  “So he’s interested?” Penny asks, just as Nathan reappears with a stack of plates. “Maybe you should use him to work out your sexual frustration.”

  “I’m not sexually frustrated,” I insist, sounding very, very frustrated.

  Nat snorts. “You’ve been snapping at people—i.e., me—constantly over the last few months, usually coinciding with the morning after a date,” he says while loading plates in the dishwasher. Penny leads me to a seat at the kitchen island, our usual place to relax after dinner while we watch her husband clean up. “Dates where I assume you’re not getting some,” Nat finishes.

  I suppose I have been a little irritable, but because I haven’t had any in almost a year? That’s ludicrous. Sex, or the lack of it, does not dictate my moods.

  “How was she today?” Penny asks. “Later this afternoon, in particular.”

  Nathan folds his arms, looking thoughtful. “Prickly. I almost considered uninviting her to tonight’s dinner but I had hopes…” He waves off to the living room and the ghost of Saint Kiddie Doc who my ungrateful, gagging-for-it self can’t appreciate.

  “She had a run-in with him today,” Penny says to her husband.

  “Who?”

  “Max Henderson, brother of one of your clients. They have a sexy-hate thing going on.”

  Nat rubs his chin. “Oh, that’s interesting.”

  “No, it’s not!” I finally manage to get a word in. I should never have introduced these two who have this weird simpatico thing where they operate as a single entity. “If I slept with him, I wouldn’t respect myself in the morning. In fact, I wouldn’t have to wait until the morning. The moment the deed was done, I’d feel nauseous. Like I’d made a huge mistake.”

  “But you’re already considering sleeping with him.”

  “No.”

  Penny grabs my hand and squeezes. “You’ve thought of the consequences. Weighed them. Made an assessment. Which means you’ve considered the hot ’n’ filthy act that would lead to the consequences. Maybe…”

  “Considered it in detail,” Nathan finishes with a smile that pops the dimples beloved of my brides. “This Max guy is already featured in your dirty, feverish brain. That’s promising.”

  “Is it?” I say, a touch hysterically. Where’s the wine?

  “Very,” my former best friend and possibly former employee says. “When have you last shown any interest in a guy like that?”

  “That’s what I said!” Penny chimes in, and then they gaze at each other in appreciation of being completely in sync. Sickening.

  “Now, listen, idiots-in-love, I’m not sleeping with the brother of a client. That has to be ethically dubious.” Serious side-eye thrown my way at that. “And even if it wasn’t, I don’t like him. I can’t sleep with someone I don’t like.” Can I?

  “It would probably be pretty hot.” Penny shoots a dagger of a look at Nathan. “God, I hate when you don’t rinse off the dishes first, you dick.”

  Nathan blinks in surprise, but quickly catches on.

  “Well, I hate when you nag me about rinsing off the dishes. If you despise my methods so much, why don’t you do it yourself?”

  Penny gives a little shimmy of pleasure. “This antagonism thing is kind of working! And we’re just faking it. Imagine how sexy it must be when you really don’t like someone.”

  “I’m supposed to be looking for the one.” I think of my dad and what I promised him. “Not fantasiz—I mean, considering—a fling with someone who is such a bad idea I can’t think of a worse one.” It’s also a little too close to what the man himself said, about how I could enjoy myself while looking for Mr. Right. Max Henderson basically offered me the use of his body for sexual purposes. Like he’s performing a community service.

  “And one shot—or two if he’s any good or you need a booster—will put your pipes back in order,” Penny adds cheerfully in her “problem solved” voice. “And make you less testy at work.”

  “Yeah, Charlie,” Nat says. “Do it for your co-workers. Meaning me. Your only co-worker.”

  “I’m not screwing some guy I don’t even like to make your life easier.”

  Nathan rolls his eyes affectionately at his wife. “Worst. Boss. Ever.”

  Chapter 7

  “Marriage is a wonderful invention: then again, so is the bicycle repair kit.”

  —Billy Connolly

  Max

  I’m back in Lincoln Park just after six a.m. on an earlier-than-usual run, trying to get in shape for the marathon in October, which I’ll be running on behalf of Mercy Homes as I do every year. Today is motions day and I’m scrolling through the list in my head, enjoying the quiet and the crispness of an early May morning. There’s a low buzz of sound from the odd few cars on Lake Shore to my left and Stockton to my right but nothing that interferes with my well-ordered mind.

  The very fine ass of the female runner up ahead does the trick, though.

  This park is typically safe but I wouldn’t want any woman I cared even the slightest jot for out here when there’s hardly anyone around. Torn between thinking I should overtake her quickly so as not to scare her and liking how the distance gives me the perfect vista of that heart-shaped gift, I elect to slow my pace a little. Nimble and lithe, she’s possessed of great form as she maintains a steady rhythm along the running path. Every stride of her strong legs seems to emphasize her musculature, particularly in her nicely shaped thighs, calves—and we’re back to that ass.

  My dick stirs, which is not my usual when I’m jogging behind an attractive woman. I expect it has less to do with this woman and more to do with the fact my mind has spent far too much time on one Charlie Love.

  I have to admit I enjoyed that taste-testing business. It felt like we were a team—even though her goal is to take my brother for a ride, and my goal is to ensure he gets everything he’s ever dreamed of since he was a little girl while not being taken for a ride. As you’ve probably figured out, these goals are mutually exclusive, yet I liked how we both agreed on the food. This, I know, is preposterous. Why the hell am I latching on to this island of consensus in an ocean of disagreement? I’m not interested in Charlie Love, except maybe I am—or I’m interested enough to have turned down a sure thing with a woman Grant introduced me to at an ethics update/wine-tasting event last night. A stunning redhead, an environmental lawyer, and definitely interested. However, when push came to shove, I shoved myself right out the door and made my way back to my apartment.

  So involved am I in my thoughts that
I don’t realize I’ve caught up with the runner and done exactly what I’d sworn I wouldn’t do—scared the crap out of her. She does a weird zigzag ninja move like a scalded cat and jumps three feet to the right, where she lands in the grass, right on that ass I was just admiring.

  “Damn, sorry ‘bout that,” I say at the same moment it dawns on me.

  “You!” Charlie exclaims, like I’m the ‘stache-twirling villain of the piece.

  “Hey, I had no idea that was you.” I hold out my hand. “But I admire your reflexes. Much better than the last time.”

  “When you stood on me.” She takes my hand, likely because it would seem churlish not to. Again, I feel the spark and the widening of her eyes tells me I’m not alone in this.

  “I don’t think we ever made a final determination on fault that last time. But for this one, I accept full blame and am willing to make restitution.” We’re still holding hands, and I pray she doesn’t withdraw anytime soon. Continuing to babble—and this is what I’m doing—seems to be a most awesome plan. “In fact, I’ll even stump for a post-run coffee.”

  It takes her a moment but finally she responds. “Do you live around here?”

  “I do. Over in the Gloucester on Fullerton.”

  “Nice building.”

  It is. “You?”

  “I live on Wrightwood. Just moved into a condo about a month ago.” She says it with something that sounds like—pride? I guess her business must be doing well, or well enough for her to move into a nicer place in a better neighborhood. Maybe her first time as a homeowner.

  Weirdly, I feel proud of her, and I think that inspires the next thing I say.

  “You know, this park might seem safe but running when there aren’t that many people about is probably not a good idea.”

  Her eyes narrow, and her hand drops mine like it’s a slimy rock. I don’t care that I’ve offended her; she needs to hear it.

  “I can handle myself.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but it seems foolish to put yourself in a situation where you have to.”

  She can’t argue with that, and she doesn’t even try.

  “Mind if I run with you for a while?” I ask. “I have about fifteen minutes left.”

  “So you can play bodyguard, Mr. Henderson?”

  “We’re back to the mister? Come on, Charles. Thought we’d moved beyond that.”

  In my head, I’ve moved way beyond that. I’ve moved so far beyond it we’re not even finishing this run. We’re heading right to a steamy shower and I’m soaping her up all over, my hands cupping those perfect tits, my cock stroking through the cleft of her heart-shaped ass as I figure out which position will get me deepest and get her off quickest. After which I’ll start all over again.

  “It’s hard to determine where we stand with the whiplash of moods you present, Max. One minute I’m the matrimonial Antichrist, the next I’m a damsel in distress.”

  “Can’t you be both? And I wouldn’t even limit you to those two roles.”

  She fists her hips, ready for a fight. “Oh? How else do you see me?”

  “Savvy businesswoman, ninja jogger, smart, and sexy.” I could add “the woman who would look amazing against my fifteen hundred thread count sheets” but I elect to stick with the romance.

  “Just because you add in the words ‘savvy’ and ‘smart’ doesn’t make your shtick any more palatable, Henderson.”

  “Just calling it how I see it.”

  Somehow in the last minute or so we’ve moved closer, each sexy little jab acting like magnets to bind us together. I know it’s a cliché to want what resists you, but as she already thinks I’m a cliché, then I’m okay with playing that role.

  She resists ergo I press on.

  Or at least I think I’m okay with it, except there’s a look on her face, an expression that tells me she’d like to think there’s more to me. That maybe I shouldn’t sell myself short as a fun stop on her road to the real thing. That maybe I could be someone’s reality as well as a fantasy.

  That maybe I could be hers.

  This is confirmed with her next words. “Perhaps we should start over.”

  All my life I’ve been surrounded by strong women—my grandmother, my mom, schoolmates, and college friends, even my former fiancée. I want a woman who’ll go toe-to-toe with me and keep me honest, who won’t play mind games and will tell me when I’m being a jerk. My female role models would expect no less.

  Charlie’s different from any other woman I’ve wanted, so using the same tactics is foolish. Don’t get me wrong—she’s also annoying as hell, a bit of a pill, and snarky with it. But I think that would make the sex fantastic and the conversation spirited. I’d never be bored with Charlie Love.

  A lock of hair has escaped her hair tie, and I tuck it behind her ear. It’s calculated, or at least it’s always felt that way. A part of my playbook. But with Charlie, it feels like a tentative gesture toward a new understanding.

  My heart beats wildly, knowing we’re on the cusp of something important.

  “I’m Charlie,” she says, almost shyly. She senses the significance of what’s happening here, too. “I make people’s dreams come true.”

  I don’t even smirk, so taken am I with this shift in our dynamic.

  “Hi, Charlie. I’m Max and I’m—”

  “A grade-A asshole!”

  Now, this charming sobriquet does not emerge from either me or Charlie, but from a third person who’s decided to crash the party. We both turn to the source of the insult, and my once light-as-air heart plummets to the running path at the sight of Mitzi von Stueben.

  Mitzi, as you might guess from the name, comes from excellent Teutonic stock—tall, blond, with thighs that could crush a lesser man. She marches over, but because she’s dragging a tiny little dog by a leash, this takes longer than it should.

  “Mitzi!” I need to handle this carefully because—too late. She has already decided how this is going to go, and it’s not going to reflect well on me.

  “Did you think you could just string me along, promise me the moon, and then cut and run like a thief in the night?”

  This is really over the top, even for Mitzi. I never promised her a thing, but I don’t really plan to get into the he said/she said here in the middle of Lincoln Park.

  “Mitzi, who’s your buddy?”

  Thrown for a second, a temporarily deflated Mitzi looks down at the tiny dog, then back up at me. Rebounding, she addresses Charlie.

  “Whatever he promises you, don’t believe it. Like lazy Sunday brunches and doing The New York Times crossword puzzle and getting a dog together!”

  While Mitzi did talk about brunch to such an extent that every time I heard a word starting with the br sound, my brain did a control-alt-delete, I can’t recall excessive mentions of the NYT crossword puzzle. Maybe sudoku. The dog thing, though—that’s very familiar.

  “So you got yourself a puppy, Mitzi. He’s downright adorable.”

  “He’s a fucking shit factory, Max. We were supposed to raise him together—”

  I never promised that. Would I have actually promised Mitzi a joint dog-raising situation to get her into bed? No way. The woman did not need the incentive.

  She did seem to have her sights set on me for a stroll down the aisle from the beginning. Now that I think of it, she was talking about getting a dog from date one along with copious mentions of eggs Benedict. When I fucked her, she sounded like a yappy little dog. I mean, it was sexy, but can you see why I’m confused?

  “Mitzi, I work such long hours. There’s no way I would have ever committed to a dog.” Never mind the fact she and I aren’t actually dating.

  “Well, it’s time you recognized that promises have consequences. He’s a cockapoo, by the way.”


  “A cockawhat?”

  But she’s no longer listening as she’s already shoved the leash in my hand. Shocked, I wrap my hand around it while trying to wrap my head around what’s happening here. In a complete daze, I watch Mitzi turn tail and march off.

  I look down at the canine interloper, then up at Charlie. “Did she just dump her dog on me?”

  Charlie isn’t even bothering to hide her amusement. “I think she dumped your dog on you.”

  No, no, this is freakin’ bonkers. “Mitzi!” I call out but she merely gives me the finger. Hell, if she’d shown that much backbone while we were together, I might have continued with whatever we had going.

  Peering down once more, I meet a pair of soft brown eyes with blond strands of hair sheltering them. The little beastie is one of those dogs, the ones that crap on rugs, bite small children, and then tilt their heads with a look of “who, me?” I’m not buying it.

  “I know where she lives,” I say to Charlie, but really it’s to myself because I suspect I’ve lost the room. “I’ll drop it off later. Unless you’re in the market for a cute little doggie for your new place.”

  Charlie raises her hands. “Sorry, Henderson, you’re on your own here. I’ve got a run to finish. See ya!”

  And off she jogs, with her ninja reflexes and blond perfection and heart-shaped ass, leaving me with a pile of orphaned fur on a leash.

  Chapter 8

  “It’s no good pretending that any relationship has a future if your record collections disagree violently, or if your favorite films wouldn’t even speak to each other if they met at a party.”

  —Nick Hornby

  Max

  If you look up the word “quitter” in the dictionary, you will not find a photo of Max Henderson. No, siree. I’ve never quit anything in my life, and hell if there hasn’t been a metric shit ton of things I should have laid down tools for and given up the fight.