Reckless Romance

by Maggie Riley

  “Coffee,” he said. “Please.”

  I poured him a cup and handed it to him before I realized which one it was. A black mug with a pair of sparkly red lips on one side and the quote “I’m just a sweet transvestite, from transsexual Transylvania” on the other.

  Josh looked at it and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  “It’s from Rocky Horror Picture Show,” I quickly explained, flipping the first batch of pancakes. “My Great Aunt Gertie’s favorite show.”

  “I know it,” he said, surprising me.

  “Really?”

  He gave me a look. “You’ve met my sister, right? You think she didn’t try to drag me to a midnight showing in Lincoln, Nebraska on more than one occasion?”

  “Did you ever go?” I asked, pouring myself a cup of coffee, trying to imagine Josh in a crowd of Rocky Horror fans, throwing toast at the screen.

  “I’ll plead the fifth on that,” he said and took a sip, looking around the room. “Are those your Great Aunts?” he asked, pointing to a picture I had stuck to the fridge.

  “Uh-huh.” I pulled it out from under its magnet and handed it to him. “They loved the theatre.” I loaded up two plates and passed one to him. “They were my heroes.”

  He looked down at the stack of pancakes and raised his eyebrows.

  “You made me happy face pancakes,” he observed.

  “Are there any other kind?” I asked, smiling down at the chocolate chip grin. They had always cheered me up and just looking at them reminded me of Sunday mornings with my Great Aunts. “They’re Gertie’s feel-better pancakes.”

  “Seems like you and your aunts had a lot in common,” he noted.

  I looked down at the picture of them, their happy smiling faces.

  “I hope so,” I told him. “They inspired me. My Great Aunt Gertie is the one who introduced me to some of my favorite directors, like George Cukor and Simon Callow and John Waters. All people I wanted to be exactly like when I grew up.”

  “Exactly?” he asked, and it took me a minute to understand what he was asking. Because all the directors I had listed had something in common besides just being directors.

  “Oh. Well, not exactly . . .” I blushed. “Not that there would be anything wrong with being gay if I was so inclined, but I’m not. Sometimes I even think that it might be easier, but I wasn’t born that way and even though there was that one time in high school where Joanna taught me about kissing, nothing really came of it and I don’t think that even really qualifies as experimenting—” I trailed off, realizing that Josh had frozen, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Is there something wrong with the pancakes?”

  More likely there was something wrong with my mouth, which seemed to ramble on and on when I was feeling awkward.

  “No,” he said, looking a little dazed. “My brain just short-circuited for a moment.” He put his fork down. “Did you say that Joanna taught you about kissing?”

  “Well, sort of, but—”

  He held up a hand. “I’m just going to need a moment with that image.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I used a pillow. It wasn’t a hands-on lesson,” I told him, immediately wincing at my choice in words.

  But Josh laughed.

  A real laugh. A laugh that seemed to catch him by surprise.

  “Wow,” I said, the word escaping my lips like a sigh.

  He looked at me, laughter still reflected in his eyes, his mouth caught in a grin.

  “You have a nice laugh,” I told him. “And a nice smile.” Because it was true. And because before now, I had only seen it at a distance. It had dazzled me then. It nearly took my breath away now.

  “Thanks,” he said, but the smile had already begun to retreat.

  “It’s very toothy,” I told him, desperate to get it back.

  “Toothy?”

  “Yeah, kind of like—” I thought about it. “Like a crocodile.”

  Josh stared at me. “A crocodile.” He seemed to think about it for a while. “Do crocodiles have nice smiles?” He took another bite of pancakes and purposefully flashed his teeth as he did. “I thought you weren’t supposed to trust a crocodile.”

  “You’re not supposed to smile at a crocodile,” I corrected.

  “Yet you keep smiling at me,” said Josh.

  The kitchen seemed to get a little warmer just then.

  “I can’t help it,” I said.

  “No?” Josh’s brown eyes were rich and dark, like chocolate. And I always had a hard time resisting chocolate.

  I licked my lips. “I smile at everyone,” my voice came out slightly husky.

  “I’ve noticed that,” he said, and this time the smile he gave me wasn’t toothy at all. It seemed almost naughty.

  Lust, intense and overwhelming, stole my breath away. If Josh was gorgeous when he was happy, well, he was irresistible right now, staring at me like he might want to see what was underneath my overalls. And I was thinking I might let him take a peek.

  Oh no. This was not good.

  I was notoriously bad at knowing what men wanted. There had been too many times when I had projected my own interest, my own attraction, onto them and completely misinterpreted something innocent and friendly.

  Josh was a former minor league pitcher. He was tall and strong and sexy. New York was full of women who could draw his attention. Beautiful women with perfect hair and big boobs and experience in making all of his sexual fantasies come true. I was a flat-chested theatre nerd who was wearing overalls for chrissakes! If anything, I stimulated a man’s mind, not any other part of him.

  And misinterpreting a guy’s intentions was embarrassing enough when it was someone I might never see again. Throwing myself at Allie’s brother would be a mistake I might have to confront on a regular basis.

  Quickly I pushed away from the table. “Are you finished?” I asked, forcing a pleasant smile on my face.

  Josh blinked and whatever smile had been curving up the corners of his lips was quickly gone. He handed me his empty plate, stone faced again.

  Dammit.

  I had taken a perfectly good moment and ruined it. It wasn’t his fault that I had gotten all flustered from the kind of flirty banter that was probably second nature to someone like Josh. He couldn’t have meant anything by it—just harmless conversation that I had taken personally. It was like what they did in Europe, where everyone said they wanted to sleep with everyone but no one actually did.

  I had never been to Europe.

  Josh stood and went to the couch where he had left his jacket.

  “I appreciate you letting me crash on your couch,” he said, pulling it on. Even wearing day old clothes he looked delicious. Better than pancakes.

  “You brought me home,” I reminded him, still holding my plate. “I owe you.”

  “I think the breakfast more than settled our debt.”

  An awkward silence settled over us.

  “Well—” I said at the same time he said, “Ok—”

  We both looked at each other.

  “I should go,” he said, patting his pockets.

  The sound of something crinkling—like a piece of paper—made him pause for a moment before he re-buttoned his shirt and adjusted his tie. It was crooked. Before I could stop myself, I had crossed the room, my fingers reaching up to straighten it. I gave him a pat on the chest as if to indicate that I was done. And then I froze, realizing exactly how weird that had been.

  He seemed just as surprised.

  I stepped away from him, busying myself with the pancakes. Josh cleared his throat awkwardly.

  “Thanks again,” he said.

  “Sure thing.” I pasted a bright smile on my face, trying not to die from embarrassment. “You have a wonderful day!”

  He paused for a moment, looking over at me. I could only imagine what he saw. Me, with my messy hair and slightly oversized overalls, holding a plate of pancakes and wearing an almost manic grin. No wonder he was bolting for the door.
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br />   Instead of shaking his head in bewilderment, though, I caught something that might have been a smile. But if it had been there, it vanished quickly.

  “See you around, Reagan,” he said and then he was gone.

  Chapter 7

  JOSH

  I hailed a cab, feeling like a real jackass. What had I been thinking? Mentally undressing Reagan while she was just trying to be nice and feed me pancakes. Pancakes! With smiley faces made out of chocolate chips! Who did that? Someone who didn’t appreciate being eye-fucked at the breakfast table, that was for sure.

  I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the effects of a night spent sleeping on a couch. My body was sore and I was exhausted. Not that any of that was an excuse for how I had acted. It was clear I’d made her uncomfortable. And it was a damn shame because before I had cocked that up, we had been having a good time. Or so I had thought. She had been laughing and joking and I had been feeling better than I’d felt in a long time. Reagan was odd, there was no mistaking that, but I was beginning to find it awfully endearing. I couldn’t think of anyone who could have compared a smile to a crocodile’s and made it sound like the nicest compliment possible.

  I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t had female friends. I had plenty. I could be around women without wanting to tear their clothes off. Hell, I had spent time with Reagan before the wedding and had been perfectly fine.

  But not really.

  If I was honest with myself, there had always been something about Reagan. But until yesterday, I would have categorized that something as frustration. Had I just been so caught up in my own bullshit that I hadn’t recognized it for what it was? That I had disguised my interest, my attraction, behind some other word? That seemed to be what had been happening for months—hiding what I was feeling behind easier to deal with emotions like anger and frustration.

  Still, I blamed my sister. Not only had she purposefully thrown us together on numerous occasions, but she had been the one to pick that goddamn bridesmaid dress, the one that displayed Reagan’s silky, extraordinarily touchable legs. If not for that image of them on the ladder, I might have been able to ignore the lanky theatre director long enough to find someone infinitely more well suited for me.

  Because, Jesus, why would someone like Reagan want to be around a big fucking grump like me? Especially one who couldn’t stop leering at her. She definitely deserved better than that. But it wasn’t a thought that brought me much comfort, being the selfish asshole that I was.

  Luckily, now that the wedding was over, Allie would be hard pressed to find a way to get us to spend time together. Thank god for Shane, I thought. For getting my meddling little sister out of the country and out of my personal life.

  I went back to my apartment and took a long shower. A long, intimate shower, because even though I was committed to keeping my fantasies under control, that didn’t mean I couldn’t entertain them one last time under the hot water.

  Afterwards, I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and parked myself in front of a TV that was way larger than necessary. Because hell, I was a guy and I liked my toys. Besides, it seemed that I was spending most of my time looking at it, so it might as well be enormous. Even though my cable plan had every single channel known to man, I avoided it and went straight to Netflix and cued up The Wire. Again. So far I’d seen the series three times all the way through. It was a good distraction.

  Especially now, during baseball season, which was the reason I was avoiding cable TV. For the first time in my life, I hated the fact that the season seemed to go on forever. And we were only a month in. There were several sports channels available and I was doing my best to avoid them. In fact, I had avoided baseball completely for the past six months. The thing that had occupied my entire adult life and most of my childhood was now the one thing I didn’t want to think about. At all.

  It just made me feel like crap. And considering how damn miserable I was when I was avoiding it, I didn’t even want to find out how much worse it would get if I allowed myself to look at exactly what I had lost.

  My phone buzzed and I looked at the name that showed up on the screen. Kelly. My former manager. My former best friend. I clicked ignore. Fuck that guy, I thought. He could apologize until the cows came home and it still wouldn’t be enough.

  He had lied to me. In my opinion, there was nothing worse, nothing more cowardly, than keeping the truth from someone. Especially when they claimed they were doing it for your own good. Because that was a lie too. When people said that, they were just telling you that they had done what they had done to save their own ass.

  And that’s what Kelly had done. He had fucked me over to save his own ass. Which is why he still had a job and I didn’t. Just seeing his name on my phone brought up all the anger and frustration that I thought I had put behind me. Apparently not. Apparently I was still pissed. Really, really pissed.

  I silenced my phone and shoved it between the couch cushions. Turning my attention back to the TV, I settled into the soft leather and lost myself in the life of cops and drug dealers in Baltimore.

  Chapter 8

  REAGAN

  After Josh left, I headed to the theatre to take care of the mess that I had planned to deal with last night. But as soon as I got there and saw how much work needed to be done, I was glad that I hadn’t tried to do it drunk. I probably would have made it worse.

  I was sweeping up the stage when Joanna came striding into the theatre in her usual white suit and stiletto heels, carrying two cups of Starbucks. She handed one to me.

  “You’re the best,” I told her, taking a sip of the much needed caffeine. My cup of coffee from breakfast had long ago worn off and I still had hours of work ahead of me.

  “I know,” she said, taking a seat in the audience, while I continued working. “I told you I’d pay for a cleaning crew,” she reminded me. “We can go out to lunch, get a few cocktails and come back to a clean theatre.”

  At the thought of cocktails, my stomach did an unhappy twist. But lunch did sound good. Just like my first cup of coffee had been burned off, so had my pancakes. I looked around the theatre and saw that despite working for hours, I had barely made a dent.

  “Ok,” I told Joanna.

  Her eyebrows went up.

  “You’re accepting help?” she asked, the surprise evident. “Letting someone else put their hands on your precious theatre?”

  “It’s your precious theatre, too,” I reminded her.

  “Honey, nothing is so precious that I won’t pay someone else to clean it.” She lifted up a heel. “Even these babies have someone else to take care of them when they get scuffed.” She rose and patted me on the shoulder. “Besides, they’re professionals.” She glanced at her watch. “And should be outside by now.”

  I put my hand on my hip, the other still holding the broom.

  “You ordered a cleaning service even though I told you I wanted to do it myself?”

  “Of course I did,” Joanna said, taking the broom from me. “Because I knew you’d acquiesce. I just didn’t expect you to do it so quickly.” She waved in the cleaning crew who had come in through the lobby.

  “I’m not some pushover, you know,” I told her as she pushed me out of the theatre. “And I could have done it myself. I have a system.”

  “I know, honey,” said Joanna, hailing us a cab. “And you can tell me all about it over oysters and champagne.”

  It wasn’t until we were settled in a booth that I realized that this was about more than just getting someone else to clean the theatre.

  “What’s the next play?” Joanna asked after we had ordered.

  Dammit. I knew it had been coming. Joanna had been more than patient—not something she was very good at—and I had nothing to give her.

  I put my head down on the tablecloth.

  “Don’t do that,” she said. “You’ve got dirt on your forehead, you’ll make a mess. This is a classy joint, remember?”

 
“I always have dirt on my forehead,” I reminded her. “Why didn’t we go somewhere where other people also have dirt on their foreheads? Like we usually do.”

  “Because.” Joanna put a napkin across her lap. “My parents have made it clear that in order to continue to have access to my trust fund—the one that pays for our theatre—I have to do socialite-appropriate things once in a while. Today that means having overpriced oysters and champagne and putting it on my father’s tab and making sure it ends up online somewhere. Someone will be by shortly to take a picture of me.”

  While most people would consider champagne and oysters at a fancy, white linens type restaurant an example of living their best life, I tended to avoid places like this. I preferred dive bars and rundown burger joints and places where the floors were covered in peanut shells. Where no one would be taking your picture for the society pages.

  Because these were the kind of places I had spent most of my youth going to. They were expensive and elite and everything my parents loved. But I never fit in. I always felt out of place, even when I wasn’t wearing overalls and had dirt on my forehead. Luckily, it wasn’t nearly as bad with Joanna there. She hated this atmosphere as much as I did, but couldn’t avoid them the way I could. She had obligations and I know it made them less unbearable if I could fulfill some of them with her.

  “Won’t it ruin your socialite cred to be photographed with someone dressed like a chimney sweep?”

  “Oh, sweetie.” Joanna put her hand on mine. “You know you won’t be in the picture.”

  She wasn’t saying it to be mean. It was true and I was grateful for it—I much preferred to remain under the radar. Joanna was the one who needed to end up on the society page. The only way her date would be included would be if he was an eligible young man that people could gossip about. And I had no doubt that her parents were hoping for some pictures like that in the near future.