Sweet Talker

by Robin Bielman

  “So, how are my birthday plans coming?” she asks her grandson.

  “You’ll have to ask Mom or Drew.”

  “They won’t tell me anything. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “I have nothing to report.”

  “Are you hearing this, Pascale?”

  I hand her back her phone. “I am, Rosemary. You have a special birthday coming up?” I shift, my foot accidentally tapping Ethan under the table as I cross my legs. Even with a boot on, my body grows warm.

  “Yes, and my family thinks to keep everything a surprise. They forget I like to be in the know.”

  “We haven’t forgotten,” Ethan asserts. “You’ve given your input and now you get to sit back and relax. Isn’t that something someone of your advanced age enjoys?” he teases.

  “Good one.”

  “I’m full of them.”

  “You’re full of something. You’re lucky I love you so much.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Cue a bunch of unwelcome lightweight winged creatures taking flight in my stomach. Hearing a man tell his grandmother he loves her is sexy with a side of sweet.

  Between last night and this morning, I’m getting a good picture of who Ethan is now. Surprisingly—or maybe not—it isn’t very different from who he was ten years ago. He’s wiser, I’d guess. More driven. He exudes strength and control, but he isn’t afraid to drop his guard with those he cares about.

  A dangerous combination that means I can’t let my guard slip for even a minute.

  Chapter Three

  Brotherly Love

  Ethan

  It’s Saturday morning and Nine Inch Nails blares through the wall speakers in my home gym. I’ve got another mile to run on the treadmill then it’s coffee, orange juice, and avocado toast. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window in front of me is a turbulent Pacific Ocean, the high surf battering the shoreline as another day of strong winds and rain argue in favor of climate change.

  I adjust the speed, upping my pace as I think about the past week.

  About Pascale.

  She’s dialed into Royal, doing a fantastic job. I didn’t think anyone could surpass Charlotte in efficiency and warmth, but Callie has, winning over customers, my staff, and me.

  She and I have found a new rhythm. One businesslike and straightforward, and I’m happy to say any ill feelings I had toward her are gone. I wouldn’t call us friends exactly, but we’re allies, running the restaurant with precision and ease.

  There is something about her I can’t put my finger on, though. A watchfulness, maybe. Caution where she used to be accessible, always sharing and laughing. I wonder if it’s me raising her defenses, or circumstances I know nothing about. I’ve never begrudged my very public life, but increasing the speed on my treadmill, I decide it’s unfair she can learn a great deal about my life over the past decade, but I know virtually nothing about hers.

  I sprint the last thirty seconds, my pulse pounding and my leg muscles tiring. I catch my breath on a two-minute cooldown then grab a small towel to wipe the perspiration from my temples on my way to the kitchen. I’m downing a glass of water in front of the sink when I hear the front door open and my brothers’ voices shout out in greeting. They often show up unannounced on weekend mornings. My fault, since I gave them each a key.

  “We come with breakfast,” Finn says, rounding the corner into the room. He lives only a few houses up the Malibu coast, but since his recent elopement with Chloe, I haven’t seen him as much as I have Drew. I take in his happy face and know it’s because of his new bride. My sister-in-law has got him on cloud nine.

  Drew also looks happy, no doubt because of his date last night. I know this because he texted me to say his latest conquest ticked off several boxes on his girl-I’m-going-to-marry checklist. Drew likes to be in a relationship and is always searching for The One.

  I prefer a reputation as a ladies’ man, thank you very much.

  We make small talk and sit at the kitchen table to eat the whole wheat, egg white and spinach breakfast burritos Finn brought. Finn is Major League Baseball’s best center fielder. He’s currently recovering from clavicle surgery and also very diligent about keeping a healthy diet. Not that I’m complaining, but I prefer cooking to takeout.

  “So, while the sex was good, I’m thinking the next girl I make my girlfriend should be someone who doesn’t fuck me on the first date. Right?” Drew asks.

  I slept with Pascale the first day I met her. Because I’d been knocked completely off-balance. Literally and figuratively. Emotionally and physically. An immediate connection I haven’t experienced since.

  Finn and I exchange a look. Normally, he or I would respond with a joke of some sort, but our baby brother looks genuinely concerned about this.

  “Sounds like a solid plan,” I say.

  “Plus, the sex should be great not good,” Finn says. “Anticipation might be what you’re missing.”

  “Mental foreplay,” I add, then wince, recalling my grandmother’s “mental imagery” comment from lunch on Monday.

  “I can do those.” Drew rolls his shoulders back like he’s ready to do battle.

  “You could also worry about a girlfriend later,” I suggest. “And just have no-strings fun.”

  “Strings can be fun,” Finn contradicts, looking pleased with himself. “Exceptionally fun.”

  “Whatever, dude.” Time to move on to another topic of conversation before I fall under whatever relationship spell my brothers are under. I don’t have time for anything more than a good time here or there. When I get the itch, I make sure sex is about orgasms and nothing heartfelt.

  “What crawled up your ass this morning?” Finn asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Rough week at work, honey?” Drew says.

  I ignore him, take a bite of my mediocre breakfast burrito.

  “Or should I say ‘rough week with your new smoking-hot manager’?”

  “You’re not allowed to think about my manager,” I fire back, surprised by the intensity of my reaction.

  “This can’t be good,” Finn mutters.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask him.

  “Hold up,” Drew cuts in before Finn can elaborate. Besides being a fan of love, grasshopper across the table there thinks he’s an expert at reading his older brothers. Drew squints at me. “Did you know Pascale before she came to work for you?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Holy shit. You did.” Drew is really fucking annoying sometimes.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “So long ago that I can ask her out on a—”

  “No,” I tell Drew. He cannot date her. Honestly, I don’t want him even looking at her. Or talking to her. He’s like a flirt phenomenon. Exhibit A: the girl who fell into bed with him last night.

  I have no idea how we got from Drew’s date last night to this, and I’d really like to take a pass, but that isn’t going to happen. Not with two sets of eyes lasered on me like this is an interrogation.

  It’s like this: three brothers close in age meant we were extremely competitive and somehow the best of friends, too. (Actually, a big chunk of the ‘somehow’ is because of our warmhearted mom who instilled in us a love for family.) Once we started noticing the same girls, we implemented a few bro-code rules to keep the peace.

  Rule Number One: Don’t hook up with each other’s exes.

  Rule Number Two: Help each other improve our game.

  Rule Number Three: If one of us specifically says we want a certain girl, then she is off limits to the other two even if the feeling isn’t reciprocated.

  “So, the two of you dated,” Drew states, the extra emphasis on “dated” grating on my nerves.

  “Yes. Now can we talk about something else?” ‘Dated’ isn’t nearly a strong enough word for what we did, but I remind myself she broke my heart so I mentally pull back on the importance of that summer.

  Finn and Drew exchange a look I
have no idea how to decipher. Which makes me even grumpier. It’s like I didn’t just run five miles and sweat out any and all stresses.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I say when they haven’t said anything. My brothers often know me better than I know myself, so I’m not sure I’m fooling them.

  They seem to consider what I’ve said before Finn nods. “Okay. But let us know if it becomes one.”

  “There’s no rule against me dating her again if I want, you know. And for the record, I don’t want, so whatever weird vibe you two have going on, you can knock it off.”

  “Are you trying to convince us or yourself?” Drew asks.

  I glare at him. Myself.

  He lifts his hands in defeat. “Fine. Consider the topic dropped.” He doesn’t say, for now aloud, but we all hear it.

  “Thank you.”

  “How’s the restaurant? Any more unwanted deliveries?” Drew asks. His penchant for knowing which topics I don’t want to discuss is maddening. A week doesn’t go by, though, that he doesn’t check on the unwanted attention I’ve been receiving. Out of three of us, he worries the most about our family’s well-being. When we were kids, Finn and I got lost kayaking and Drew had convinced himself we’d drowned. He got himself so worked up he needed medical attention when Finn and I made it back, a mere fifteen minutes late. We’d laughed at our unplanned adventure until we saw how upset our brother was.

  “Everything is good,” I say. My mysterious “friend” hasn’t made another move since the snake incident. Not that the game they’re playing happens on the regular. It doesn’t, which is why I’m still not ready to do anything special about it, much to my family’s chagrin. This isn’t the first time our family has been targeted by a fan or someone looking for a payout, and I’m aware it only takes one time for something to go really wrong, but I’ve got our security team on speed dial if need-be.

  “Have an open table for me and Chloe tonight?” Finn asks.

  “It’s Saturday night,” I say, the you’re kidding right? evident in my tone. People make reservations a month in advance for a weekend evening. But. My brother knows he can stroll in five minutes before he wants to eat and I’ll find a place for him. “Be there at eight?”

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  “And on that note, I need to shower and get to work.”

  *

  I smell Pascale before I see her. After only a week, her scent has fixed itself firmly in my olfactory system, never to be forgotten. The only other fragrance that carries as much weight is her scent from a decade ago. And neither, I should clarify, is exceptionally strong. Whatever it is about her delicate scent, it carries the perfect blend to make me a card-carrying fan for life.

  She sits at what I’ve come to decide is her favorite table. On sunny days, early afternoon light streams in through the window and warms the spot that gives her a view of the entire dining area of the restaurant.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hi,” she says, not bothering to look up from the laptop she’s working on. “Did you know Carly is out of town the week after next for her cousin’s wedding?”

  “Yes.”

  She stops typing and raises her head to level me with a put-out look. Damn. I think I forgot to tell her about Carly’s trip and now she has to revise the schedule, a job that takes careful finesse even when all hands are on deck.

  “You forgot to tell me.”

  I seat myself across from her. “Is there a problem?”

  Something else I’ve learned about Pascale? She will make every effort before admitting anything is wrong. Her tenacity is wildly attractive. She had it ten years ago, and she’s got it now.

  “Of course not.” She leans back, lifts her arms onto the table, and threads her fingers together in a relaxed posture designed to reassure me she’s got this. “But I’d appreciate a heads-up next time.” And that it’s me, not her, who messed up the schedule.

  I fight a smile. “I’d say everything else this week has gone smoothly.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re happy here?” I’d be remiss if I didn’t check in with my new employee and make sure she’s settling in okay.

  “I am.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “What about you? Are you happy I’m here?”

  I sense the question is about more than her work performance before she adds, “I know how much you valued Charlotte.”

  “Charlotte who?” I tease because the truth is I’m happier than I care to admit. Having Callie back in my life is a nice surprise, even if it’s only in a professional capacity.

  “Still a sweet talker, I see.” Her phone chimes with a text, taking her gaze away from me. The urge to jump up and somehow snag her attention back is strong—and ridiculous. I don’t do things like that.

  I glance down instead, noting the name Paige on the phone screen. Her younger sister.

  “Sorry.” Pascale picks up the phone. “It’s Paige. My little sister?”

  “I remember.” Mention of Paige has me momentarily looking in the rearview mirror. Paige is nine years younger than Callie and I’d laughed my ass off at the stories Callie shared about her sister’s mischievous behavior.

  “Apparently she ‘did it,’” Pascale says, texting something back. “Cross your fingers ‘it’ isn’t sex with her professor.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Her lips quirk and her eyes briefly flit to mine. “As a beaver.”

  There’s no denying my smile now. We learned that adage together while watching a pineapple-eating contest sponsored by the restaurant she worked at. Afterward, we found it highly amusing to say it as often as possible.

  Her phone pings with another message. “Okay, so it’s not Professor Hotford.” She glances at me again. “His last name is Hartford, but all the girls call him Hotford. But a tattoo.”

  “This her first ink?”

  “I think so.” She shakes her head and laughs then turns the phone screen so I can see a photo of a girl’s wrist. There’s a tattoo of a red heart with a black-handled knife through it instead of an arrow. The letters SSDGM are below the drawing.

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  “Stay Sexy Don’t Get Murdered.” Callie sends back a thumb-up emoji, the reply visible when she puts her phone down on the table. “It’s from Paige’s favorite podcast, My Favorite Murder.”

  I had no idea there were favored murders. “Sounds like a killer podcast,” I say around a grin.

  Callie’s entire face brightens at my clever comeback, and I swear she looks at me the same way she did ten years ago. “It is.”

  “They share cautionary tales?”

  “Do they ever. They teach the importance of valuing personal safety over being nice or helpful so that women know what to do to not get murdered. It’s okay to say ‘no’ to someone asking for help if it makes you the slightest bit uncomfortable. And you should never trust any stranger if the two of you are alone. The podcasters take true crimes and use humor and one-liners to help raise awareness of what to do in potentially dangerous situations. It’s brilliant and funny and sarcastic and relevant.”

  “Do you listen?”

  “Who do you think told Paige about it?”

  “So, you’ve moved on from protecting her from the bully on her soccer team to keeping her safe from psychopaths.”

  “I hate that you remember everything I’ve ever said to you.”

  “It’s your fault.”

  “Why is it my fault?” she argues.

  “Because you’re interesting. Intelligent. Honest.”

  Instantly, I lose her, her attention hastily returning to the laptop. Was it something I said? Are compliments off limits? Too damn bad, because it doesn’t matter what I tell myself, I’m drawn to Callie and won’t be shy about how much I appreciate her. As I watch her brows furrow and her fingers fly across the keyboard, I find myself eager to give chase. No doubt, I’d like her in my bed again. But I’d also like to discover wh
at motivates her. What intrigues her. What she can’t live without.

  The door to the restaurant opens and the mail carrier walks in with today’s mail. “Don’t get up,” he calls out. “I need the extra steps. The missus and I are in a competition.” He places several letters on the table.

  “Thanks, Hal,” I say.

  “What does the winner get?” Pascale asks, pressing pause on being engrossed in the schedule.

  “A foot massage.”

  “Sounds like the perfect prize. Good luck.”

  “Thanks. You two enjoy the rest of your day.”

  “I haven’t had a foot massage in for—” Pascale cuts off when she catches me staring at her. “Never mind.”

  I can think of a few places besides her feet I’d like to rub.

  We reach for the mail at the same time. Our knuckles brush and the innocent touch sends a clear message to my brain: more. I pull my arm back.

  Her brain, on the other hand, apparently registers “the mail is my job” because she lifts the small stack and scans each piece until coming to a stop on the final letter. “For you,” she says handing it over.

  The plain white envelope has no return address. The handwriting is basic. The light blue LOVE stamp, not uncommon. Nevertheless, I flinch at the familiarity.

  “What’s wrong?” Pascale asks.

  I’ve yet to tell her about the unwanted deliveries I’ve received for the past few months, so this is the time to confess. “I’ve been getting some inappropriate mail.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s nothing to worry about. Someone’s been sending me mildly alarming notes and packages and this looks to be the same.” I rip the short edge of the envelope and shake out the contents. A folded piece of paper and a photo slide out onto the table. The picture is the first confirmation I’ve received that a woman is behind the harassment.

  The selfie is low-resolution with one of those filters that distorts the woman’s face so it’s difficult to recognize her. She’s wearing next to nothing and resembles Medusa with snakes for hair.