What is wrong with me? Why is it every time I see him, it’s like I get smacked in the face with hormones? Hormones that remind me of how I felt every day in class when he’d smile at me and lean over to explain something with the lesson. Or when he’d walk with me between classes and tell me corny jokes.
“That was fast. Your wine should be chilled, would you like a glass before we go?”
“Oh. Yeah sure, but maybe to go? I’m kind of starving now.” Lucas laughs and nods as he pulls one of the paper coffee cups from the little display on the console and pours a glass of white wine. I take the offered cup and let my taste buds dance to the tartness I love. The upside to liking a dry wine, I never have to share with Trenton.
Trenton.
I should be thinking of Trenton and not how fucking sexy Lucas looks putting socks on. Distraction by way of wine, I take another sip from my cup and pretend not to watch Lucas put his shoes on.
“Shall we?” he asks, gesturing for the door. I start to grab my tote and then decide the only item I really need is my wallet. Grabbing it from the bag, I step toward the door and into the hallway as Lucas follows.
I know it’s just a saying, but I am currently a prime example of “food coma.” I went from starved to full quickly but that likely has less to do with the meal I ordered and more because Lucas insisted I not only have two glasses of wine with my dinner but we also share a dessert. I feel like I’m carrying a food baby, and if I don’t get out of these jeans, I’m going to split them.
“I think I may have overdone it a bit.”
“Ya think?”
“You can’t pass up a homemade cobbler, ever.” I’ll give the guy credit, he’s strong in his convictions when it comes to cobbler.
“I need out of these clothes and in bed fast or I may die.” Lucas coughs at my statement, and I realize what I said. “Oh stop. You know what I mean. If I knew you were going to order half the menu, I would have worn my leggings. Like on Thanksgiving, my eatin’ pants.”
Lucas laughs and any awkwardness I caused with my statement diminishes as we continue our walk to the hotel. By the time we reach our room, I’m yawning, and my pace has slowed to that of a snail.
I step through the door and immediately unbutton my jeans and rummage through my bag for my new pajamas and set out for the bathroom to change.
“Do you mind if I use this second sink to brush my teeth while you’re changing?” Lucas asks.
“Nope, have at it.”
By the time I finish washing my makeup off and piling my hair on top of my head, I’ve yawned no less than four times. I’m going to sleep like I’ve never slept before, and I cannot wait. Exiting the bathroom, I flip the light and the darkness of the room startles me. Taking a few steps around the corner, the glow of the small lamp between our beds allows enough light for me to not trip on anything and make it to my bed. I look over to find Lucas sitting in his bed. Gone is his tight T-shirt as he sits with his back against the headboard, the covers pulled up to his waist, and his perfectly sculpted chest on full display.
Ah hell, he’s wearing glasses and reading. Hot dude with a book, and my damn ovaries roll over and beg him to pay attention. Spank bank updated.
“Will it bother you if I read for a bit? I only have about three chapters left of this.” He holds up his paperback and I note it’s a popular thriller I’ve seen at the bookstore.
“Nope. Normally I’d read a bit before I fall asleep, but I’m not sure I can keep my eyes open long enough.”
“I get it. I’m used to being up late, so this is nothing for me. I’m tired but can’t really shut my brain off. This helps.”
Well, now I feel like I need to at least attempt to read. Lucas only laughs as he turns his attention back to his paperback. I scoot across the bed and hop to the dresser-cupboard thing the television rests on to get my tote. I locate my tablet and realize I didn’t take my phone with me to dinner because it’s in the bag too. Snatching the charger and my phone, I turn to find Lucas watching me. It isn’t lost on me that his eyes are currently gazing at my lower region, my legs specifically. Popping a hip, I clear my throat to grab his attention, and he startles with a slow blush gracing his olive skin.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “You can’t blame a guy for looking.”
“Would you like me to spin? Do a little catwalk?” I tease, but I would do it if he asked. Which should feel wrong, yet it doesn’t.
“Shut up. It’s nice to see you in your glasses.”
An eye roll and dismissive hand is my response before looking at my phone. I have a few missed calls and half a dozen texts. Plugging in my phone, I settle back into the bed before tapping my screen. The calls are from my mom, which also explains the texts from Jessi warning of my mother’s attempts to reach me.
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Lucas sets his book down and turns his attention to me. Like I can concentrate with him shirtless and wearing glasses.
“Just my mom. I’ll call her tomorrow, it’s late.” I’m talking more to myself than Lucas as I tap out a quick text to Jessi.
Me: I didn’t take my phone to dinner. Sorry!
Jessi: Your mom is all freaked out that you’re a runaway bride.
Me: She’s a little dramatic.
Jessi: Well, I mean if the running shoe fits . . .
Me: Hey! This was YOUR idea!
Me: I’ll call her tomorrow.
Jessi: Eh, I told her you were on some spiritual journey and finding your Zen or some shit.
Me: Uh, thanks?
Jessi: I had on the Housewives and they were doing yoga. Seemed like a valid response so I went with it.
Me: Saved by reality TV. Thanks.
Jessi: Are you lonely in your room?
Me: Not exactly.
Jessi: OMG! Whitney Nicole Wheeler! You dirty girl.
Me: Please. I’m in my own bed. I better go. I’m being rude.
Jessi: I’m totally down for a payback fuck. Go for it!
Me: Say goodnight, Jessi.
Jessi: Goodnight, Jessi.
“Everything okay?”
Reading is not happening tonight, so I set my tablet down as I snuggle into my bed and turn on my side to face Lucas. While he waits for my response, he follows suit and mimics my position.
“Yeah, my mom’s worried and Jessi’s running interference. I’ll call my mom tomorrow and calm her down.”
Nodding, he reaches over and flips the switch on the lamp. The room is pitch black immediately, and it takes a few blinks for my eyes to adjust. I consider continuing our conversation but think better of it.
“Night, Lucas.”
“Sweet dreams, Whit.”
I’m not certain how sweet my dreams will be, but they’ll likely star a shirtless eyeglass-wearing stripper who smells like mint and makes me believe there are good guys in this world.
Slowly opening my eyes, I stretch my arms above my head and point my toes toward the bottom of the bed. It’s been a long time since I’ve slept that soundly. This bed must be made of angel wings or something, because it is heaven. Yep, I totally said that. I’m not even sorry.
Glancing over, Lucas’s bed is empty with the covers pulled up like he made it. He makes his hotel bed. Who knew there were two of us? I always make my bed, even in a hotel. The room is quiet except for the sound of the shower running. Thoughts of Lucas showering send a shiver up my spine. A shiver I have no right to. A shiver that is highly inappropriate for an engaged woman, but a woman I am, and that man is sex personified, and I would have to be without a pulse to ignore him.
Ignoring the full bladder begging me to barge in on his shower and relieve it, I instead grab my phone to check the time. It’s not too early, so I might as well bite the bullet and call my mom.
The phone doesn’t make it a full ring before she’s answering in a huff. “Whitney Nicole. Where are you?”
When Jessi or any of the girls use my full name, I’m okay with it. I find it funny. With my mom
? Yeah, I’m eight years old again. “Momma.” That always makes her feel good.
“Don’t you Momma me, Whitney. Where are you? Trenton is going insane with worry . . .” The rest of her rant is white noise at the realization the cheating bastard called my parents. How dare he? He knows damn well my mother will lose her mind if there’s a possibility this wedding isn’t happening. “Daughter? Are you there?”
“Did you just call me ‘daughter’? Really, Mom?”
“Cut the shit, Whitney. When are you coming home? Your wedding is in five days. There is too much to be done for you to have cold feet. Suck it up and get your ass home. Your cousins and the rest of the family start arriving tomorrow. You are not leaving me alone with Aunt Carla.”
“Mother, she’s your sister.”
“Yeah well, she’s a pain in the ass. Probably going to wear white. That would be just like her . . .” More white noise as she rambles on about my aunt and her need to be the center of attention. I love Aunt Carla and wouldn’t consider getting married without her there.
With my phone nestled between my ear and shoulder, I start picking at my cuticle when a cloud of steam fills the room, and I look up to see Lucas walking in from the shower. Dressed in a pair of shorts and yet another snug T-shirt, he’s drying his hair with a towel, and when he catches my eye, a bright smile takes over his face.
Zing.
Zang.
Electricity.
It.
“Are you listening to me?” My mom’s shrill draws my attention back to the call, and I hold my finger up to my lips telling Lucas to be quiet. With a nod, he turns back toward the bathroom, and I turn my attention back to my mother. A little arguing, a few promises, and a guarantee I will be back for the wedding day, my call with my mom ends.
“It’s all clear.”
Lucas returns to the room, the smile now a smirk as he arches a brow to me and says, “I feel like a dirty secret.”
Rolling my eyes, I toss my phone on the bed and hop from the bed with the bathroom my mission. As I pass him, I tap his arm with a smile. “Not much dirty happening here but secret, yes.”
As I enter the bathroom, I swear I hear him say something about getting dirty and a little flutter hits me right in the lower belly.
Portland is everything I hoped it would be and more. I don’t know why, but since I watched an episode of my favorite show on the food channel, I have always wanted to come here. Not only is this city known for its hipster vibe, but it has this beauty about it that makes me relax instantly.
I’ve grown up in California and know the beauty my state offers. The beaches, the mountains, and the desert are all only a car ride away. But the state of Oregon is that to infinity. Here in Portland, I have a desire to do so many things. I want to take walks, shop, go on a wine tasting tour, and most importantly, I want to go to the famous doughnut shop with the bright pink graphics before and after we visit as many food carts as humanly possible. Yep, I came to Portland to drink and eat.
Lucas pulls into the hotel parking lot, and before we exit, I turn to him and place a hand on his forearm. “I just wanted to say thank you. For convincing me to come with you and for being so kind.”
“We’re friends, Whit. I’m glad it all worked out.”
A nervous flutter hits me quickly, and I quickly remove my hand from his and turn to open the door when I feel his hand on mine.
Zing.
Zang.
Electricity.
It.
“Are you okay?” His voice reflects his concern for me, and it makes me feel good. After speaking to my mom earlier, I wondered if I’d have the guts to tell everyone what happened, to call off the wedding if that’s what I choose. I didn’t think it was possible. But here, with Lucas, I know I have people in my corner, people who care about me and who will make sure I’m okay.
Smiling, I nod and turn my attention back to opening the door. Grateful we won’t be sharing a room tonight, I hop down from the truck with a slight thud. Grace is not my middle name. Lucas laughs behind me, and I roll my eyes in response as I shut the door.
“Where do you put it all?”
Swallowing down a bite of my taco, I take a pull from my beer bottle before answering. I do have some manners. “My left leg, obviously.”
“So sassy. Come on girl, finish up that taco. I need to walk while I eat. This body has to be on stage in a few days.”
Finishing my taco in two bites, I toss my trash in a nearby garbage can as we walk through Portland’s own food-cart world. It was like stepping into an alternate universe. A universe where amazing food from all over the world convenes to create an absolute heaven. Fried food, grilled food, steamed food. It’s all here, in perfect harmony, and my food-loving self considers living here in the future so I can eat all this goodness regularly.
We walk for a few minutes, Lucas commenting on how many crunches he’s going to have to do to counteract the funnel cake I’m demanding we find. Suddenly, a guy on a skateboard flies in front of us. It takes a few beats for me to realize Lucas has grabbed my hand to tug me away from the wayward boarder. But then I notice he didn’t let go of my hand as we walk, and my heart leaps.
Leaps in my throat and down to my belly. Nervousness and excitement run through my veins, and I know I shouldn’t love it. I shouldn’t be smiling like a loon at the thought of a man, not my fiancé, holding my hand. But I do it nonetheless, and it’s at that moment Lucas must realize it too, because he drops my hand like a hot potato.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Don’t apologize. I didn’t mind. I probably should though.”
He doesn’t respond, and I don’t press the issue. Instead, we walk for a few more minutes, but when we find the funnel cake cart, it no longer sounds appetizing, and I pass on the yummy dessert and suggest we head back to our rooms.
“I have another idea,” he says, pausing and looking left to right before turning his gaze to me. “Let’s go have a few drinks. Tomorrow we head home, and I’m not sure when we’ll see each other again. I’d like to relax and have some laughs with my friend. What do you say?”
I shouldn’t. This is a bad idea. Me, Lucas DeCosta, and liquor is asking for trouble.
“I’m in.”
“No way, Jose.” This fool is out of his damn mind. A shot of whiskey. What the hell kind of nonsense is this?
“Oh, tequila. You want tequila. I can get tequila shots.”
“Lucas, seriously. No. Just a martini, and I’m good. No shots needed.”
Sighing in resignation, he rises from his seat across from me and goes to the bar to order us a few drinks. When I agreed to go for a drink, I thought we’d go to the bar in the hotel lobby or maybe the sports bar we passed on our way to the food carts. Then Lucas stopped a couple enjoying an amazing aromatic gyro, and while I contemplated my fourth meal of the evening, he secured a recommendation for a popular local watering hole.
At first glance, I didn’t see the door for the establishment. Painted black and blending in with the brick of the building, the door has a simple “22” marked on it like an address. When we opened the door, it was dark and took a few blinks to adjust to the darkness. Bluesy music wafted through the room as people spoke in hushed volumes. Stepping up behind me, Lucas placed a hand on my lower back and guided me toward an empty booth in the corner.
I’m sure to most of the people in the room, we look like any young couple on a date. What they don’t know, what Lucas doesn’t know, is I’m enjoying his hand on me a little too much. As I take my seat, the overhead lights catch the ring on my left hand, and I pause slightly before sitting down. Guilt hits me like a sledgehammer.
Then anger. Anger directed toward Trenton, and anger toward myself for even feeling guilty for being here with Lucas. For loving the idea of people thinking we’re a couple, and we’re here together. Wishing I didn’t have this ring on so maybe for one night I could see what it’s like to be with someone who listens to me. Someone
who sees the person I’ve always been, the girl I was ten years ago and the woman I am now.
Without a second thought, I slide the ring from my finger and slip it into my pocket. Who knew a simple act like that could lift the guilt from my shoulders instantly? How can I even consider going through with this marriage when I’m giddy at the thought of spending the next few hours with Lucas? I’m literally the worst person ever.
“What’s with the sad face?” A chilled martini glass slides in front of me, and without hesitation, I pick it up and finish off most of the cocktail in one drink. And then I cough up half a lung, because martinis are strong and basically lighter fluid.
“Dang girl,” he teases while bringing his glass of amber liquid to his lips.
Smiling, I shrug and take a much more dignified sip of my martini as Lucas goes into a story of growing up with a grandfather who loved R&B music. I’ve never taken the time to truly listen to the music but must admit the beat has me swaying in my seat as I drain the rest of my drink before popping the olive in my mouth.
Trenton would rather run a mile without shoes on the hottest day of summer than sit in a bar like this, a throwback speakeasy where people are here to be with one another, to converse, and be in the moment rather than be seen. The realization of who the man I’ve chosen to marry is, well, it’s less than desirable. That is not the kind of person I want to spend my life with, but I’ve been so focused on the perfection of our life I didn’t realize how much of me I was giving up for him.
I’ve striven for perfection. Demanded it. Planned it. Wished it. I was wrong. Perfection isn’t a plan or a way of life, it’s living the best life there is for you. With the people who love you, the life you choose is perfect because it’s your best life.
“Okay,” Lucas deadpans, taking the glass from my hand and placing it on the table. Double blinking, I look up to him as he stands and extends his hand. “You’re way too serious in your own head; we’re dancing.”
“No way. I have two left feet and you’re a professional.” My head is shaking a big fat no so quickly it may fly right off my shoulders.
I Don't: A Romantic Comedy Page 7
