Head Over Feels

by Scott, S. L.

  “It’s good in the club. The club serves tacos every Tuesday. Do you get tacos every Tuesday?”

  “I don’t want tacos every Tuesday. I had them on Monday, and I’m pretty fucking sure they taste the same.”

  “Sex whenever you want it.”

  I cock an eyebrow for two reasons. One—I don’t want to hear about him getting sex. It’s just a reminder of how long it’s been for me. Not long for some, but for me, too long. Two—I know for a fact he doesn’t get it whenever he wants it. Cammie is in control of that relationship hands down. “You’re reaching.”

  “Very funny,” he replies humorlessly.

  Shrugging with a smirk, I say, “I have my moments.” Moving around the car, I lean against it. “As entertaining as this has been, I need to get back. I have work to do before tonight.”

  “What’s tonight?”

  “A guy who gets tacos every Tuesday and copious amounts of sex shouldn’t be interested in my boring life as a bachelor.”

  Cade pulls a face, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, Rad. If you’re not fessing up about who you love, tell me you’re finally calling that fitness model back. Just one more night living the life—”

  “Vicariously?”

  “Nah. You just seem like you need to get laid.”

  He’s probably right. My dick is messing with my head. I’m about to get in the car, but add, “And stop saying I’m in love. It could ruin my reputation.”

  “And make people think you have a heart? Don’t worry, you picked the right profession to throw ’em off the scent.”

  “Look who the funny guy is now.”

  “Back to the fitness model. Angela?” I nod, letting him have his fun. “She’s no Cammie, but damn, dude, she’s worth a callback. If you’re not calling her tonight, who are you calling, or should I say falling for?” I should have known I’d get interrogated. Even a hint of blood in the water summons the sharks.

  “I’m not going out, calling, or falling, asshole. I want to help Tealey settle in. It’s her first night at the apartment.”

  “Way to let a guy down. I thought I was going to get some juicy details.” He opens the door to the car. “Not that Tealey’s disappointing, but you know what I mean. She’s . . . just Tealey.”

  “Yeah. Just Tealey.” My throat thickens, the words leaving a bad taste in my mouth.

  Getting in his car, he starts it and rolls down the windows. “When you’re ready for your second session, give me a text.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” I open the car door. “Any words of wisdom before I go?”

  “You’re asking a guy who’s getting married soon. I’m smack dab in the middle of mixed-up emotions and taco Tuesdays.” I imagine that wasn’t the dream he had growing up.

  “So no second thoughts?”

  Cade shakes his head, his hands gripping the wheel. “Nope. I have it good, and I know it. I’m not going to lose it.”

  “Cammie’s a catch.”

  “She is.” Leaning over the console, he eyes me through the passenger side of his vehicle. “If you’re not going to tell me who the unlucky lady is, then the next time you need advice—”

  “I’ll go to Jackson.”

  Shooting me the bird, he laughs. “Probably best.”

  Chuckling, I say, “The city beckons.”

  “Thanks for slumming it. Good luck, brother.”

  “Thanks.” I’m going to need it.

  Rocks crunch under the weight of his tires when he pulls away. I stay a minute longer, taking in the view and sitting with my thoughts. I’m not in love with Tealey.

  It’s just a heavy dose of attraction.

  And complicated, like we’ve been since the moment we met. The risk outweighs everything. I’m not willing to lose what we have—and what we’re currently building—by fucking her and expecting it to be the same as it is now. That’s what will happen if we cross that line. I’d only hurt her and disappoint her. I don’t do relationships, and she doesn’t seem to go without very long.

  No way. I’m not a relationship guy.

  The screen in my car comes to life with a text from Tealey: I can’t believe you’ve never read Harry Potter.

  I start laughing and record a text to send: He played Quidditch, and I played squash. We had nothing in common to inspire me to spend that much time with him.

  Tealey: I’m impressed by the Potter reference. Thank you for lunch. The soup was good. The company, even better.

  Me: You’re welcome, but the pleasure was mine.

  Tealey: *rolling eyes emoji* Save the charm for your ladies.

  Me: I don’t have ladies, but I do know this great woman who can be quite charming herself.

  Tealey: You’re making me jealous *winky emoji*

  Me: Spoiler alert: it’s you. *winky emoji*

  Tealey: See? Charming.

  Me: I’ll take charming for $200.

  Tealey: Who is Rad Wellington?

  Love is definitely ruled out. Love can’t be this much fun. I deal with the aftermath of experiencing it every day.

  Tealey: This has been fun, but sadly, I need to run. Thanks again for lunch. It was a great surprise to see you. Maybe I’ll see you tonight if you don’t have to work too late.

  Me: We’ll see how things go. Make yourself at home.

  I drive away, letting her texts mix with Cade’s wisdom. That’s probably not a wise idea, but it’s all I’ve got, and he just might be right.

  Despite the years of friendship, Tealey’s and my relationship feels different, like riding a roller coaster that sends you soaring and your stomach dropping.

  Whatever this is, she has me seeing things, and by things, I’m referring to us, in a whole new light.

  13

  Tealey

  Moving sucks.

  Unless it’s to one of the most beautiful residential streets in Manhattan.

  The driver helped me unload the five boxes I managed to cram in the car with me, and I scooted each one inside the door to the building. Though the lobby is small, it’s airy, and it almost gives it an atrium feel instead of a place to enter or check your mail. Light floods through the black-framed floor-to-ceiling windows, and the shadows from the surrounding buildings crawl across the walls. The plants are a welcoming touch.

  I get the boxes in the elevator, and when the door opens to his apartment, I turn off the alarm system. Using one foot as a doorstop, I shuffle the boxes into the apartment.

  The elevator buzzing subsides, replaced by the sound of the door closing behind me. And then silence.

  Staring down the short hall into the space, I smile, feeling like I’ve finally made it in this city. It’s a delusion I’m perfectly content existing inside of while living here.

  I kick off my sneakers and then sashay into the living room like I’m the queen of the castle and go straight for the windows. The sun is hidden behind the tops of the buildings, but there’s enough light to see ten blocks down the avenue in one direction and probably more in the other.

  I spin in the expansive space, something I couldn’t do back at mine without stubbing a toe on the bed or futon. I feel so comfortable here that I wonder if I can ever go back to a shabby studio without remembering that time I stayed in this apartment. Anything I can afford will pale in comparison.

  So I might as well make the most of it. Taking my time, I run my fingers along the windowsill and over the console under the TV.

  The marble in the kitchen has charcoal-gray veining, reminding me of Rad’s suits and how incredible he looks in them. It’s cool to the touch and tempting to press my heated cheeks against.

  I bend down and open the wine fridge. Taking full advantage of making myself at home, I pull out the bottle he opened for me the other night. I search two cabinets before finding the one with shelves of different styles of glasses, one for anything you can imagine, from whiskey to champagne. Then I pour myself a drink.

  Sipping my wine, I explore the rest of the apartment, except Rad’s room. He left the d
oor open, but I don’t dare walk in. That would be a complete invasion of privacy. He’ll never know that I peeked, though.

  I move into my new room to plan. There seems to be plenty of room in the closet, and I feel spoiled for having my own bathroom. Setting my wineglass on the dresser, I return to the hall and drag each box back to the room, taking the time to unpack each one. Other than the rest of my clothes, I’m officially moved in.

  Not ready to settle in for the night, I top off my glass and curl up on the couch. Night falls, and though there’s cloud coverage, I love the feel of the darkness consuming the large space.

  I grab a book from my room and flip it back to where I left off . . .

  “I don’t even know your name, so more than a drink might be a bit presumptuous.”

  He sticks his hand out. “Jack Dalton. I was named after my dad’s favorite writer, and there are rumors,” he says, lowering his voice and looking around before his eyes land back on mine, “that we’re distantly related to the Dalton Gang. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Jack Dalton.” A warmth covers my cheeks and down over my chest when our hands touch. It’s ridiculous that I still blush at my age, but I do, and I might be falling for his overly confident act, something I would never do back in LA. “So you’re an outlaw, huh?”

  Dropping the smile, he looks away briefly as if checking the surroundings for eavesdroppers. His expression lightens when he turns back. “I guess you could say that, but I prefer Jack.”

  “Jack. I like Jack, but I think I’ll call you Dalton. Seems more fitting.”

  Chuckling, he says, “I can handle that.” He takes a sip of his drink, then looks me over. “Holliday is a beautiful name.”

  My heart starts to race from his sweet words and the sincerity in his eyes. “My mom was a little quirky. I think she heard it on a soap opera once or a Christmas special. My friends call me Holli. It’s more normal.”

  “Normal sounds boring, and nothing about you is boring.”

  “What are you reading?”

  The book flies from my hands and slides across the wood floor. “Rad!”

  “Hi, Tealey.”

  “Good Lord, don’t sneak up on people like that.” His tie is hanging undone along with the top two buttons of his shirt. The smile on his lips makes me think he caught me doing something naughty. Not naughty, but definitely heated.

  “I actually didn’t sneak. I walked right in and said hello.”

  My heart is still racing when I realize where it landed . . . at the toe of his right wingtip shoe. His shoes are so shiny that the book reflects against the leather. I gulp, slowly getting up as if he’s easily spooked. “Sorry I didn’t hear you,” I say, trying to sound less weird about being caught just before I was hoping to read a sexy scene. “I got lost in the story.”

  “Must be a good book.”

  “It is. Really swoony.”

  When his eyes flash to the paperback at his feet, I scramble to mine, slipping in my socks on the slick floor. I lunge for it, but he picks it up and turns it over in his hands to read the back cover copy. “The Resistance? What’s it about?”

  I don’t know why my face feels hot. It’s a romance. The world needs more love in it. “It’s, um . . . there’s this self-made heroine.”

  “You’ve got my attention.”

  “She meets a famous rock star, but she doesn’t know he’s famous.” Refusing to look him in the eyes to save me the embarrassment, I stare at his hand as he flips through the book.

  “It’s a romance novel?”

  “Yes.”

  There’s not a judgmental bone in his body or his expression right now. His interest might even be piqued by how he’s studying the pages.

  I try to swipe it from his hands, but he turns and holds it in the air. Looking up, he reads, “‘You don’t choose when. You don’t choose where. And you don’t get to choose who you fall in love with.’ Huh.” Tapping the book, he’s still looking at the cover when he hands it back to me. “What’s this guy’s name?”

  Rubbing my foot along my bunched-up socked ankle of the other, I take the book and hold it to my chest. “Jack Dalton. His rock star persona is Johnny Outlaw.”

  “The man knows what he’s talking about.” He tugs his tie off as he heads for his bedroom.

  “Yeah, he’s good with his tongue.” I clamp my hand over my mouth. “Words! He’s great with words,” I add, hoping he didn’t catch what I said. I’m quick to deliver the book to my nightstand and return, attempting nonchalance when he walks out.

  The tie is gone, and his sleeves are rolled up, revealing his sexy forearms. “My mom loves romances—books, movies, songs. She was always reading before she went to bed. She’d tell me that after a long day, a book was the perfect escape from real life.”

  “She’s right.”

  In the kitchen, he leans on the island with his palms to the marble, and says, “But can the average man live up to the expectations set by a fictional hero?”

  I enter the kitchen and stand on the other side of the island from him. “You have nothing to worry about. There’s nothing average about you.” I drop down to get the bottle, thinking I’ll just polish off the rest of the wine tonight.

  When I pop back up, he’s staring at me. I ask, “What?”

  A smile etches its way onto his face, and then he shakes his head. “Nothing.” As soon as I open my mouth, he’s already moved on—physically and literally. The bottle of bourbon is pulled from the cabinet before he grabs a lowball glass from the other. Dropping a large custom ice ball from the freezer into the crystal, he’s already pouring.

  It’s fascinating to watch him wind down. I’ve just performed the same routine to burn off the edges of the day, to dull them. It’s not a habit, but I’ll take it tonight.

  He takes the first sip, savoring it with an extended blink of his eyes. When he reopens them to find me staring, he looks at the glass shyly, and that great smile of his grows.

  “What are you thinking about?” Maybe I’m wrong for asking what seems like a standard line for a guy, but the innocence of his reaction has me so curious.

  “You. And me. Us.” It wasn’t embarrassment I saw, but thoughts of us that had him smiling like that?

  Now I’m grinning. “Care to share?” I ask, returning to the couch with the bottle. The remaining wine only fills a quarter of the glass, but that’s all I need.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Two nothings now.” I laugh. “Whatever you’re thinking about must be really good.” I drink my wine and slide my legs under me as I angle to face him.

  His eyes search the ceiling as though he’ll find the answers up there. “Do you need help unpacking?”

  “I’m good. I only brought a few boxes and have already unpacked them.”

  Checking his watch, he looks up with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Want to do something fun?”

  I glance at the clock in the kitchen. “It’s late. After ten.”

  “And we’re up anyway.”

  “It’s a Thursday?”

  “We used to party until dawn back in college on Thursday nights. Anyway,” he says, waggling his eyebrows, “no one will be the wiser. Except us.”

  “Are you wanting to go to a bar?”

  “I haven’t eaten since lunch. I found a stale protein bar in the break room around six, but it was as hard as a rock and had expired two years ago.” Rubbing his stomach, he says, “I’m starving.”

  “We should go eat. I only had a package of peanut butter crackers back at my apartment.” Excitement zips through me, and I stand. “Just give me a minute to change. I’m a mess.”

  “Don’t change a thing. You always look great.”

  Looking down at my blue yoga pants and baggy NYU sweatshirt, I reason that I’ve looked worse.

  As if he senses the debate in my head, he says, “I know this little hole-in-the-wall place. Good food. Dim lights. Great company.”

  I grin, heading to the bedroom to
retrieve my purse. “You had me at dim lights.”

  When I snatch my bag from the dresser, I catch a quick glimpse of myself in the mirror that hangs above it. Little makeup survived the day, but for some reason, I’ve never felt more beautiful.

  When I walk back out, he already has the elevator waiting. Stepping inside, I lean against the back railing. “You coming, Welly?”

  Biting his lip, he releases it, allowing a grin to spread. “Right there with you, Bell.”

  14

  Tealey

  “No one expects hot dogs. You know, like the Spanish Inquisition? Monty Python?” My shoulders drop when my joke doesn’t land, and I shake it off. “Never mind.” I take a big bite and then wipe the bun crumbs from the corner of my mouth. “Guess you weren’t a fan.”

  “I didn’t watch a lot of TV growing up. I played the hell out of Grand Theft Auto, though. My mom would have killed me if she’d known.”

  “Never played. More of a reader, in general, myself. Basically, a total nerd.”

  “I doubt that. And even if you were, there’s nothing wrong with being studious.”

  Mustard splats his shirt. “Fuck,” Rad grumbles when an air bubble loosens from the pump. “There goes this shirt.” He doesn’t let it deter him, and he covers his dog with precision.

  “Good gracious, Rad. Save some mustard for the other customers.”

  “What can I say?” He shrugs, dipping his tongue out to lick a splat on the back of his hand. “I like mustard.”

  “Understatement of the year. Do you like hot dogs because I’m not sure you have enough for that much condiment usage?”

  “Hey. Hey,” he says, nudging me lightly. “I didn’t judge your lack of condiments.” He feigns offense behind a teasing grin and cold shoulder, hiding his hot dog from me. “Leave my mustard alone, Bell.”

  Laughing, I grab my root beer and head for a table by a window. When he sits down, I say, “Fine. Since you bought dinner, I’ll honor your drowning-in-condiments-hot dog-loving-ways by making this an official hot dog judge-free zone.” I take another bite of my condiment-free-best-way-to-eat-a-hot dog late-night dinner and moan in pleasure.