by Scott, S. L.
Melanie laughs but catches herself and stops. She really does have an asshole of a boss, so she has to be careful about personal calls at work. “I’ll tell you over drinks later. How was your time with the infamous Ethan Everest?”
“Is he infamous now?”
“Famous. Infamous . . . both work.”
“What do you mean famous?”
“Stop holding back. Cough up the details. I have to go soon.”
“Fine.” I roll my eyes, but those pesky tingles take over and my excitement bubbles up. I have no idea why I torture myself like this over a guy I won’t have a future with. “Sadly, it was better than any date I’ve been on in a long time. We laughed. We talked a lot. It was fun. Different.”
“Why sadly then?”
My bubbles . . . every last one of them pop. “He only wants to be friends. He made it more than clear. He’s on a love embargo, so things were left simmering after the boil of the first few hours.”
“Oh, honey. Men don’t know what they want. You’ll just have to show him.”
The door to the break room opens, and I whisper, “I’ve got to go, but text me later?”
“On it. Bye.”
“Bye.” I tuck my phone back in my pocket and push the espresso button on the fancy coffeemaker.
My boss walks into the break room—mid-twenties, manicured beard, and a custom suit I’ve not seen before. Chip Newsome’s suits cost two months’ of my rent. He oh-so-kindly let me know that once when we accidentally bumped together in the elevator after it jolted and my coffee spilled a drop or two on him. He’s not hideous, but he’s definitely not the type I’m attracted to.
Two things determine his Monday morning mood: if he got laid over the weekend and if his sports team won or lost. He can be a total asshole or a great guy. So I never know what I’m walking into until I’m already knee-deep.
“Good morning, Singer,” he chirps.
He got laid.
He hands me my freshly brewed espresso and asks, “How was your weekend?”
His team won.
“It was good. And yours?”
“Fantastic! The Red Sox won, and I ran into an old friend. Someone I haven’t seen in a while.”
I almost giggle. I’ve got him nailed—well, I guess he got himself nailed—but I keep the inside joke to myself, not wanting to ruin his good mood. I also note the order in which he described his weekend—sports before pleasure. “Oh really? That’s great.”
He pours a cup of coffee and dumps in three packets of sugar along with two creamers. With both of us mesmerized by the stirring of his coffee, offhandedly, I say, “Sounds like a dream girl.”
“Yeah.” He keeps his eyes on the cup in front of him. “Let’s hope we make it to playoffs.”
“Yes. The playoffs indeed.” I don’t even know what I’m saying, but men are obsessed with sports, and he’s making me think of Ethan with this sports talk.
He walks to the door and with his back to me, says, “Make sure you’re ready for the meeting at noon.”
“Will do,” I reply not as chipper. As I burn holes into his back, I have no idea what meeting he’s so not thoughtfully scheduled at lunchtime. No wonder I’ve lost ten pounds since starting this job last year.
When I return to my desk, a package sits squarely on top of it. I’m about to take it to Chip’s office since packages that come to this department are for him, but I’m stopped when I see the name on top: Singer Davis.
My gaze darts to the return address first. It was sent from a store here in the city, but I don’t recognize the name. Grabbing my scissors, I cut the seal. As soon as I lift the flaps, my smile is instant. Inside the box, covered with tissue paper is a navy blue hat with the Astros emblem on the front. Smiling too wide to hide my happiness, I sit down, rest the hat on top of my head, and pull the card out to read:
Singer,
Saw this and thought you could use the upgrade.
See you around,
Ethan
I’m not sure what to make of this present, but it makes me smile even bigger than I am already. I text Melanie: I just got a gift from Ethan. A baseball hat.
She replies: Told you so.
Me: Nope. Just friends. ‘I can’t practice with you’ = Only friends.
Melanie: I don’t know what that means. We’ll talk later. Boss called me into the office. Ugh!
Thinking of bosses, I tuck the note back inside the box and open my calendar to prepare for today’s meeting.
* * *
By the time I walk into the Mexican restaurant, Melanie already has margaritas in place with an extra bowl of salsa for me. I grab a chip as I sit down. “Thanks for being my best friend and knowing when I need tequila and when I need wine.” I eat the chip and sip my drink.
“Crappy Monday?”
“Typical Monday.”
“That’s the worst. I almost walked out of the office three times today with no intention to return.”
“What stopped you?”
“Remembering I have bills to pay.”
“How did we end up doing exactly what we didn’t want to do?” I ask and sip my drink. “We could have done this back in Boulder.”
“We’d be living better there compared to the cost of living here.” Melanie’s the best at giving the real deal and laying out reality. “It’s this city, Sing. I’m telling you.” She sighs. “If I didn’t have such a great date this weekend, I’d be moving at the end of the lease.”
“So I’m not enough to keep you here, but one hot date and you’re staying?”
“Two dates. We’ve set up another.”
“It must have been some first date to get you to commit to a second last minute.”
“It was.” Her gaze gets all dreamy as she looks to the colorful lights covering the ceiling and smiles. When her eyes land back on me, she says, “I might be in love.”
What? “Wait a minute. Back up. Umm . . . okay, slow down there and let me catch up. Love? Like L-O-V-E love?”
“One in the same.”
As she goes on to tell me how Mike treated her like a princess and boosted her confidence in pursuing her dreams of blogging her way to success, I watch her. I watch how she smiles with sincerity tipping the corner of her lips, her eyes sparkling with excitement, and I hear hope every time she mentions his name. She’s always been pretty, but when she’s happy, the pretty shines from the inside. And if this guy makes her this happy after one date, maybe he’s the one for her.
When she looks at me, her eyebrows go up in surprise. “Are you tearing up?”
I wave her off. “Ignore me.”
“Aww.” She gets up and comes to hug me. “Is it the margarita? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s happy tears. I’m happy for you.”
She smiles as she sits back down. “Thank you. I’m happy, Sing. I feel like I’ve lost so much of myself to this city. It just eats up dreams and spits them out. But you always seem to be able to find the silver lining. I know it was my idea to come here, but it’s your determination that’s kept us here. And now with Mike . . . maybe he’s the one.”
“And selfishly, that means you’ll stay here in the city with me.”
“We make a great team.”
“A dynamic duo.”
“Enough about me,” she announces. “Tell me everything about Mr. Everest.”
Saturday in the park, Sunday at the pub, and I don’t bother leaving out any details because I know she’d harass me for them anyway. I’d do the same to her, so all’s fair in that department.
Her hand is over her mouth, but she still manages to gasp. “Singer, you have to be more than friends. You just have to. He’s given you all the signs that he’s interested. He asked you out and almost kissed you at that party last year.”
The infamous almost kiss still haunts me.
Just as we’re about to share what I feel like is going to be the first of hopefully many kisses to come, a woman pokes her head out the window an
d tugs on the sleeve of his shirt, pulling him back.
The air whooshes between us as our almost-kiss is interrupted. The model’s icy aura giving me chills. She stares at me seemingly bothered by my presence. She’s not a woman who’s denied anything she wants, and she clearly wants Ethan. Turning to him, she says, “Come back inside. Keith is looking for you. We’re doing shots and the game is almost over.”
. . . “But this year, there wasn’t a kiss or hug. There was barely a touch on my chin. But when it comes to Ethan, I don’t want to get my hopes up.” I liked that touch too much. “I had fun with him. He’s different from most guys I’ve met.” Crunching into a chip, I remember the end of my time with him. “There was no hug goodbye, not even a polite cheek kiss. Why didn’t he touch me or want to make a move? I swear we were flirting at different times, and he complimented me. I could feel our connection, yet he acts differently from what he says.” Hmpf. I rest my chin on my hand. “Oh Mel, I can’t figure him out. He’s an anomaly. He loves sports, but he didn’t ignore me during the game like the guys did in college. We even left early. Yet, I think I’ve been friend-zoned, and you know there’s no coming back from that.”
“Don’t say that. It can happen. You just have to stay in the game.”
I give her the look. She knows the look well. I’ve never been afraid to call someone out on their BS. “You’ve friend-zoned guys before they were given a chance.” To use Ethan’s favorite metaphors to back me up, I say, “They didn’t even get a first pitch. Heck, they never made it to bat, much less first base.”
“Friend-zoned, Schmend-zoned. Look, if you want to go out with him again, do it. Or don’t do it.” She spins her glass around by the base. “It’s your call at the end of the day, and I want you to be happy.”
“Maybe I don’t know him well enough to make the call, but I know when I look at the individual parts of the afternoon they don’t match. He says all the right things, except when he says he won’t practice with me. I can tell he likes me. Ugh. He’s so frustrating.”
“You’re frustrated because you like him.”
“You’ve seen him.”
“I’ve seen him, but it’s different when you speak of him. I can tell there’s more than good looks that attract you to him. I knew that after you told me about the party last year.” One perfectly shaped eyebrow rises in curiosity. “How close were you to kissing him again?”
“You play unfair.”
“No, making you see that just because he says one thing doesn’t mean that’s the end of things.”
“What do you want me to do? Chase him down like a stalker?”
Shrugging, she sips her margarita. “Whatever works for you.” Her hand slaps down on the old wood tabletop. “Let’s use the fictional world you love to live in—books—to prove my point. They’re called friends-to-lovers romances for a reason.”
“This isn’t a fairy tale. If it was, he’d swoop me off my feet and whisk me away to his penthouse, and that isn’t happening.”
“You never know.” She clinks her margarita glass against mine. “Mr. Ethan Everest might just turn out to be your Prince Charming.”
“You’re supposed to be the realist between the two of us.”
“Love can change a girl.”
6
Singer
And love did . . .
Melanie fell completely in love with Mike. It only took two weeks and she was ready for the white picket fence and two-point-five kids with him.
Her head is firmly in the clouds and her feet ten miles off the ground, walking on air. Her giddiness is usually contagious, but a certain person of the opposite sex has me all twisted, trying to decipher what the hell he wants with me—friend or lover.
As soon as Ethan returned from a business trip, he called to ask me to come to a sold-out game with him. With my wing-girl now occupied with her new boyfriend, I’m flying solo more than naught these days, so I readily accept the invite. Practice or no practice.
As soon as our eyes meet, his body starts shaking with laughter. I look down at my outfit and make sure there’s not toilet paper hanging from my jeans or some weird wardrobe malfunction. Everything appears fine. But he’s still chuckling. Instead of hello, I ask, “What?”
Facepalming himself, he shakes his head, then laughs again. “Are you trying to get my ass kicked?”
Totally confused to what is so funny, I confess, “I’m lost.”
“An Astros hat with a Yankees shirt?”
“I thought since they were both playing that I could support them both.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” I raise an eyebrow when he goes on to explain, “You have to stand by your team. Through good and bad, thick and thin—”
“Hell or high water?”
“Yes,” he replies, amused. “You have to remain steady in your support. There’s no fair-weather friends in sports. You have to be all in for your team.”
“You’ve got to do it for your country,” I joke.
He tips the bill of my cap down. “Ya goofball.”
“But you gave me the hat.” His passion over the outfit morphs into a broad and gorgeous smile. He uses it like a weapon, hitting me right in the . . . I fan myself. Damn him. “So what you’re saying is I need an Astros shirt now?”
“Yep. C’mon. My treat.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m wearing a new Astros jersey and my Yankees shirt has been stuffed inside my purse. “Looking good there, Davis.”
“Thanks,” I reply with a wiggle of my shoulders.
The fans around us are not as amused. When we get a few dirty looks as we head for our seats, I ask, “Are we going to get our asses kicked for wearing these shirts in enemy territory?”
“Let ’em try.”
His biceps flex; I’m not sure if he’s aware that they do, but I sure am. Sculpted muscle that takes time to define peeks out from under his sleeve. “Beer?” he asks.
“Yeah, sure.” My throat’s gone dry. “I’m thirsty.”
“Hey, you still with me?” Brushing against me, he asks, “Where are your thoughts?”
In the gutter. It’s not fair to react like this to a man who’s currently captaining a love embargo, but he sure makes it hard not to. “Just excited to be here.” With you.
“I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”
“It should be a good game. Even though they’re playing away, the oddsmakers have the Astros. I hear that’s uncommon.” I might have studied a few sports sites to get caught up on what’s happening with the two teams.
“I meant seeing you.” He chuckles. “But yes, it’s uncommon for the Astros to get any support. They’re scrappy this year.”
Our gazes hold a few seconds before I start to ask, “Yeah, scrappy . . . What happened to just being fri—” I’m knocked sideways as some guy sideswipes me to the right when he barges between Ethan and me.
A strong hand grabs my wrist before I fall back any farther. I’m righted and my hand goes to cover my chest, which hurts from the impact. Concern—a deeper shade of the usual green—colors his eyes as they peer into mine. In a swift move, he closes the distance to the guy and knocks him on the shoulder. “Watch where you’re fucking walking.”
The balding Yankees fan is a few years older and bigger than Ethan in size, though not in height. “What’d you say to me?”
“You knocked my girlfriend. Watch where you’re walking.”
Girlfriend rings in my ears, so loud that I almost don’t hear the other guy.
“Fuck you, fucking Astros.” The guy spits at Ethan’s feet, his buddies laughing.
“Be careful how you speak to me. Your insubordination will not be tolerated.”
“What the fuck?” the guy mutters, confused as he looks to his buddies. “Insubordination?”
“Apologize to her and then watch where you’re fucking walking next time.” The growl in Ethan’s voice rumbles from his chest, anger tightening the muscles in his neck.
The
man must realize he’s met his match because he looks at me, and says, “Sorry about running you down. I wasn’t paying attention.”
Still holding my chest, I nod and shift uncomfortably under everyone’s attention. Ethan says, “Thank you.”
“Whatever,” is heard as the guy walks away.
“Are you okay?” Ethan asks, approaching me.
“Fine. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did,” he replies lighter in mood. “He’ll keep plowing through the crowd if someone doesn’t stop him.”
We start walking again, and I peek up at him. “You called me your girlfriend,” I whisper.
I see the small smile before he restrains it. “You’re a girl and you’re my friend.”
“Ahh. Well, an asshole move on his part isn’t worth getting in a fight over.”
Ethan comes to a stop, a hand finding my hip while his eyes roam over my face appreciatively. “It wasn’t about him. It was about you and making sure he knew he can’t get away with hurting you.” Taking me by the hand, he adds, “C’mon. Let’s get that beer and head to our seats. The game’s going to start.”
Thoroughly confused, I tug him to a stop. “Ethan, what’s going on?”
He looks back at me quizzically. “We’re going to watch a baseball game.”
“No, with this?” I lift our hands up between us.
My hand is released. “Sorry, just protective, I guess. I know you can take care of yourself.” Nodding toward the direction we’re heading, he starts walking.
I remain in place watching him, more perplexed than ever about what this is between us, what we are to each other, and what tonight is really about. He said he’d been looking forward to seeing me. So many questions and he’s still walking away, so I jog to catch up, leave them to ask another day, or at least when we’re not on a mission for beer before a playoff game.
With a beer in hand ten minutes later, I stand next to him in front of an elevator. “Where are we going?”
His eyes are trained on the floor number above the door. “To the suites.”
