by G. K. Brady
.~ * * * ~.
Later that evening, barefoot, in shorts and a baggy tee, Paige reclined on her couch, her computer open on her lap and a cool breeze ruffling her white cotton curtains. She glanced at her phone. No call from Adrian since yesterday, only a brief text saying he was slammed. She sent her mom the obligatory email, then sipped a cold glass of chardonnay. An old black-and-white played on TV, but her eyes were glued to her computer screen, where she read about Beckett Miller’s amazing rookie season and studied a picture of the tousle-haired future self-anointed champion of the all-nighters. Looks like he did in college. She read on, about his streak to the top, his fan-favorite appearances at all-star games, the awards he’d won throughout the years—the Norris for best defensemen, the Hart Memorial for the most valuable player to his team—and about his charity work in LA and Denver. She also read about his hockey camp, which had closed suddenly. Families’ deposits were still being refunded.
Pictures of Beckett smiling beside heartbreakingly sick children in hospital beds were everywhere, along with gap-toothed mite hockey players. Why hadn’t he bragged about it over coffee?
Then she read the other stories—clips about bar brawls and arrests in the middle of the night on suspicion of drugs or alcohol that didn’t stick, lurid tabloid tales of his affairs with celebrities or somebody’s famous wife, and his breakup with Yamila Hesham after she found him in bed with Somebody-Whose-Name-Paige-Couldn’t-Pronounce.
In recent years, the sordid stories grew more frequent. As she looked at his image staring back at her with a “come on, I dare you” look, she tried to reconcile that man with the one she’d had coffee with.
“You have been on a long, slow tumble to the bottom, Beckett Miller,” she said aloud.
She finished with a YouTube video about Lacy Delgado, whose heavy cocaine use one night in January triggered heart arrhythmia and landed her in the ICU. No pictures from that event, thankfully, though there were some of pretty, dark-haired Lacy on a boat with her family and a stock photo of clean-cut, square-jawed Beckett Miller in suit and tie. The all-American. With disdain, a female commentator wrapped the story with, “Time will tell if Lacy prevails in her lawsuit, though nothing will take away the pain of that night. Someday Beckett Miller won’t be able to skate away from responsibility. He will pay the price.”
The bill just came due.
A sudden dislike for the smug reporter surged in Paige’s gut. She threw back her wine, switched off the lamp, and went to bed, questions buzzing like angry wasps in her head.
CHAPTER 9
Don’t Let Me Be Lonely Tonight
A week later, Beckett pulled into a coffee shop parking lot beside Andie’s Tacoma and turned off his pickup. She hopped out of her truck with a portfolio and a smile that shot to her eyes.
“You look like the cat who ate the cream. Or the canary. Or something tasty.”
“I’m pretty excited for you, Beckett,” she said with an outstretched hand. He debated yanking her into a hug but kept it to a cordial shake.
The aroma of roasting coffee filled his nose when they walked in, and he realized he was in the same coffee shop where the barista had given him her number. He couldn’t remember her name, just the heart over it. She wasn’t there now—and no leggy brunettes on the patio either. He blew out a relieved breath.
Andie bought their drinks—she wouldn’t take no for answer, but she did it in such a sweet way that he couldn’t argue without being a total dick.
They carried their coffees to a table by a window that overlooked the parking lot. When they sat, he slid his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on.
She looked up at him and frowned. “What’s different?”
“Huh?” He pushed on the bridge of the glasses self-consciously.
Another smile. “It’s the glasses! They make you look smart.”
“I don’t look smart without them?”
“No, professor, you don’t,” she teased.
“I’ll have you know I earned that marketing degree from DU—with honors, even.”
“Well, good for you.” She shuffled through a stack of papers she’d pulled from her pouch. She looked up at him then, and he must have been frowning because her features softened. “I mean, that’s really something, especially when you had to split your time between hockey and studies.”
Was she humoring him? Funny. Most people were genuinely impressed by that factoid. Oh, duh. Maybe not so impressive to a smart girl who went to DU on a merit scholarship.
She took a sip of her coffee. “I’ll present these in the order I got them. This first one is under asking price, and the buyers need to finance the purchase. They want to close in sixty days.”
She slid that offer off the stack toward him and waited.
“Okay.”
“This one,” she pointed, “is from a couple who attended the open house a few days ago. They called last night and asked me to write the offer on their behalf. It’s cash, full asking, no inspection, and they want to move in two weeks. I really can’t come out and say they’re motivated, but just connect the dots and read between the lines, which should be easy to do with your smart glasses and all.”
He whistled softly, and she pushed that one at him too.
“The third one is over asking, they will finance with fifty-percent down, and they want to close in a month.”
Impressed, he flipped through all three without really seeing them. No wonder Marty and Claudia sang her praises.
“Good job.” He looked into self-satisfied, light green cat eyes. “Which one do you think I should go with?”
“Your priority has to be price, though I know you want to close quickly too. But I worry you won’t have enough to cover the IRS lien after paying off your loan, and I don’t want you bringing money to the table. So we have to get the maximum.”
Warmth percolated in his chest—she had his back. He nodded again. “So the first one’s out.”
“Agreed, which leaves offers two and three. Two is cash, which makes it strongest, and they can close fast. But if you’re willing to ride out three’s financing condition and longer closing time, the difference in price should cover the lien and save you bringing money to closing. You might get to keep a little.”
“Three, then?”
“Well, I have another idea. We counter two and ask them to match three’s price. If they accept, you’ll have the best of all worlds: cash, a quick close, and no out-of-pocket.”
“But they might walk if we counter, right?”
“Not likely, but it’s always possible.”
“I like cash, and I like two weeks. I like their offer best. Besides, you’ll keep the whole commission and make more.” He grinned.
She opened and closed her mouth a few times.
“Is that not okay with you?” he asked.
“How much I make shouldn’t be one of your deciding factors unless it affects your bottom line.”
“For a businesswoman, you don’t make a lot of cents. Get it? I know. Bad.” He got the eye-roll he was after. “Seriously, I want offer two. Where do I sign?”
“That’s it? No counter?”
“No counter. I want this done. Over.” He signed where she told him to, then she signed and tucked everything back in the pouch.
The muscles in his upper body uncoiled, and a tickle rose from his gut, making him suddenly giddy. “I’d like to take you to dinner tonight to celebrate.” Who better to celebrate with than the person who had lifted this particular load from his shoulders? They were on the same team, and they’d won. It was as much—no, it was more her victory than his. He was merely a teammate who’d chipped in; she had put the team on her back and carried it across the finish line. And she deserved to be lauded.
She bit her lower lip and frowned, like she was looking for an excuse to say no.
“Your husband won’t like it?” he prodded.
“I don’t think so.”
Beckett enjoyed bei
ng around her—she made him feel … Hell, he couldn’t put words to it. Though a definition eluded him, he didn’t want to let go of the feeling. Not yet. The more he contemplated sharing a meal and a glass of wine with her, the more determined he grew. “But I’m a client. Don’t you ever dine with clients?”
“Sometimes, but they’re usually not so …”
“Intelligent-looking?”
She puffed and shook her head. “Yeah, that’s it. Intelligent-looking.”
Beckett shrugged. “So invite him.” Maybe her husband wasn’t as big a dick as he’d seemed, and if it meant doing a happy dance with her, Beckett was all in. They could laugh loud enough to drown the son of a bitch out, if it came to that.
She dropped her gaze. “He’s out of town.”
Beckett grew even giddier, pursing his lips to keep the grin from overtaking his face. “So keep me company. There’s a place I’ve been wanting to try. It’s casual, and they’re supposed to have really good farm-to-table food. I know the chef—he used to work for me—and he does a great job. What do you say? I’ll have you home before you turn into a pumpkin.”
“I’ll go, but only if you let me buy.”
“No.”
After more haggling, he let her convince him to split it. God, she was stubborn! But in the end, he caved. She didn’t want it to look inappropriate. She hadn’t said so, but he got it. He had on his smart glasses after all.
.~ * * * ~.
Hours later, after squaring away the offers, catching up with Norm, and prettifying herself—paying a little more attention to her appearance than the dinner meeting might’ve warranted—Paige sat at an open-air table in a courtyard lit with lanterns and twinkle lights beside a splashy stone fountain. Two stemmed glass globes filled with wine the color of ripening blackberries were perfectly placed on a crisp white tablecloth. Beside the glasses stood a half-full wine bottle and a white votive with a flame that swayed in the warm breeze. That same breeze caressed her skin and made her feel a little too tingly. The weather was perfect, the ambience was perfect, and her companion was … well, while he was perfect-looking, he was so not the perfect one. She sat on tenterhooks, reminding herself that while Adrian wasn’t perfect either, it was his ring she wore.
Right now Mr. Perfect-Looking was doing something inside the restaurant—gathering phone numbers?—and the mantra that she was just having dinner with a client could not overcome mulish guilt.
Beckett strode out of the restaurant’s interior with the loping gait of a man comfortable in his own skin. His ice-blue eyes were on her the entire way, recalling the predatory look from the underwear ad. She darted her gaze to the lights, the fountain, a diner’s bald head—my, how it reflects the light—holding out until Beckett loomed opposite her.
“You all right? You look a little tense.” He slid into his seat.
Am I that obvious? “Just tired.”
“Here.” He poured a little more wine in her goblet, scooted it toward her, and raised his glass. “To new friendships.”
How could she not drink to that? It tasted smooth and fruity, like dark cherry velvet.
“That dress looks good on you.” He caught her off guard.
“Um, thank you.” She was in a black vintage floral she rarely wore because, while she loved it, Adrian said it made her look like a San Francisco Bohemian. Whatever that meant. It hadn’t struck her as a good thing. “So. Tell me about living in LA.”
“No,” he said. “Tonight we talk about you. It’s my turn for twenty questions.”
“You’re not wearing your glasses. I’m not sure you’re smart enough to follow along.”
“Ha! I don’t need them to hear. Just to read small print.”
The synopsis of her life took a nanosecond. “Born to a single mother, raised in Denver, graduated from DU a year after you, started a business, got married.” How vanilla. How embarrassing.
Buttering his bread, he said, “So an overachieving only child, raised solo by your mom.”
“More like two moms. My grandma was widowed, and she did most of the raising. Mom was a bit of a free spirit, and flitted in and out of our lives. But Grandma had her feet firmly rooted. And thank God for that. She was my role model.”
“And now?” He tore off a hunk of bread and chomped.
“Grandma died when I was in high school, and Mom … well, Mom pretends a little harder to be a mom now, but in the end, it’s no different. I couldn’t keep up with the boyfriends, so I stopped trying. I’m in touch with her every couple of weeks.” As much as possible, the contact was through email—much less awkward than phone calls. Email also helped Paige contain painful reminders of her absent mom, an unknown dad, and dulled the ache of missing Grandma.
“Christ, I’m sorry. Sounds like your grandma gave you your responsible side. What about your creative side? Is that from her too?”
“My creative side?”
He chomped some more and took a healthy sip of wine. “Yeah. Of course. How else do you take a piece of sh—crap house and turn it into Marty and Claudia’s place? If that’s not creative, I don’t know what is.” He pointed his knife at her. “And when I’m back on my feet and it’s time to buy another house, I want one of yours. Assuming I’m in Denver.”
The breadth of the compliment blindsided her, snatching her breath, and her cheeks flared hot. Is he for real?
“So you’re like the people on TV,” he continued. “What’s the term they use? It reminds me of a dolphin.”
She burst out with a laugh, giving her nervousness release. “Flippers?”
“Flippers.” He nodded. “What’s your favorite part about what you do?”
She bit her lip and looked up at a dark square between the patio lights. “I love making something out of nothing—transforming the dog of the street into a nice home for someone. Everybody wins.”
“What do you do besides work?”
“I volunteer at the Wildlife Animal Sanctuary when I can.”
“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been. Tigers and lions and bears, oh my.”
“That’s the one.”
He looked at her as if appraising her. A mischievous smile crept up his cheeks. “Do you like sports?”
“Besides hockey? A few.”
“Good answer. Such as?”
“Baseball.”
He dropped his knife, and it clattered on his plate. “Baseball? Seriously? At least you could have picked a fast-moving game, like basketball.”
“Oh please! It takes them fifteen minutes to play two minutes. And the drama!”
He chuckled. “You’ve got a point there. But really, baseball? That’s the world’s most boring sport.”
“It’s not the most boring sport. Golf is. And when you have a pitcher’s duel or lots of runs, a baseball game is really exciting. I used to play softball. Shortstop.”
He sat back as if shoved. “Get out! When?”
“Middle school. Didn’t have time in high school, but I still love it. Norm and I have been talking about forming a team with the crew. It would be a blast.”
Beckett sat forward again and attacked another piece of bread. “I’d come watch you play, cheer you on. Golf is not boring, by the way—not when you’re the one golfing.”
It took her a moment to process what he’d said: he’d come watch her play. Why? Even Adrian hadn’t expressed interest in her hatching a team. Sorta like his lack of interest in any of my projects.
Warmth spread from her center outward along her limbs. Her heart seemed to expand and reach toward Beckett. The tingling suddenly ratcheted up, and she shifted, crossing her legs. Time for a diversion. “Speaking of golf, hockey, and baseball, between Happy Gilmore, Field of Dreams, and Bull Durham, which is your favorite?”
He tilted his head. “I don’t remember hockey being part of this conversation.”
“A technicality. You’re a hockey player, so it’s automatically part of the conversation.”
His eyes slid to the fount
ain. “So you’re into older movies?”
“I wouldn’t classify those as ‘older.’ Forties and fifties black-and-white—those are older and the best, in my opinion. No matter the era, if it’s a classic, it’s timeless.”
He scrunched his face. “I agree with you on old black-and-whites. But you’re saying Happy Gilmore is a timeless classic?”
She laughed. “Not when you put it that way.”
“I love Field of Dreams, but I have to go with Bull Durham.”
She pumped her fist. “Yes! That’s my favorite sports movie of all time. Best lines, best clichés.” Best table sex ever!
“I learned how to answer interview questions watching that movie,” he snickered. “As for baseball, maybe we should go to a game sometime so you can explain it to me.” He waggled his eyebrows, and a spark zinged her where it ought not to have. She clenched her crossed legs.
“You’re on,” she rasped. Oh dear God! Why did I say that? Her wineglass was back at her lips.
“All right. Next client dinner. Jesus, baseball. You are buying the hot dogs, right? And the beer? When’s Adrian back?”
“Uh, Sunday.”
“Good. Marty and Claudia are hosting a small barbecue Saturday, and I don’t want to go alone, but there’s no one I want to take. And they love you, so they’ll actually let me in if you’re with me. My mouth is running, and I can’t catch it. I’m ordering another bottle of wine. Is the cabernet okay, or do you want something else?”
An invisible hand had her by the nose and was yanking her head up, down, all around, as though she tracked a drunk dragonfly. That invisible hand belonged to a tornado named Beckett Miller.
She shook her head. “How does anyone keep up with you?”
“You’re keeping up just fine,” he said smoothly. “So you’re good with the cab, and I’ll pick you up at three?”
“Um, the cab’s fine, but my truck goes in for a checkup, so Saturday won’t work.”
