I’m glad Katie doesn’t ask about more kids.
Whether I want them.
Whether Abby’s dreams align with any potential reality.
It’s not exactly the easiest conversation to have with a woman I just slept with. Or took out on a date. Was tonight a date? It felt a little like one at the costume shop and the lounge.
“She definitely does,” I say, then serve my after-midnight guest her late dinner, handing her a red-and-white-checkered napkin and a fork. “Here you go, ma’am, courtesy of the chef extraordinaire at Harlan’s Late-Night Diner of Deliciousness.”
“Why thank you very much, sexy chef,” she says, then adds a little coyly, “I hope there’s dessert on the menu.”
I scoff as I sit next to her, setting a plate down for me too. “Of course you get multiple desserts, sweetheart.”
She takes a bite, then moans. “Mmm. This is delish. Also, you can screw like a very sexy beast,” she says with a naughty grin, and I shoot her an approving nod for using the best term ever. “Plus, you can show a woman a good time, and you can change positions on the football field. What’s that all about, Mister Running Back Turned Receiver? I read the news reports when you switched, but was curious if you liked it better.”
I key in on one delicious detail she just revealed. “Ah, so you read about me? While you were off in Los Angeles being a flamingo in your tree pose or what-have-you, and sassing everyone with your funny yoga sayings?”
Her smile lights up the block. “So you read about me too?”
I shrug, all offhand and casual. “I checked you out from time to time.”
She dips her face, hiding a smile. Funny—Katie is not a shy woman. Not at all. But her temporary display of it is insanely adorable.
“I like that image,” she says, all soft and vulnerable. That’s something she’s been a lot of today but now she’s vulnerable about us.
And I like it.
Except, I can’t like it too much.
The timing is still all wrong.
As much as I want to ask her out, not only am I leaving for training camp, but she’s clearly not in the place for how about dinner next month when I’m back?
At least, I don’t think so.
“And I like the image of you looking me up now and then,” I say, taking another bite of the eggs, then move on to her question. “To answer, I love being a receiver. I played both positions in college, but receiver is way more fun than running back. Plus, there are many, many more opportunities for play-making when you have a passing QB. Which is most of the QBs these days, so it’s a helluva good time.”
“But is that why the team switched you? So it’d be more fun?”
Laughing, I shake my head. “No, that’s just a bonus that I dig. The coach had the idea after a game several years ago against the Hawks. Cooper was throwing to Jones, but he was swarmed by the secondary. I was open. Coop threw to me instead, and I ran it in for a touchdown. About a thirty-yard pass.”
“And that did it?”
“Started it at least. The next game we had an injured receiver, so I stepped into the role again. Boom. It was like magic.”
She grins, a little bit like she’s keeping a secret. “Definitely.”
I nudge her with my elbow, quirk a brow. “What’s that look for? Like you’ve got an ace up your sleeve?”
She raises her face, her smile magnetic. “Just that I’ve seen your games. You and Cooper are definitely like magic.”
That makes me feel damn good. Sure, my stats tell me I’m good at my job. The results make it clear. Two rings don’t lie either, especially since I was MVP in one of those games. But hell, hearing a woman you’re hot for say she admires the way you work elicits a special kind of thrill.
Because football isn’t just a game. It’s my livelihood. It’s my passion. It’s the thing that’s made me tick my whole damn life.
But . . . what will I do without it?
All good things come to an end, and eventually, this game will too.
The last thing I want is to overstay my welcome.
I do not want to be the guy who hobbles off the field, booed by fans shouting good riddance to an over-the-hill dude.
I want to go out on a high note.
End it on my terms.
But when? That’s the question, and it’s one I just don’t have the answer to.
Great.
Here I am, my mind cycling back to work issues on a night when I’d like to escape them.
“So, what about you?” I ask, since I’d much rather be her distraction tonight.
I’d rather be her distraction another night too. And maybe another after that.
But I’m pretty sure that’s not in the playbook.
9
Katie
Now it’s my turn to catch him up on my career.
“I started a yoga brand with my sister, building on the classes I’d been teaching—yoga for people who hate yoga. And boom. Turns out there are a lot of those people who learn to fall in love with it. Our style is a little irreverent, a lot fun.”
“And you’re the face of it,” he puts in.
That’s all true. When Olive and I met with the investor in Los Angeles seven years ago, Charlotte liked my style and Olive’s penchant for numbers. She invested and helped us grow the concept. Now, some of my classes are available online for a subscription package of videos. Others I do in person, when I tailor sessions for clients and retreats. And others still are taught by the teachers I’ve trained in our various studios. “We expanded it to twenty studios all across the West Coast. Added clothing and fashion, with T-shirts that have sayings like Yoga—it’s cheaper than therapy; If you think I’m bitchy now, you should see me when I miss yoga; or Yoga is my favorite way to pretend to work out. So that’s my story, and Sassy Yoga has been fabulous,” I say.
“You became a yoga queen,” Harlan remarks as he takes my plate, rinses it, and sets it in the dishwasher.
“Please. I’m a yoga empress,” I tease, then roll my eyes in self-deprecation. “That’s the term an LA magazine used to describe me, and the nickname weirdly stuck. Now, some of my students call me a yoga empress in the classes I teach.”
“A yoga empress running a yoga empire. It’s fitting,” he says, adding a wink. “Since you’re so damn flexible.”
And I like the sound of that. “Let me show you what I can do with my legs.”
In a flash, he scoops me up in his arms, carrying me again. As he heads to the stairs, I laugh, loving the ride.
Loving this whole strange turn of events.
All this talking with Harlan seems like the second date we never had.
That makes my chest dance with butterflies, but my head throbs too. With confusion.
How is this even possible?
I’m having an amazing time with another guy, the best time I’ve had in ages. Did Silvio and I ever have this much easy, breezy fun?
Just the thought of the man I was supposed to marry stirs up a bucket of guilt.
Less than twelve hours ago, I was about to say I do to another man. To pledge love and fidelity to an Italian artist who likes opera and ordering tuna tartare at midnight. Instead, I spent the evening with a man who cooks killer eggs and rocks out to one of the greatest country singers of all time.
And I loved tonight.
Is something wrong with me for enjoying it?
As we head up the steps, questions clang through my mind.
Is something wrong with me for craving more hot sex from Harlan, rather than missing . . . anything with my ex right now?
Am I, well, a female cad for savoring that sweet conversation in his kitchen? Loving the tales of his daughter? Wanting to know more about his job? Wanting to share stories of mine?
That felt so date-y.
How can I do that the night of my . . .
But I stop that train. Tonight isn’t my wedding night.
It’s a night that seems to exist in its own time and place.
I
t’s a parallel universe night.
That’s what I tell myself as we turn into his bedroom—that I’m another me right now.
I’m the me who, evidently, wasn’t entirely sure about Silvio.
The me who wonders if maybe his lack of interest in axe-throwing was a sign.
Maybe I don’t know how to judge men or anybody else.
Certainly, I trusted the wrong people.
And tonight isn’t about forever. It’s about fun. It’s about an escape. It’s about a hot, charming, sexy man who wants to give me everything I need.
He sets me down, closes the distance between us, and cups my cheeks. “I haven’t kissed you enough tonight. I need to make up for it now.”
I lift my chin, an eager creature, ready and waiting. “I won’t object to more kissing.”
“Good. You’re about to get a boatload of it.”
A boatload is my new favorite measurement after Harlan drops his lips to mine and kisses me breathlessly. His pillowy lips sweep over mine as he wraps his arms around me, his fingers sliding through my hair.
Tugging me closer, he kisses me deeper.
It’s slow and lush, and it feels like melting into his arms.
My knees go weak as he kisses me with a luxuriousness that makes my bones sing Ella Fitzgerald tunes, that feels like a warm summer day spent lounging under the blue sky.
When he breaks the kiss, he glides his thumb along my jaw, down to my chin, cupping my face.
“Now, I believe I promised you multiples. And your pleasure has always been a favorite thing of mine,” he says.
He brings me to the bed, slides a hand between my legs, and strokes me till I’m gasping and calling his name.
Like I do again a little later, when he pulls me on top of him and tells me to ride him.
I oblige and the pleasure blots out the worries and the questions.
I’m too blissed out to think, as I fall asleep in his arms.
But when I wake, I know something sharp and clear—I can’t start something with him as much as I want to.
I need time to sort out this mess in my head and heart.
I need yoga and wine.
I need friends and me time.
Especially since he makes me coffee the next morning, and it’s life-affirmingly delicious with just a hint of cinnamon.
“You seem like a woman who likes her spice,” he says after I drain the mug.
Already, he seems to get me. What a crazy notion. “I do yoga so I can justify my wine and coffee vices,” I say, as I rinse the cup, then sigh.
“I should go,” I say, a little resigned.
“All good things must come to an end,” he says.
Do I detect a hint of wistfulness in his tone too? Pretty sure I do. And I’m pretty sure I need to do some serious lotus-ing to sort through the last twenty-four hours of my life.
I need to figure out what it means that I nearly married a man, who decided to take a honeymoon with my mother less than an hour later.
What it means that I went home with this hunk and had the best sex of my life on my non-wedding night.
What it means that I want to see him again.
“And it was very, very good, but yes, they do end,” I say, echoing the sentiment, since I don’t want him to think I’m going to Velcro myself to him on the rebound train.
He nods toward the door. “I’ll call you a car service now. And I have some clothes for you to head home in.” After he makes a call, he strides to the living room, picks up some folded items, and offers me a pair of gym shorts and a Renegades sweatshirt. With a smile of gratitude, I take off his T-shirt, and pull on the new duds. I swim in both of them, the shorts slipping down my waist.
He holds up one finger. “I’ve got something for that.” He heads into the kitchen and returns ten seconds later. He hands me an apron with snowmen printed on it. “Take this. Wrap it around your waist.”
I grin in approval. “It’s a life hack for a belt.”
He winks. “You got it.”
“It’s also a Christmas apron. You own a Christmas apron?” I ask, sort of in awe. It’s so freaking cute, I don’t know what to do with how sweet it is.
“I own many. I was born on Christmas.”
Nothing has made more sense than that. “Of course you were,” I say. I tie the makeshift apron-slash-belt and head to the entryway, pull on my cowboy boots, and grab my clutch. “Can you just toss the remains of my wedding dress?”
“Consider it done.”
“Thanks for that. And for tearing it off me.”
“Oh, I assure you, the pleasure was definitely mine.”
“And mine too.” I draw a deep breath. Here goes the hard part. I hate to do this, but I have to. “I really want to see you again. But . . .”
Harlan shoots me a resigned smile. “I know. Wrong timing.”
I smile so damn sadly. “Worst timing ever,” I say, choking up a little.
Yup, the whirligig of emotions knocks me around again. “I think I need to sort out everything that’s happened.” But I can’t stand the thought of walking away. “But what if we try again? Maybe in the fall? That feels like enough time. But duh. The fall is for football. You’ll be busy with the game.”
“I will, but I’d love to see you again. Maybe the third time will be the charm.”
I sure hope so.
When the car arrives at the curb, he sets the Indiana Jones hat on my head, then kisses me goodbye. I glance down at my get-up. “I should return all your clothes to you. Do you want me to drop them off later? Leave them on your porch?”
He waves a hand dismissively. “I’ve got plenty of aprons, shorts, and sweatshirts to keep me busy till the fall. Why don’t you return them when you’re ready for that date?”
My heart warms at that. I wish I were ready now. But I’m not. “I will.”
I leave, decked out in his clothes, my new hat, my old boots, and an apron.
I’m a mess, but I’m happier than I was yesterday evening.
And I’m a little hollow too.
Imagine that.
The Fall
10
Katie
One more lap.
I push through the cool, blue water, burst above the surface, then breaststroke my way to the end of the pool. When I hit the edge of the deep end, I slap my palm on the concrete and indulge in several long breaths.
My father putters at the other end of the pool, organizing floaties in a big basket. I hoist myself out of the water and reach for the towel I left on the diving board. As I dry off, I inhale the quiet.
It’s six in the morning on a Sunday, and even though the swim and tennis club my dad owns is open right now, the classes don’t start till after nine.
Swimming has always centered me. I suspect my love of yoga started in the pool. They’re different, sure, but also not. Both rely on that mind-body connection, on breath, on finding your own pace.
I wrap the towel around my waist and circle the pool toward the shallow end. The scent of chlorine is thick and familiar—it reminds me of home.
As a kid in Texas, I spent afternoons goofing off in the water when Dad taught classes. Later, the pool was an escape for me when Mom left Dad shortly after we moved to California.
Oh, yeah, my mom out-Draper-ed Don Draper. She banged the assistant of the magazine she ran, then she married him. I should have seen the Silvio situation coming.
Dad smiles at me as I reach him, and maybe that’s the real therapy—talking to him about Mom and Silvio, sure, but also about life and business, his wife, Janice, and their adventures in fishing and golfing. He’ll tell me about the swim classes he’s teaching here. I’ll update him on the corporate clients I’ve taken on. He’ll give me business advice, and I’ll weigh in on what to give Janice for her birthday or anniversary—that lemon pound-cake candle from the wine country vintage shop that actually smells like lemon pound cake, a mug that says Please cancel my subscription to your issues, and a weekend geta
way trip to her favorite golf resort.
It’s been therapeutic, and four months post Just Escaped Marriage Day, I feel centered again.
Calm again.
My mind no longer a discombobulated mess.
One of the things that helped the most? Saying my piece. My mom called me several times after taking my honeymoon. She texted me constantly after I unblocked her, and emailed me too. Saying how much she loved Silvio. How she hoped someday I’d be happy for her. Asking if I wouldn’t just accept that this was true love.
At first, I seethed over her notes.
After all, I’d had to return all the gifts to the guests.
That was super fun.
Not.
But it was weirdly cathartic. The practical act of returning presents was like a daily letting go. Breathe in, breathe out, return this blender to the Fishers, give this set of napkin rings back to the Bloombergs.
And in so doing, say goodbye to the double bastards of Mom and Silvio.
Once I returned the last gift, I found final closure.
I sent her a letter, saying simply: Enjoy him.
Then I blocked her number again and her email.
Life is better like this.
I’m happier.
And I’m happy hanging out with my dad after I swim.
“So, what’s next on the yoga empress’s agenda?” Dad asks as we sink down on the bench at the edge of the pool—our chatting bench. “Are you adding a Yoga keeps me out of prison class?”
“Or . . . Yoga, because punching people isn’t cool,” I joke.
He holds up a hand as a stop sign. “Wait, wait. I’ve got it. How about a class called Flexibility for old people who can’t get out of bed without moaning in misery?” he suggests, grabbing his lower back.
Seems like a demonstration if I’ve ever seen one. “Gee, Dad. Why do I feel like that’s spoken from experience?”
“Just wait till you’re sixty.”
“That’s twenty-five years away. I can’t even think about that!”
He snaps his fingers. “‘It’ll be here in a flash.” He sets his palms on his pants, takes a beat. “But seriously, everything is going well? The business is still helping you process all the things?”
A Wild Card Kiss Page 10