Stay: A WAGs Novel

by Sarina Bowen

  Sniper87: So you’re saying we can’t have really fun conversations over the Fetch chat.

  HTE: Precisely. Sir.

  Sniper87: I do like it when you call me sir. Gives me ideas.

  HTE: Snipes!

  Sniper87: Sorry, sorry.

  Sniper87: I’ll be good. If you insist.

  HTE: I really do.

  Sniper87: Five days is a long time not to chat. But I’ll live. Later, HTE.

  HTE: Later.

  Whew. And now I’ve bought myself a little more time to think about whether we’ll go out on a second date. I won’t hear from him for a few days, and I’d be able to clear my head.

  Ding!

  I check the monitor again, and Sniper87 appears. Instead of writing a personal message, he’s filled out the standard request form.

  Request type: Pickup and delivery

  From: Frankie’s Florists on Yorkville Ave

  When: After 2pm today.

  Destination: Fetch offices, 99 ½ Scollard Street, for Ms. Hailey Taylor Emery

  Notes: Please route this request to any staff member other than the elusive HTE. Gracias.

  He’s sent me flowers?

  Wow.

  That starts up a fresh aftershock. In my mind’s eye, I see his sexy smile loom closer, and then he captures my mouth as I gasp…

  Gah!

  With a single click of the mouse I route the request to Jenny. Then I get up to go check out the pile of boxes that Dion warned me about. I’m not so addled that I’ve forgotten there’s real work to be done. As I pass the bullpen, I hear Jenny let out a little squeal, but I don’t catch her eye because I don’t feel like seeing her I-told-you-so face.

  Sure enough, there are a bunch of boxes accumulating outside Jackson’s office. I sink down on my knees to sort through them. We receive lots of parcels for our clients here in the Fetch offices, because only by taking delivery can we verify that our orders actually arrive.

  Many of these items come properly tagged with the customer’s name or—in the case of those clients who remain anonymous—a Fetch ID on them. (FBO MrEightInches, etc.) But quite often the shipping label only says Fetch, Inc. So Jackson and I open the unlabeled boxes ourselves in order to preserve our clients’ privacy.

  The first box I open is an imported Japanese volleyball. The invoice says that it cost us seventy bucks. I stand and lean into the bullpen. “Anyone missing a fancy volleyball?”

  Dion turns his head and cries, “WILLLLLSON!” just like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, while everyone laughs.

  Then another Fetcher claims it for a client. Mystery solved.

  The next package is full of toner cartridges for our office printers. Yawn.

  But the third package leaves me in a quandary. After I open it, it takes me a moment to identify the contents. My first guess is sporting equipment, because there are stretchy bands attached to loops. But this contraption is accompanied by a weirdly large feather. And a pair of...furry handcuffs? They’re actually pink leopard fur. No self-respecting leopard would be caught dead in this color. But whatever.

  I find the invoice and note that the stretchy thing is an item called “personal restraints.” And underneath the bubble wrap is a flogger. Medium weight, apparently.

  Oh.

  Oh.

  The delivery is fascinating, but also problematic. In the interest of customer privacy, I can’t hold these items up and yodel for their owner. Instead, I carry the box into my office and place it on the desk while I pull up our Fetch database. I re-enter my password and start trying search terms. Personal restraints comes up empty. Handcuffs pulls up seventeen different requests, but all of them are fulfilled, and none of them recent. Feather is equally useless.

  “Hailey?” Jackson says from the doorway. “Where’s the file on…” His eyes fall on the box and its contents. “Um…?”

  A nervous giggle escapes me. “These aren’t mine, Jax. They arrived in a shipment today, and I’m searching the database for a hit.”

  His eyes close for a beat and then open again. Then, wordlessly, he steps further into the room. He pushes all the sex toys back into the box and closes the flaps one at a time. Then he tucks the box against his hip and carries it out of my office.

  I watch him go, while my brain struggles to understand. Those items can’t be for…

  No. Really?

  Really?

  I can’t wrap my head around it. Mild-mannered, skinny Jackson and his new girlfriend have a brand new flogger? Mr. Missionary Position on Alternate Tuesdays wants to dominate his girlfriend?

  Or… The opposite? An image of Jackson kneeling naked in submission flashes through my mind, and I shudder, and then giggle hysterically.

  What is the world coming to? Jackson, who alphabetizes his hair-care products, is having a torrid affair, and I’m cowering after a few good kisses.

  A couple of hours later, Jenny appears with a cut-crystal vase containing three dozen long-stemmed pink roses. “There’s a note!” she sings, waltzing into my office and plunking the flowers in the center of the desk. They practically fill the room. I’ve been trying not to think about Matt, and this will make it a hell of a lot more difficult.

  He probably knows that. The bastard.

  “Open the fucking note. I’m dying here,” Jenny pleads.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t read it already.”

  She looks guilty.

  “Jenny! Pass it over.”

  The envelope lands in my hands and I untuck the flap, pulling out a tiny piece of paper.

  Hottie. I had so much fun with you the other night. And I’m pretty sure you had fun too. Don’t worry so much, okay? I just want to spend time with you. Text me on your personal phone at this number. —M.

  “Does he have you figured out or what?” Jenny asks, smirking.

  “I hate you.”

  “Sure you do. But don’t hate me too much or I won’t help you figure out what to wear next time.”

  Oh shit. “I only hate you a little.”

  Jenny grins. “I love you a whole lot. And if you turn this man down again, I will not be nice about it.”

  “Right.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll be brave. I really will.”

  “You’d better.”

  And...I’m not.

  I do not text him on his personal number.

  Instead, I take a snapshot of the flowers and write a safe-for-work note on his Fetch request indicating that the flowers reached their destination and that they were lovely.

  That night at home, I don’t text him because he’s busy. From the safety of my sofa I watch him beat L.A. He is magnificent, with a goal and an assist. And when I shut off the TV, I’m in awe.

  I don’t text afterward, because he’s a hockey star who is busy with his teammates.

  And I don’t text the next morning, because he’s on a plane to Denver.

  I tell myself that Matt doesn’t really care if I text. He’ll probably meet a dozen attractive, available women at every stop on his trip. Maybe one of them is better positioned to handle all the terrifying hotness of Matt Eriksson.

  Maybe one of them is in his bed right now.

  That idea makes me feel cold inside. But Matt is probably the kind of guy who can have a one-night stand and forget about it the next day.

  And I’m not.

  Matt takes me so far out of my comfort zone that our first date caused me a week of shallow breathing and a loss of focus. I’ve never been so shaken by anyone.

  That can’t be a good sign.

  I coast along with this logic until the day arrives when I know he’s returning to Toronto. It’s not that I’m a stalker. I’m a rabid hockey fan, and I know the team has a home game the following night. Yet I’m practically buzzing from the knowledge that Matt Eriksson is headed into the Toronto metropolitan area.

  God, I’m hopeless.

  Sitting at my desk, I spend the whole morning wondering whether he’s back yet and what I should do about it.


  “Hailey?” Jackson startles me out of my reverie by poking his head into my office. “Do you happen to have the information we compiled last year on piano-tuning services?”

  “Sure.” I look up and meet his gaze for the first time since our awkward moment over the box of bondage equipment. He looks the same as he ever did, with a crisp, button-down shirt covering his slim frame, and tidy brown hair.

  “Is it in here?” he prompts, waiting. And I realize I’m staring.

  I tug on a file drawer and rifle through it, pulling out the information he’s looking for. “Here you go.”

  He departs, and I watch him leave. This gentle man who divorced me has branched out to try new, exciting things. (Exciting to him, anyway.) And I’m just sitting here like a lump instead of sexing up my ideal man.

  For the tenth time this week I tell myself to buck up. Only this time I dig out the florist’s card with Matt’s personal phone number on it. I wake up my phone and...

  Ding! The Fetch queue on my computer screen announces a new priority request from Sniper87. Speak of the devil.

  I click. I read.

  Sniper87: From Whole Foods please bring two New York Strip steaks, and a double serving of whatever potato side dish they have. Hopefully it’s that cheesy one. And salad greens for two. I also require a bottle of a meaty red wine. Cabernet, something the wine guy likes for around thirty smackers. Also a bottle of champagne, chilled. And two slices of whichever cheesecake looks good. But not the whole cake because I’ll eat the leftovers. Delivery between six and seven, please.

  I read the whole thing three times, cursing myself. But facts are facts.

  Matt is having someone over for dinner. He’s serving steak and champagne. Furthermore, he’s basically asked me to plan his romantic evening at home for him. It couldn’t be more obvious if he’d taken marker to cardboard, like Jenny’s hockey sign, and written: THIS COULD HAVE BEEN YOU.

  Unhappiness slices through me, and it’s a long time before I remember to breathe. But right before I pass out, I take a gulping breath and remind myself that this was all avoidable.

  Lesson learned. Message received.

  I spend the rest of the day trying not to feel sorry for myself. At five I go into the bathroom and reapply my makeup. If I should happen to run into him in the lobby of his building, I don’t want to look like a loser.

  At five twenty I descend into the madness of Whole Foods at rush hour. I choose wonderful things for Sniper87—beautiful cuts of meat and a bottle of red that the wine guy swears will make even cynical angels weep.

  It’s all for the best. It really is.

  At ten minutes to six I arrive at his building. My timing is calibrated to bring me to his door before he’d be home. I’d rather miss him than see him.

  “Perishables? Those have to be brought upstairs,” the concierge informs me when I try to hand over the bag. “I can’t handle that for you.”

  I should have sent Jenny.

  When the elevator brings me to the third floor, I’ve already thought up a solution. I’ll leave the bag outside his door and then mark his order “delivered.” He’s a smart man. He’ll find the food.

  But when I reach the door, there’s a piece of paper taped to its surface. Hailey Taylor Emery, it reads.

  I grab the paper off the door and flip it over.

  Hottie— Since you won’t text me, and I can’t ask you out on the Fetch website, will you please come inside and have dinner with me? —M.

  The relief I feel is so swift and strong that I almost collapse on the rug like Rufus after a long walk.

  I stand there on the carpet for a moment longer, trying to get a grip. But it’s pretty much hopeless. Matt Eriksson is on the other side of that door, and he’s waiting for me, even if I’m an idiot who can’t write him a text.

  I’m terrified, but I’m going in anyway. Raising my hand, I knock on the door.

  Eleven

  Hanging Upside Down From a Chandelier

  Matt

  I feel like a teenager on prom night as I get up to open the door. Not because I’m anxiously wondering whether I’ll get laid—I got laid long before prom night—but because there’s something nerve-wracking about this whole thing. I haven’t seen or heard from Hailey since the night at the opera, and now I’m forcing her into a date I’m not sure she wants.

  As I reach for the doorknob, it occurs to me that maybe she’s not even at the door anymore. Maybe she knocked, left the food on the mat, and sprinted back to the elevator. I wouldn’t blame her. I mean, what man asks a woman to pick up all the stuff for their dinner date and deliver it to him? Is that romantic as fuck, or a total dick move? Could go either way, I guess.

  A breath of relief slides out when I find her on the other side of the door. She looks a bit shell-shocked as she holds up a large paper bag, all big eyes and slightly flushed.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi,” I answer. A small smile springs up as I gesture to the bag. “Hope you got us the good stuff.”

  “Everything you requested.”

  We stand there for a second, eyeing each other. She must have come straight from the office, because, underneath her winter coat, she’s dressed in a white button-up and simple gray pants, similar to what she wore the day I stopped by Fetch unannounced.

  “Would you like to come in?” I tip my head toward the space behind me.

  After a beat, she nods. “I really would.”

  In the front hall, she slips out of her coat and looks around for somewhere to put it.

  “Let me take that,” I say, my voice roughened by nerves. Her dark hair looks thick and glossy under the bright hall light, and I resist the urge to slide my fingers through it. She’s damn pretty. Shorter and thinner than what I’m usually attracted to, she makes me feel like a giant. I find that I don’t mind it, though.

  “WOOF!” Rufus gallops into the room. He skids to a halt when he sees who it is. And five seconds later he’s located his leash and dropped it at her feet.

  “You just went for a walk!” I scold. “Leave Hailey alone. She’s here for me this time. Tough luck, pal.”

  Rufus lets out a whine that makes both of us laugh.

  My dog has broken the tension. I lead Hailey into the kitchen and unpack the groceries. “You didn’t text,” I say bluntly.

  “I know.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She shifts her feet and says, “Because.”

  I fight another smile. She shouldn’t be reminding me of my kids, but Junebug does the same thing sometimes—sticks out her chin and says “because.” Hailey didn’t do the chin jut, but still. “Because what?” I prompt.

  But I know the answer, even as she goes quiet to contemplate her response. The opera date—or rather, the ride home—freaked Hailey out. Truth is, it freaked me out a little, too. I was hard as a rock that night, dick straining to burst out of my pants. It’s been a long time since I wanted someone that bad. But holy smokes, the dress she had on, and that fucking tattoo—I wanted to run my tongue all over it. I wanted to devour her that night.

  I probably came on too strong.

  So I voice that thought. “I came on too strong on our date last week,” I say with a sigh.

  Hailey fixes those blue eyes on me. “No,” she assures me. “You didn’t. I had a really great time. And I, uh…enjoyed making out with you…” She trails off, and I have to swallow a laugh.

  She looks so embarrassed, and it’s cute as hell. “I enjoyed making out with you, too,” I say solemnly.

  “Oh. Um. Good to hear.”

  Yeah, I still make her nervous. I wish I knew how to fix that, but I’m not a Hailey expert yet. I’m still just getting to know her and what makes her tick. Kara used to accuse me of being clueless about women. She expected me to know what she was thinking and feeling at all times, and when I fucked up, it was because I wasn’t trying hard enough. According to her, anyway. But I’m not a mind reader. I can’t even begin to guess what goes thr
ough a woman’s mind at any given time.

  Hailey’s easier to read than Kara, though. Right now, she’s squirming and blushing, and I feel oddly proud that I’m picking up on that. I step closer and place a hand on her arm. “We probably moved too fast that night,” I admit. “So how about we slow it down? Let’s just have some dinner and go from there?”

  She hesitates. Then nods again. “Sounds like a plan.”

  It’s a plan that actually works.

  Twenty minutes later, I’ve grilled up our steaks to perfection, Hailey’s tossed a salad, and we’re moving to the dining room table that Hailey or someone else at Fetch picked out for me. The steak is fantastic and the wine is perfect, and even though it was my black Amex that paid for the spread, I praise Hailey for her choices until she finally rolls her eyes and tells me to quit complimenting her.

  Throughout dinner, I see her truly relax. I tell her about our recent string of road trips, and her eyes light up as I offer “behind the scenes” intel about my teammates and the games we’ve played. When I mention that Blake’s knee took a ding during the last game, she gasps.

  “No! Will he be okay to play tomorrow night?” Hailey sets down her wine glass and vehemently shakes her head. “I knew he looked wobbly skating off to the bench after that hit!”

  I grin. “You watched the game?”

  “Of course,” she says haughtily. “The only way I’d miss a game is if I were lying in a full body cast in a hospital bed and couldn’t reach the remote. And even then I’d bribe the nurses to put it on TV for me.”

  My grin falters slightly. I love that she’s a rabid hockey fan, but at the same time, I can’t help but wonder if that’s the only reason she’s here. Does she just want to bang Matthew Eriksson, pro hockey player? God knows I’ve encountered those women before. One of my ex-wife’s biggest draws was that she didn’t give a shit that I played hockey.

  But I don’t get the sense that Hottie is only here to bag an athlete. In the first place, she’d scurried off like a frightened rabbit after making out with me. I would’ve been more than happy to drop trou for her the night of the opera. Ungh. Just thinking about her tongue in my mouth makes my dick twitch happily.