by Maria Luis
Damn it.
I drain the rest of my now lukewarm coffee and stand up. This isn’t over. As I start pulling my clothes off to take a shower, I call Casey. I don’t care that it’s seven in the morning. This is important. Plus, she’s called me at this time of day more than once when I’ve had to pick her up from a one-night-stand’s house.
In comparison, my phone call is tame.
She answers on the third ring, her voice raspy with sleep. “What do you want, woman?”
“He said no.” I turn the shower on and stare at myself in the mirror as the water heats up. I look crazy. My already curly hair is turning more voluminous with the steam from the shower, and my blue eyes are dark with anticipation. On the ice, my teammates often called me “Crazy Charlie” because of my impulsiveness in the sport.
I was methodical to a point. Then, impulse drove me, both on the ice and off.
“Who said no?” Casey asks. Her voice sounds muffled, like she’s driven her face into her pillow in an effort to ignore me.
“Duke Harrison. He DM’ed me on Twitter.”
“Are you really that surprised?”
“Well, no. But that doesn’t mean that this can’t actually happen. We can get this interview.”
“You mean that you can get this interview. I’m flying on your coattails, girl.”
It frustrates me, just slightly, when Casey says stuff like this. I recognize that I’m ambitious, sometimes to a fault, but it often feels like I’m the only who gives a damn at The Tribune.
I shake off the Negative Nancy vibes, swiping a palm over the mirror as it begins to fog up. “I need Gwen. She was with him the other day.”
“Don’t we hate her?”
“Yes,” I say with a shrug that she can’t see. “There’s no way around it. I could reach out through the contact form again but what would that do? My email would end up in the trash folder and he’s already told me no personally.”
She heaves a great, beleaguered sigh. “Maybe you should take this as a sign that he doesn’t actually want to do the interview?”
I toe off my fuzzy slippers. “I know that he doesn’t want to.”
“Then why are we still pursuing this?”
Sticking my hand into the shower, I test the temperature. Lukewarm, as per usual. My apartment isn’t exactly fitted with the latest indoor plumbing. I’m just grateful that the previous property owners tore out the original shared bathroom in the hallway from the 1930s, and installed personal ones in each apartment.
“Because, Casey,” I say firmly, “this is what real journalists do. They chase down their leads. They get it done.”
“There’s a difference between journalists and tabloid reporters. One does a lot more stalking.”
“I’m not stalking the man.” He’s more attractive than I originally thought, yes, but I’m not one to set myself up for failure on a romantic level.
Going for a guy like Duke Harrison would be the worst decision I could ever make in my life.
“I’m calling for a double date,” I finally say. “Think about it. Gwen’s clearly wanting to date the guy. He, on the other hand, seems to want anything but that. It’s a dirty move, I know, but I think that I can swing it. Gwen would never pass up the opportunity to lord it over me that her date is a professional hockey player. Subtlety is not in her biology. ”
“Some would say it’s not in yours either,” Casey injects wryly, and the foggy mirror reflects my pained grimace.
“This could be a game-changer, Casey. This time next year we could be sitting in a fantabulous office at The Globe, and laughing over all the miserable time we’ve spent holed up where we are now.”
We fall silent and I imagine that we are both thinking of our office at The Tribune. It’s a wreck. The paint is peeling on the walls, and there is an unidentifiable red stain on the carpet that has been there since I was hired three years ago. I don’t know what it is, but my sneaking suspicion is that someone committed murder in there and we’re all under surveillance.
Just a theory, of course.
Casey draws my attention back to our conversation when she says, “Okay, matter of importance. Who’re you going to ask to be your date?”
I hold my gaze in the mirror. And then, in the most serious voice I can manage, I say, “Your twin.”
Chapter Four
Casey’s twin, Caleb, squeals when I pull up outside of his apartment building. I should be embarrassed that I have no other dating prospects than a man who bats for the other team, but Caleb is honestly one of the sweetest people I know. Plus, he’s aware of the Plan.
Step One: Go on a date with Gwen and Duke.
Step Two: Somehow lure Duke into private conversation, in which I propose that he give me an interview for The Tribune.
Step Three: Gain recognition as a successful sports journalist.
Step Four: I have no Step Four. I deliberated about it in the shower this morning and, honestly, I’d be ecstatic just to interview the guy. Even if he has been sucking on the ice in recent seasons, and even if I do think he should promptly retire.
I somehow convinced my boss to let the feature on Duke slide, as I told him that I had plans for something better. He didn’t ask me what those plans were. I’m half-terrified that I’m about to get the can.
“Get in, get in,” I tell Caleb, unlocking the passenger’s side door so he can jump in.
When he sees me, he gives a little howl of pleasure. “You look delectable,” he says enthusiastically. “That dress? Where did you get it?”
“Target.” I edge my car across two lanes, bypassing at least three angry drivers who honk their horns and visibly roll down their windows to shout obscenities at me. “In the sales section.”
“Really?” Caleb peers closer like he doesn’t believe me. “How much?”
“Eleven dollars. I’m on a budget.”
The Cambridge Tribune doesn’t exactly pay well. In the past, I’ve picked up freelancing gigs on the side, using them to balance out my income into something a little more substantial. Lately, however, there just hasn’t been enough time. I think Josh is feeling the pressure of subscriptions dropping and local advertisers pulling out, and Casey and I have had to pick up extra hours creating ads with absolutely no graphic design background.
I would say that it’s been a fun experience, but that would be a bald-faced lie.
“Hmm,” Caleb murmurs. He runs a hand through his neatly trimmed brown hair. “It’s nice, though. If I were straight, I’d tap that.”
“If you were straight,” I say with a laugh, “you’d be tapping someone much better looking than me.” With a free hand, I tug at the hem of the dress, which has inched up my thighs. “Okay. Let’s go over this again. Gwen is who?”
“The evil witch of the west,” he deadpans. “Girl, we’ll be fine. Unless she actually starts melting in front of me, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Actually, there is everything to worry about. What if Duke Harrison sees straight through me? What if he takes one look at me and turns the other way? What if Gwen attempts to slaughter me at the table, à la Game of Thrones’ Red Wedding? These are all probable outcomes, and my brain has been stuck on repeat for two days now, overthinking every last one of them.
By the time we roll up to the restaurant, we’re right on time. My nerves turn my palms into shallow pools of sweat and I carelessly run them down the length of my new dress. I spare a quick glance downward. I suppose the red sheath number is pretty. In an understated, simple sort of way.
We give the host our name and then wait off to the side for the other half of our party. I turn to Caleb, panic lining my voice when I ask, “What if they don’t show?”
Caleb plucks my hand off his arm and gives it a quick squeeze. “We eat, drink champagne, and go home to our separate beds. It’ll be the best date we’ve both ever had.”
He may be kidding about himself, but his assumption is still relatively accurate on my end. I don’t recall t
he last time I had a proper date. If I can’t remember, then it has obviously been way too long.
Glancing down at my wristwatch, I check the time. They’re late. By a minute. Jenny would be climbing up a wall right now. I settle my nerves by imagining my future desk at The Boston Globe. This will work. I just need a little faith, that’s all.
“Oh, my God, don’t you just look so precious, Charlie!”
I’m struck by both the relief that we haven’t been stood up by the power couple, as well as a heavy dose of annoyance that Gwen has made me feel like a toddler trying on my mother’s clothes.
I twist around, forcing a strained smile to my face. My smile falters a little when I catch sight of Gwen. She is also wearing a red dress, though hers is at least two times more revealing. The front cuts down between her breasts and the hem cuts short just below her crotch. I can’t help but wonder if she’s cold. I’d be cold; my crotch would be cold. It’s thirty degrees outside and the weather forecast this morning called for flurries.
She’s either stupidly brave or asking for a case of strep throat.
Possibly both.
She holds out her hands, gathering me in for a hug like a long-lost friend. I’m not fooled in the slightest, and gingerly pull back from the witch’s claws. “It’s good to see you,” I say, looking from Gwen too Duke.
He stares back at me. His blue gaze is furious, and I busy myself with drawing Caleb forward and making introductions.
Stick to the plan.
Suddenly I’m wondering if this was a good idea.
The host sidles up to us, his mouth dropping open a little at the sight of Duke. He recovers admirably. “Would you all come this way?” he says, his voice hovering just short of all-out awe. He lasts all of thirty seconds on the way to the table before he breaks. “Mr. Harrison, you’re, like, my hero.”
A grin tugs at the corner of Duke’s mouth, and suddenly I know. I know what it is about him that makes women pant at the sight of him. It’s utterly ridiculous, and I throw a can-you-believe-this look at Caleb only to realize that he too looks awestruck. Damn it.
Undaunted, Duke grins like he’s totally accustomed to being fawned over by random strangers. “You a hockey fan?”
The host nods like a bobble-head doll. “Oh, man, yeah. When you made that final save against the Penguins a few weeks ago? It was fuck—I mean, it was fantastic.”
Duke gives a low, husky laugh. I think Caleb just got a hard-on. I can’t be certain, but he’s walking funnily beside me now, and he keeps muttering “not now” to himself in a way that’s increasingly suspicious. He’s not alone. The host is blushing like an adolescent, and there’s no doubt in my mind he’s on the verge of asking for a selfie with the Blades’ first round goalie.
“What’s your name?”
In the face of Duke’s question, the host halts in his tracks. “Um, Steve, Mr. Harrison. Steve Zet.”
“All right, Steve Zet, you’ve got two tickets on me. Next game, just let the ticket booth know and they’ll let you in.”
Duke Harrison has just earned himself a life long fan, if the expression on Steve’s face is anything to go by. Pure love. I’ve always wondered what it looks like and now I know.
It can easily be confused with constipation, so you have to look closely to distinguish the difference.
Steve finally seats us at our table, and a small game of who-gets-what-chair ensues. Gwen claims the seat closest to the crackling fireplace—I knew that she had to be cold—and then points a finger at Duke when he goes to sit next to her.
“No, no, not there. You can’t sit there.”
Duke looks toward Caleb and I. Hell if I know what her problem is. With a shrug, I take the seat diagonal to Gwen and plant my butt down. My feet are already on fire. You can put me in a nice dress but you can’t make my feet accept the death traps that are better known as stilettos.
Gwen motions to the chair on my right. “There,” she tells Duke, “sit across from me.”
Caleb, bless his soul, is never one to let a snarky opportunity pass, and quips, “Gwen, if I start playing footsie with you, I apologize in advance. I’m just so accustomed to sitting next to my lovely Charlie that, well”—he shrugs boyishly—“it’s a habit now. You’ve been forewarned.” Then he pulls out his chair, plops down, and promptly plucks my hand off the table to kiss my knuckles.
He’s laying it on thick. My nose scrunches as I ease my fingers out of his grip and go for my short glass of ice water. I barely manage a sip before the chair beside me screeches across the hardwood floor and Duke Harrison lowers his big body down onto it.
Almost immediately I’m assaulted by the scent of man, pine, and sexiness. Yes, sexiness has a scent. I’ve only just discovered it, seeing as how Duke just showed me that it existed, and I resist the urge to inch my chair to the right. I want to decipher what it is exactly that makes him smell so good.
As if knowing that I’m thinking insane thoughts, he tosses me a stop-being-weird look before slouching back in his chair. His crisp, blue button-down parts at the neck, revealing a tan throat and a hint of black ink.
He’s tattooed. On his chest. Obviously his ‘Got Milk’ campaign is not from a recent photo shoot. I can’t help but wonder if his rock hard stomach looks the same now as it did in that photo, whenever it was taken.
The stalker in me itches to snatch my phone from my purse and Google him again for a more recent shirtless photo. What is it that he has tattooed on his body? The question eats as me almost religiously. The mentally sane woman in me—the woman with a Plan—has no intention of Googling anyone. In fact, the sane part of me isn’t even interested in him. For the following reasons:
1) He’s obviously got something going on with Gwen James.
2) He’s not my type.
3) He hates my guts, as evidenced by the fact that he keeps sending me dirty glances.
I’m back in control of my raging hormones by the time the server comes around for a drink order. Gwen opts for Dom Perignon—clearly, she’s not expecting to pick up the tab tonight; Caleb chooses some sort of imported ale, and Duke goes for an American beer.
Sam Adams, a Boston classic.
“And you, Miss?” the server asks me politely.
“House white,” I answer primly. If this bill is getting split into thirds, there’s no way that I can afford much more than the outrageous entrée prices. My Target dress and I should have been left on the curb to rethink our life decisions.
Beside me, Duke shifts in his chair and his arm brushes up against mine. “Sorry,” he says in a low voice, “I think these chairs were designed for someone . . . smaller.”
It’s the first time he’s voluntarily spoken to me, as I’m not counting our Twitter private messages. Picking my words carefully, I say, “You are rather monstrous.”
His face breaks into a half smile, but even that slight tilt to his lips warms his rugged looks. “Monstrous.” He says the word with a shake of his head. “That’s a new one.”
From across the table, Caleb pipes up, “How tall are you?”
“Six-four,” Gwen interjects. She throws a sickeningly sweet glance across the table at the man who has once again retreated into silence. “I know how much he weighs too.”
I cough awkwardly into a closed fist at the same time that Caleb mouths “weirdo” before slamming back his ice water like it’s straight Patron. If Gwen contents herself with making creepy comments all day, it’s no wonder that Duke Harrison is practically a mute in her presence.
Why bother opening your mouth when you have a talking parrot to do the job for you?
In an attempt to smooth over the awkwardness which has taken hold of the table, I murmur, “That was real nice of you. With the host, I mean.”
Duke passes a hand over his dark blond hair like the praise makes him uncomfortable. “It’s nothing, really. I meet a lot of fans. A few tickets here and there isn’t gonna hurt me.”
“Duke is great with charity.” This fro
m Gwen, naturally.
I’m beginning to wonder if her mere existence is comprised of telling Duke Harrison what to do and alternatively acting as his pseudo-PR agent.
The server arrives with our drinks, takes our food order—I go for steak—and whisks away again, leaving the four of us to a miserable silence that I’m responsible for. The aura of fury radiating off Duke in waves has lessened, not that this does anything to ease the awkward vibe at the table. I swirl my white wine in its glass. Kick my foot out to Caleb. He kicks me back, and I withhold a taunt curse.
Surprisingly, it’s Duke who breaks the pitiful reign of silence. “So, Caleb, what do you do for work?”
On cue, Caleb’s shoulders inch back and he sits up straighter. “Oh, you know, this and that. Nothing as important as being a hockey player.”
“He’s a real estate agent,” I tell Duke from the corner of my mouth, effectively killing Caleb’s parade of mystery. “He wrangles in clients, promises them their HGTV dreams, and then takes their money.”
Caleb’s brows knit together. “You make me sound like a marauding pirate.”
“Orlando Bloom or Johnny Depp?” I ask, and Duke once again surprises me by taking the question seriously.
His blue eyes focus on my fake-date, then slowly drags his gaze back to me. “Johnny Depp,” Duke drawls, and it’s as if he knows that his answer will light a fire under Caleb’s butt because there’s an unholy glimmer in his blue eyes. And, oh Lord, he’s grinning now.
Widely.
At me.
“The left incisor is fake.”
I jolt, feeling very much like I’ve stepped into a bucket of water, and then stuck my finger in an electrical socket, just for kicks. “What?”
Duke runs his tongue across his top left teeth. It’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen. That one swipe of his tongue makes me feel dirty. I just took a shower, but I need another one immediately. Then, he reaches out to tap his left incisor. “This one,” he says, “it’s not real.”
“Oh.”
It’s all I can say. I’m still recovering from the vision of his tongue and where I would like it to be—on me.