by Lexi Whitlow
I’ve wanted her since we were kids, hanging out at half-time in junior high. But I’m not going there on my first shot at it. I don’t want her to regret it or think I manipulated her into it. I want her to think about it, coldly, soberly—and then want it as much as I do.
Bryn is put-off, rejected—a situation she’s unfamiliar with. Her expression reveals she doesn’t know what to make of this turn. She’s got a crease in her brow and is biting her pouty lip, totally confused and bothered.
“Go home,” I repeat firmly. “Think about it. We’ll regroup in a few days and figure it out.”
I need her away from me, out of this house, before I lose it completely and change my mind.
I retrieve her bag from the sideboard in the foyer, handing it to her without blinking.
“Drive safely.”
* * *
My sleep is fitful, haunted with specters recalled from my old life and half-imagined angels from my new. Beautiful, pale Bryn in my big bed, tangled in expensive, downy soft sheets, naked to my touch. But my touch is calloused, grease stained, clumsy. She laughs at me, looking on me with mixed revulsion and pity.
I want her, but I can’t reach her. She’s falling away, drifting off in a blur of stadium lights, red uniforms, the deafening roar of a crowd and a chartered Leer Jet landing on the forty-yard line.
I’m on my back, broken, bleeding, befuddled.
Charles Pearson kneels beside me, a wry smirk cutting his face like a scar.
“That was epic,” he says. “You will never get the girl. You’re nobody.”
I wake in the dark, in a sweat, cold and thirsty.
It doesn’t matter how much money I have, or where I live, or what clothes I wear, I’ll always lie down with me, sleep with me, and wake up with me. I can change the particulars, but not the essentials. I can’t force her to care for me. All I can do is remind her that maybe once, she really did care, and that I never stopped.
It’s time for grand gestures instead of games. I need to declare.
Chapter 9
Bryn
That’s never happened before.
I’m sitting in my car, in the dark, in the parking lot outside my apartment building, my fingers gripping the steering wheel, trying to process what just happened. I might be in shock.
One minute we’re sucking face, hot and heavy, grinding toward something—and the next minute he hands me my bag, telling me to go home and think about it.
That’s either off-the-charts self-control, or he realized while I was licking his teeth and creaming my panties over his bulging hard-on, that he just isn’t that into me.
I honestly don’t have clue which it is.
That’s a first.
It’s also a first for me
What the hell?
Once inside my apartment I pour myself another glass of wine, pondering this situation more carefully.
He was polite. He was attentive, hanging on every word I shared. He was even funny and self-effacing. And when he made his move to kiss me, he was deliberate, taking his time, waiting for signals. He didn’t act as if he was entitled. He acted as if he wasn’t sure how I’d behave, but he couldn’t risk not trying.
I need to call Claire.
“You’re home early,” she observes.
I lay it all out to her, from “Hello,” to “Drive safely.”
“Oh, wow,” she says. “That’s… fascinating.”
“Fascinating how?” I ask. I’m at a loss.
“You’ll get roses tomorrow,” she predicts. “With a card. Save the card. You’ll want to show it to your grandchildren.”
“Be serious, Claire. I need help here.”
“I am helping,” she assures me. “He’s head over ass for you. He’s trying to make you just as crazy for him.”
I think it might be working. I’m distracted beyond reason.
“Really?” I ask. “I was thinking maybe he changed his mind and realized he wasn’t—”
“No,” she interrupts. “If that was the case he would have tried everything in his bag of tricks to get in your panties. He respects you. He cooked dinner. He showed you his house. He talked to you about you. He’s so into you.”
“Claire, how do you know this?” I ask her. “You sound so certain.”
“I read romance novels.” She’s so matter of fact. “They’re like how-to guides for identifying the good ones and securing true-love. You can laugh, but there’s a reason the genre has been around for eight hundred years. There’s wisdom in those tropes. I think you just met your prince. Go with it. It won’t be easy. You’ll have set-backs and obstacles thrown at you. But you’re meant to be. And by-the-way, don’t pick out ugly bridesmaid’s gowns. I do not do bustles or wide pleats.”
Good lord. She’s no help at all.
* * *
I didn’t sleep well and I’m more than a touch annoyed this morning, so Bonnie and my dad will have to forgive me for slinking in ten minutes late. It’s casual Friday. I have nothing at court today, no client meetings, no partner meetings. Today is reading briefings and drafting paperwork. I’m sporting jeans and a ponytail because I overslept and didn’t have time for anything more presentable, and honestly? At this point I couldn’t care less.
In the breakroom ten minutes after arriving, while pouring my first cup of coffee, Bonnie leans around the door frame, grinning from ear-to-ear.
“What?” I say, not interested in whatever idle gossip is making her giddy. I’m slightly dehydrated with a small headache, and I have thirty pages of legalese to get through before lunch.
“You need to come to reception,” she chirps, bouncing like a ball on a ping-pong table. “There’s something there for you. Just delivered.”
I roll my eyes. I ordered a pair of boots from Amazon. They must have shipped them to the wrong address.
The reception desk is crowded with more girls than the front row of a Naill Horan show. My Manolo Blahnik boots are nice and all, but…
What the…?
The crowd parts like the Red Sea. At the end of the path is a tall, cut crystal vase, filled brimming with two dozen of the most beautiful, lavender-violet colored roses my eyes have ever beheld. Their long stems crowd the vase and their lovely, delicate heads spill out, over-flowing, filling the room with the scent of hot-house bred love.
“There’s a card,” Bonnie says, tipping on her toes, her eyes flashing.
“Who are they from?” another asks.
“Oh my God, they’re so beautiful,” says another.
“I wish someone would send me just one rose,” observes a girl in the back.
I’m speechless.
Claire was right.
I reach into the spray of flowers for the tiny envelope mounted on a plastic holder in the center of the arrangement.
The envelope is sealed. I break it, retrieving the tiny card.
I want to do more than make you dinner. I want to make you mine.
L.
Oh, my word.
“What’s this?”
I turn. Charles stands at the periphery taking in the gathering with a frown. He looks at me, then at the flowers, then back at me.
“Who sent those?” he asks, as if the matter is any of his concern.
I slip the card into my hip pocket, then lift the heavy vase in both hands to take them in all their sweet-smelling beauty back to my office.
“Nobody,” I say, smirking. “Just a dumbass hick with more money than sense.”
I hear the swoon of breaking hearts behind me as I retreat. I also feel Charles’ steely glare on my back, boring a resentful hole through me like a laser beam. Luckily, I’m armored-up like Wonder Woman. No one can touch me now. I’m floating on clouds, light as a feather.
Sometime between coffee break and lunchtime, my cell phone rings. It’s Logan.
I answer with a grin. “Those are awfully nice flowers. You set the whole office on its ear, speculating,” I say, before the first hello.
“Good,” he says. “I hope you like them.”
“I do,” I assure him. “Very much.”
“I’m sorry about last night,” he says. “I was too abrupt. I didn’t want it to go so fast that you second-guessed it.”
“You probably made the right call,” I say. “I was a little deep in the cups. But I don’t regret it. I’d do everything the same.”
“Yeah?” he asks, and I hear that honey tone in his voice sweeten.
“Yeah.”
“Come with me to New York this weekend. Show me around. You spent three years there. You know the place. I’ve never been.”
What?
“Seriously,” he insists. “We can hang out, spend obscene amounts of money eating and drinking our way across the city, and get to know one another a lot better. I can book the tickets in fifteen minutes. Can you fly out tonight?”
Really. Why not? He’s got the money, and I’d like to have the chance to see him out of his element. It’ll be instructive. Why the heck not?
“Let’s do it,” I say.
“Pack for the weekend,” Logan replies, his tone bright. “I’ll text you the details.”
“Perfect,” I say. “I know the city like an old friend. Get ready. We’ll have a blast.”
“I can’t wait,” he says it like he means it. “See you soon.”
Ending the call, I look up just in time to catch Charles standing at the end of the corridor, gazing through the glass into my office—glaring at me. His expression is wracked. His eyes are liquid, angry and dark. As soon as we make eye contact he breaks it, turning, hands shoved in pants pockets, shoulders slumped. He moves on.
Chapter 10
Logan
It is astonishing the access and preening accommodation an Amex black card will buy on very short notice.
By 1:00 in the afternoon we’re booked for two first-class, round-trip tickets to New York City, flying out at 6:00 this evening. I’ve reserved two hotel suites at The James in SoHo.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Bryn admits, settling in beside me. “This is nuts.”
“It’s not nuts,” I assure her. “This is self-indulgent, jet-set shit—but not nuts.”
I fibbed to Bryn when I told her I’d never been to New York. I have been, several times. Four years playing college football, with two national championships, and four bowl games; you get to travel a bit. What I haven’t ever done is New York with someone who’s lived there and knows the place intimately. I’ve always been a tourist hanging out on Times Square with a half-dozen glassy-eyed jocks, all of us gaping up at the bright lights and tall buildings in a mesmerized haze.
This weekend, I hope to play it a little differently. We’ll ease into it tonight with a late dinner in the hotel restaurant, enjoy some conversation over a drink, then call it a night. Tomorrow, it’s her play to call. I’m going to roll with whatever she wants to do, wherever she wants to take me. Her city, her plan.
Tomorrow night, I’m re-taking possession of the ball.
“Where are we staying?” Bryn asks as the plane tips up for take-off, vaulting into the air.
“The James in SoHo,” I answer. “You know it?”
She shakes her head.
“It’s got good reviews,” I tell her. “Should be nice. You’ll see.”
After the chauffeured limo drive in from JFK, we’re delivered to the front door of the very posh James—a boutique luxury hotel on Grand Street. Bryn is suitably impressed as soon as we cross the threshold. The hotel is intimate, exclusive, and beautiful in the way that austere Scandinavian forests are beautiful. It reeks of patrons with money.
As we approach the desk the counter clerk looks up at us coolly, unblinking.
“Miss Beckett? Mr. Chandler?” she says, her accent tinged with something European. “We’ve been anticipating you. I hope your flight was uneventful?”
I nod. “It was.”
“Glad to hear it.”
She strikes a few keys on the keyboard at her fingertips, then produces two metal keycards.
“You’re in 14-1 and 14-2,” she says, sliding the keys forward. “You have full access to all The James’ amenities, including the garden, the Club, and the rooftop pool. We have a full gym, as well as the David Burke Kitchen, our restaurant, which is open until 11:00 in the evening. In-room dining is available twenty-four-seven.”
She’s made this speech a thousand times.
I slide my key off the counter, leaving Bryn’s where it sits. Turning to her, I suggest, “Let’s eat here tonight, then we can start fresh tomorrow?”
Bryn nods without comment.
I turn my attention to our hostess. “Can you get us in at the restaurant tonight?”
“Certainly, Mr. Chandler,” she replies without expression. “How is 9:15? That’ll give you most of an hour to get settled in?”
“Perfect.” I say.
Finally, she smiles. “What else may I do for you?”
Not a thing that I can think of.
“The elevators are to your left,” she instructs, nodding in the direction. “Your bags should be in your rooms by the time you arrive upstairs. Please don’t hesitate to call the main desk if you have any questions or requests. There’s a concierge on call twenty-four-seven as well. Please take advantage.”
We’ll do that.
I wink at Bryn, offering a crooked smile. This really is the treatment, and it’s entertaining.
She’s taking it all in, and taking it a bit too seriously. I nod toward her keycard still laying on the polished countertop.
“Don’t forget that,” I say, with mock-gravity. “You’ll need it.”
She’ll need it tonight. Maybe not tomorrow.
Through dinner we laugh and chit-chat; with me learning about her job and the perils of being a new, young, female attorney—who also happens to be the boss’s daughter. I’m certain it sounds worse than it is, but after listening for half an hour, I’m grateful it’s her and not me.
“My head would explode from boredom,” I admit, tipping my wine glass toward her, offering a wry smile. “My eyes glaze over when the lawyers start talking index fund spreads and the tax-deferred benefits of annualized annuities.”
She grins. “You’re speaking my language. Or at least my second language. My first language is English lit. I wasn’t altogether enthusiastic about being a lawyer when I started undergrad. I came to it slowly.”
Now there’s a rabbit hole we can explore.
“I didn’t know that,” I admit. “I guess I assumed you were always destined for it, your father being who he is.”
Bryn shakes her head, the wine animating her, pinking her lovely cheeks. “Not at all. I was coerced. My undergraduate degree is in 19th century English literature. I loved Thomas Hardy, Twain, and Dickens. As it turns out the study has informed my profession. They taught me a lot about labor relations and abuse of power.”
Good lord, this girl gets more beautiful and intriguing by the hour.
“Thomas Hardy and Dickens sure nailed the abuses of power,” I say. “What did you glean from Twain?”
Bryn pauses, her eyes lingering on mine. She fondles her wine glass contemplatively. Opening her mouth to speak, she pauses again, hesitating. Finally, eyes fixed narrowly, she asks, “Are you playing with me?”
Maybe.
“I was a lit major too,” I confess. “Twain is a personal favorite.”
Her brow furrows. “I thought athletes majored in things like basket-weaving and Phys Ed?”
I grin. “Some do. And a couple of the guys on my team were into particle physics. I was an English Literature major with a minor in Creative Writing. The team spent a lot of time on the road in transit, and I spent all that time reading books from Hawthorne, George Elliot, Thoreau, and Dickens. My favorite was Mark Twain. Letters from Earth pretty much solidified my view of how the world works and my insignificant place in it.”
The waiter approaches, refilling our drinks, presenting th
e tab for my signature. All the while Bryn takes me in without comment.
When he’s gone, she lifts a hand to my arm, her fingers gently grazing the tip of an inked image peeking out from under rolled cuffs. Her gentle touch against my skin sears me. It radiates through the surface, boring in deep, firing every nerve in my core. I catch my breath, holding it, trying to conceal the effect her gesture has on me.
“Tell me about this,” she says, her voice low, catching. “What does it represent? Or is it just decoration?”
When I was in college, in the Buckeye’s program, everyone got ink. It was the thing to do. There was a tattoo shop in downtown Columbus that catered to the Buckeyes players. They gave us free work in exchange for photographs, autographs, and team trinkets. Everyone took advantage of it, even though it was strictly against NCAA rules.
The design on my forearm Bryn refers to is in memory of a teammate who didn’t make it past his sophomore year.
“I had a friend back in college. He went home for summer break and was gunned down in the street by a local cop. It was mistaken identity. The cop got off without even a day of suspension. My friend—my team mate—died at nineteen while trying to bring a liter of Coke and a bag of Cheetos to his little brother in the projects. The cop claimed he fit the profile and was belligerent.” I shake my head.
“There wasn’t a belligerent bone in Jamal Castro’s body. He was a teddy bear. His skin was brown, and he was six-foot-four, tipping the scale at close to two-eighty. The cop who shot him was five foot-eight and one-fifty. Do the math on that. I wear my ink proudly in respectful memory of him.”
Bryn sizes up my response. Her face softens.
“You know, you keep surprising me.”
Good.
There are other stories inked all over me, along with the conference championship wins, the bowl games, the trophies. I have a little bit of ink in commemoration of everything accomplished or forfeited, won or lost, during those fleeting years of my college career.
“Ancient history,” I say. “Another life. I hang onto these so I don’t forget where I came from. But it’s a different world to me now.”
That much is true.