Prima Donna

by Drewry, Laura

Regan crossed her arms, tipped her head a little, and leaned her hip against the counter, waiting.

  “Oh no,” Maya gaped. “No way.”

  “Why not? You’re living in the tiny little apartment over Jayne’s store, and in a house you’d have all sorts of room.”

  “Sorry, Reg, I love you, but no. I went from my parents’ house to living with my sister to being married. This is the first time I’ve ever lived on my own, and I gotta tell you—I like it.”

  Sure, she liked it now, but a few years of going home to an empty apartment and eating microwaved soup because there’s no point in making a big meal for one person…not so much fun.

  “Besides,” Maya went on. “You and I would kill each other. You can’t stand things being out of place, and I…well…look around.”

  Regan didn’t have to look; she knew. Maya thrived in chaos that would drive Regan around the bend in about five minutes.

  “Yeah, okay, you have a point. Maybe Ellie—” They both burst out laughing before she finished the sentence. “Forget it.”

  Halfway through a swallow of coffee, Maya’s eyes widened. “So who was the rose from?”

  Regan didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as blink. “There was no name.”

  Not a lie.

  “That’s weird. What did the card say?”

  A slow shrug, mainly to hide the way her shoulder wanted to twitch. “Just your standard Valentine’s greeting.”

  Little bit of a lie.

  “Really?” Maya frowned. “Do you have any idea who it might be from?”

  “Nope, not a clue.”

  Complete and total going-to-Hell-in-a-handcart lie.

  “Hmm. Well, that’s disappointing.”

  “Why do you say that?” Regan rinsed a cloth in the sink and started wiping down the countertop.

  “Because…wait…didn’t you Google the rose like I told you to?” Maya rolled her eyes when Regan winced. “Generally speaking, there are two ways people buy roses. They either stick with red because it’s traditional, or they go with a different color because it’s pretty or they happen to like that color.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, nothing. Each color symbolizes something, and coral roses symbolize desire and happiness.” She quirked her left brow at Regan as though waiting for some kind of response, but all Regan could do was rewipe the already clean counter. “That, coupled with the fact it was a single rose, which in my opinion is about as sexy as it gets, I was all like, ‘Yeah, baby, go Reggie’ ”

  Regan swallowed hard, thankful for the clump of glue needing her attention.

  “But I guess if the greeting wasn’t anything special, then he only picked that color because he liked it.” She shrugged indifferently and followed it up with a sigh. “I keep hoping there are still people out there who believe in this kind of stuff, in the romance of giving flowers, but I guess it’s like everything else nowadays; people are too busy to put any real thought into it, they just figure any old flower will do.”

  “Y-yeah,” Regan muttered, forcing herself to blink, breathe, and to exhale a harsh chuckle. “Except for Nick—he always gets Jayne dandelions.”

  “Again,” Maya grunted. “Not flowers. Weeds.”

  “I know, but it’s still romantic.”

  “I guess.” A slow smile spread across Maya’s face. After a second, she tucked the fern pieces back in the vase with the rest of them and chuckled. “Romantic or not, it’s still weird.”

  “No argument there.” Regan rinsed the cloth again and tried desperately to come up with something else to talk about; anything but Valentine’s Day would do at this point, so why couldn’t she come up with something that didn’t involve romance or flowers? Or Carter?

  Everything she wanted to talk about started with him, so it was best to keep her mouth shut tight until she could get past that. Luckily she was helped out by Ellie, who pushed through the door right then.

  “Her ears must’ve been burning,” Regan chuckled quietly, then they both spoke at the same time. “Hey, Ellie.”

  “I was just going to grab a coffee and thought I’d see if you—” She stopped talking when Maya lifted her cup.

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “Sorry,” Regan said, fighting back a smirk. “I’ve got a three o’clock I need to get to, but Maya’s having a minor wardrobe crisis, Ellie. Help her out, will you?”

  With a smile and a wave, she ducked out the door as Maya filled Ellie in on her date details, and headed out to start the six hours of appointments she had lined up.

  By the time she finally pulled her car into Jayne’s garage that night, she should have been tired, should have gone straight to bed, especially with a cut and color booked for first thing the next morning. But she was restless, twitchy.

  Had Carter sent her that particular rose because he liked the color? Or maybe he thought she’d like the color? He certainly wasn’t the type of guy who studied symbolism in flowers, so what else could it be?

  Duke refused to go out for a walk, so Regan wandered aimlessly between the living room and the kitchen. She wiped down the counters and sink, even though they were already clean, fluffed the cushions on the couch, then went out to the garage and leaned against her car, staring at the space for a long time before finally going back inside and flopping down on the couch.

  Surely to God there must be something on TV that would bore her into sleep.

  When the third infomercial started, she shut it off and went to get ready for bed, but not before lifting her rose up for a long inhale of its rich, sweet aroma. The hallway led past the spare room they’d never furnished, the storage room full of Christmas decorations, Nick’s work stuff and boxes of books Jayne had yet to sort for the store, then to the bathroom.

  When she was finished, she stepped out into the hall and hesitated, staring toward the last door past the bathroom.

  Carter’s room.

  Blowing out a slow breath, Regan turned to go, then stopped. Jayne would want to know why Regan chose to spend the weekend sleeping on the couch instead of in a perfectly good bed. What reason could she possibly give that wasn’t completely lame?

  None, because the only explanation was pathetic. In the last six weeks she’d come to understand why so many women wanted to be with Carter, even if it was only temporarily, and there was no question anything with him would be temporary. Short, sweet, and unbelievable, yet long enough to not only get herself fired, but to mess up her friendship with Jayne, which would then ripple out to Maya and Ellie, too.

  So no matter how much Girlie Regan whined, she was just going to have to suck it up.

  With a deep breath, Regan pushed the door open and stepped inside the room. She wasn’t about to sleep in there, she’d just make it look like she had.

  The same box spring and mattress Nick had used prior to Jayne’s arrival was pushed up against the far wall; no bed frame, no headboard, just the mattresses covered in a thick green quilt with a brown-and-yellow crocheted blanket folded at the end. The only other piece of furniture was the three-drawer dresser on the side wall with a gooseneck lamp, a dog-eared Tom Clancy novel, and a medical journal from last fall.

  Okay. All she needed to do was make it look like she’d slept there; no problem.

  She moved the pillow up against the wall, shook out the blanket and refolded it differently, tugged the quilt down so it hung to the floor, and stacked the novel on top of the journal and pushed them both to the far side of the dresser. There.

  Oh, wait. One more thing.

  Regan pulled opened the top drawer of the dresser just enough to make it look like she’d used it and not closed it completely, then went straight for the closet. Oh yes, she was outdoing herself on this. She’d shuffle the hangers around a little and—

  Oh boy.

  There it was, the coveted Stan Smyl jersey.

  Who in their right mind ever thought dark yellow with orange-and-black trim was a good look? Ugh…nasty. She lifted the hanger down and spu
n the ghastly thing around to get a better look, but once she touched it, weighed the fabric against her palm, and inhaled the scent she’d been trying so hard to forget…

  Little bit of leather, little bit of musk, whole lotta Carter.

  “Oh, screw it,” she muttered.

  Comfortable flannel nightshirt off, horrible yellow hockey jersey on.

  It was heavy, a little scratchy, and the front was stiff under the crest, but she didn’t care. Wrapped in its weight, she walked out to the living room, retrieved her vase, and walked right back to Carter’s room, where she climbed into the bed she’d just rearranged and was fast asleep in seconds.

  —

  Carter hung around the apartment until the call came in from Rossick around mid-morning.

  “D’you get them?…Yes!…What time’s the puck drop?” He glanced at the time on his phone and nodded. “Okay, lunch first? Good. I just have to run to Nick’s and grab my jersey, then I’ll meet you at the hospital. Is Jules coming? ’Kay. See you in a bit.”

  He hustled out to his car, dialing Nick’s home number as he climbed in. Four rings, then voice mail, so he hung up without leaving a message and immediately dialed Regan’s cell. She might not answer their house phone, but she’d answer her cell. Straight to voice mail.

  Good, she must already be gone to an appointment. He hadn’t seen her since the day before Valentine’s and truth be told, from the second he slid that envelope under Maya’s door, he’d been kicking himself.

  He’d all but groped Regan in the office the other day when she hugged him and then he went and sent her that rose. On its own, that was stupid enough, but to make it worse, he’d specifically asked for that coral color, and there’s no way Maya hadn’t told Regan what it meant.

  Idiot.

  What kind of a guy kept pushing himself onto a woman when she’d already told him she wasn’t interested, that the only thing she had time for was her jobs so she could care for her mom? Carter threw his car into gear and pulled out of the parking lot, cursing himself the whole time. Jayne was right; he was an asshole.

  And the only thing worse than realizing it himself was admitting Jayne was right. Well, screw that—starting now he’d keep his distance from Regan. They’d work together and they’d see each other at Nick and Jayne’s sometimes. Hell, if he could pull this off, they might even stay friends.

  He could do that, couldn’t he? She was just a chick, and sooner or later, he’d get over whatever this…thing…was. Right?

  Right or not, he didn’t rest easy until he pulled into Nick’s driveway. Empty. Good. She was gone, which meant he’d have another whole day to convince himself he could stop thinking about her, he could stop wanting to spend every minute of every day with her, and he could stop remembering what it felt like to be buried deep inside her, listening to her whisper his name as she—

  Shit!

  Duke’s deep rumbling howls started before Carter could tug his key out of the lock and close the door behind himself.

  “Hey, buddy,” he murmured, crouching down in the foyer to scratch Duke’s ears. Still howling, the dog pushed up against Carter’s shin before giving his hand a slow lick and flopping down on the floor, his chin resting on the toe of Carter’s shoe.

  “What’s up, Duke?” Regan’s muffled voice floated into the room from down the hall. “Need to go—Carter!”

  Carter’d swear that part of his reaction came from the surprise of finding her there, and it might be marginally true, but when she came around that corner holding the rose under her nose and wearing nothing but his hockey jersey, something slammed him so hard and fast he actually staggered back a step.

  He blinked her into focus, then took another step back, ignoring Duke’s disgruntled groan at having his head displaced.

  Ho. Lee. Shit.

  Hockey jerseys didn’t look good on anyone, but on her, with her hair all messed up, her pretty mouth opened in that little o, and those legs…

  She caught the vase before it fell, then pressed her hands over the jersey as if she could hide it. “What…what…what are you doing here?”

  “I, uh, called the house but there was no answer.” He lifted his foot over Duke and took a step toward her. “So I thought you’d be at an appointment.”

  “I was…um…on my cell when the house phone rang.” Panic flashed across her face; with the vase still clutched in one hand, she pressed the other against her head and frantically tried to tame some of the chaos, but with each movement of her arm up around her head, the jersey inched higher up her thighs. “My client…um…she, uh, had to cancel this morning. Sick. Her baby. Throwing up. Diarrhea.”

  This was wrong. He shouldn’t be taking another step toward her. And if she had any sense, she’d be telling him to whoa up, but she didn’t. She just kept standing there, finger-combing her hair and twisting her right foot over top of her left.

  Did she have any idea what she was doing to him, standing there in his jersey? Ah, shit, did she have any idea what she did to him just by standing there at all? He couldn’t stand it; if being an asshole meant he got to pull that jersey off her right there and spend the rest of the day with her underneath him, or on top of him, then he didn’t give a shit how much of an asshole he was. It’d be so worth it.

  No it wouldn’t.

  Seriously? Look at her!

  Don’t do it.

  But those legs…remember how good it felt to—

  Don’t be that guy.

  There couldn’t have been more than three feet between them when he finally managed to stop moving and just look at her, her green eyes wide with panic.

  “This, um…your jersey.” Still clutching the rose, she crossed her arms awkwardly and finally took a step back. “I can explain.”

  “I think it’s probably better if you don’t.” Carter swallowed hard, then rubbed his earlobe to keep his hand from reaching for her as his gaze wandered the length of her, inch by inch. “But it’s why I’m here. Game day.”

  “Right. Okay. Um…I’ll just go get changed.” She’d already disappeared down the hall when she called back to him. “Do I have time to wash it?”

  “Wash it?” He would not think about the fact she was right down that hall getting naked. Nope. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t…okay, he would. Shit. “It’s a signed jersey, Red, you don’t just throw it in the washing machine…unless…did you spill something on it?”

  “No! It’s just…” Her voice muffled for a second, and when it cleared again, he didn’t need to see her to know she had a guilty look on her face. “I sorta slept in it.”

  “Gimme a fuckin’ break,” Carter whimpered, pressing his fists against his eye sockets. His stupid hockey jersey was getting more action than he was.

  Turning on his heel, he headed straight to the kitchen hoping against hope she might come out in either a giant floral muumuu or a full-length parka, though she’d probably look just as hot in either of those as she did in everything else. It didn’t matter what she wore because he knew what was under it, knew how soft she was and how to touch her, just so, to get her to arch into his hands.

  Stop it. So she’d been wrapped in his jersey all night. So what? He just wouldn’t think about it. He wouldn’t think about how her scent was now going to be woven into the fabric, or how he was ever going to explain that to Rossick at the game.

  And he sure as hell wasn’t going to think about how jealous he was of a stupid hockey jersey for getting to spend the night with her.

  Ugh!

  It was no wonder he’d never tried to be the good guy before—it sucked! And it was getting harder and harder to pretend none of it mattered when the truth was…shiiiit!

  By the time she returned, wearing her oversized green sweatshirt, Carter had downed two glasses of ice water and had splashed another couple gallons across his face, but none of it helped. He was still rock-hard and pretty certain his head was going to explode if he didn’t get out of there pretty soon.

  “Sorry ’bou
t that.” Her face was still flushed as she set the folded jersey on the island. “You okay?”

  Don’t be an asshole.

  “Mm-hmm.” Sure, he was okay, aside from the fact everything inside him was twisted up so tight he could barely breathe. He scrubbed his hands across his face, and before he could do anything stupid, like ask her to go put it back on, he snapped the jersey up and headed for the door. “See you later.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Come on, admit it. Sometimes you think I’m all right.”

  Han Solo, The Empire Strikes Back

  The others were already at the table when Regan showed up at Chalker’s on Tuesday night.

  “Thought you were going to stand us up,” Ellie quipped, then frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Regan waved her question away as she hung her coat on the back of her chair. “It’s just been a weird few days.”

  Weird didn’t even begin to describe it. Valentine’s Day, getting busted in his jersey, then having him take off like that…he’d hardly said two words to her since.

  “What happened?”

  “To start with,” Maya said, pushing the pretzel bowl over to Regan’s side of the table, “someone sent her a rose on Valentine’s Day.”

  “Who?” Jayne asked, perking up. “Are you seeing someone?”

  “No!”

  “Then who sent it?”

  Regan could have kissed Shelley when she set the beer bottle down on the table. “The card wasn’t signed.”

  “Which makes it really interesting,” Maya said, then proceeded to fill the other two in on the type of rose, what the color meant, and how it had been ordered. “Nice, eh?”

  “And you don’t have any idea who it might be from?”

  Regan just lifted her bottle and shrugged as she took a long, slow sip.

  “Anyone new hanging around lately? Anyone stopping by the clinic to see you?”

  “No and no.”

  “Wait.” Ellie set her glass down and shook her finger slowly at Regan. “The other day after you left the shop, Mrs. Scott said she saw you get into a car with someone. A man someone in a fancy Cadillac-type car.”