Guys and Godmothers

by Candice Gilmer

  He couldn’t take his gaze off her. He immediately got the impression she could see right into his soul, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  “Myrtle, darling, I told you. Stay out of youngster’s business,” came a man, approximately the same age, bald as a cue ball with his own cane. He hadn’t seen the couple in the bar before, but he’d been focused on the damn Heather Show.

  The woman glared at her husband, then looked back at Roark. “Go on, boy. Get!”

  Her husband took her arm, then glanced at Roark. “So sorry. She meddles.”

  “I most certainly do not,” the lady said.

  “And what do you call this?”

  “Advice.”

  Roark raised his hand. “With all due respect, she does have a point.” He tossed money on the table and headed out to find Stephanie, because, frankly the woman was right.

  He should not be sitting here, staring into space. While he hated to think he lost his shot to date her, he wasn’t about to lose her friendship as well.

  He had to prove to her they could work.

  The snobby elite be damned.

  “Let go of me, you jerk,” Christy hissed at Cupid.

  “Thought you weren’t supposed to manipulate, the whole Fairy Godmother code and all.” Cupid led her toward the back of the bar, into a short hallway—out of sight of any of the patrons.

  “I was advising, not forcing,” Christy snapped. With a flick of her cane, which disguised her wand, she returned to her normal form.

  Cupid did the same.

  “So you say, there, Chrysanthemum.”

  Christy grimaced. She hated when anyone called her by her full name. “Go annoy some Hollywood starlet.” She started after her charge, flying through the walls of the restaurant.

  Cupid followed her. “Quit imposing your beliefs on others.”

  “I was not,” Christy said, glancing around the parking lot. Roark had gotten in his car to go after his date, and she let out a sigh of relief.

  “Better hurry, my dear.” Cupid grinned. “Do not want him to do something to screw this up.”

  “I have utter faith in my charge,” Christy countered.

  “It isn’t his faith I’m questioning. I’m more concerned about hers…”

  “She’s coming around,” Christy argued.

  “Oh, she is? Who just stormed out of the restaurant?”

  Christy grumbled and started to fly away.

  “Maybe I should have a minion help her out, make things easier for you. I wouldn’t want to see you stuck with your charge for a decade. That would certainly ruin your impending retirement,” he said as he kept pace with her flight.

  Christy’s eyes went wide. “Don’t you dare!”

  Cupid merely grinned and disappeared.

  Good grief! Christy transported herself to Roark, hoping he could work this out.

  Before one of Cupid’s minions showed up and ruined the whole thing.

  Chapter Ten

  Stephanie hadn’t gotten far, only a block or so. She wasn’t running—of course, she couldn’t truly run in these strappy shoes anyway—but as soon as she heard the loud rumbling of the Camaro, she looked back. The gray car zoomed toward her like a predator on the hunt.

  She shook her head and hoofed it into a convenience store parking lot.

  “This is crazy.” She flung open the store’s door. Customers milled about, picking up their pops, smokes, and lottery tickets, and all seemed lost in their own worlds.

  Good enough for her. She could focus on… Arrgh, even her own thoughts were a tangle. She couldn’t wrap her mind around everything zooming through her brain. Past, present, future—all of it a jumbled mess in her head.

  Losing Roark altogether because of a stupid idea to take their relationship to another level would destroy her. He’d been her friend for so long, she wasn’t sure what she’d do without him around.

  But it was Roark. She trusted him. She had all her life and she knew what sex did to even long-standing relationships. She’d been a wedding planner for quite a while—she’d seen everything. Even her own marriage, as short-lived as it was, was a testament to that. Her ex-husband started out as a friend too. And that didn’t end well. Now the man lives three states away. Did she miss him? Nope.

  Just the “idea” of a husband. That guy who would fix her drain, replace an occasional doorknob, and maybe mow—that was the guy she missed.

  Roark was the closest thing she had to a dependable male. She wouldn’t dare screw that up. Couldn’t. Their relationship was so old, so solid, they’d always been a part of each other’s lives, and to lose that—well—it would be like cutting off her hand. Or her Android phone.

  Sure, eventually she’d figure out how to operate without it, but why jeopardize losing it? She wasn’t like him. He’d been privileged, given opportunities. She had to claw her way out of obscurity and fight off everyone who pushed her down.

  She worked damn hard to be where she is today. Proving to everyone the girl from the wrong side of the tracks wasn’t a total screw-up had been hard. And even now, Steph knew the score card. Some things were so far out of her reach, no matter how she clawed for it, she could never get it. So why hope?

  Of course, the naggy girl part deep inside of her brought up that one time…

  That moment at the high school state wrestling tournament.

  She could see it clear as day.

  A stink of sweat and disinfectant that could only be found at a wrestling tournament filled the air. Cries from the crowd—cheerleaders screaming for their team, for their wrestler, referees slapping the floor—whistles and timer buzzers made a hodgepodge of noise, both loud and yet, background noise.

  Stephanie was no different, yelling for Roark, cheering as he “threaded the needle” with his opponent—tying the guy up into a pin combination.

  The referee slapped the mat.

  Roark won. He leaped off his opponent, fist pumping in the air.

  The ref raised his hand. Steph cheered at the rail above the tournament floor, almost hanging over it for him.

  He shook hands with his opponent, and the coaches.

  Then he turned to the crowd, and his gaze met hers. He started forward.

  Pushed past his teammates, past the cheerleaders, past the coaches, even, to the rail that separated the crowd seating and the floor.

  He stepped on a chair, and climbed up.

  Right in front of her. Her heart thundered and her pride swelled, because he’d come straight to her. Not his parents, who were only a few rows away, but to her.

  Steph leaned over the rail, and they hugged. He smelled of sweat and wrestling mat, his hair wet, his headgear in his hand, and it smacked her shoulder when he embraced her. They held each other for a moment, rocking back and forth just a bit before he released her and went back to his team.

  And that should have been the end of it.

  Instead, some on-the-ball photographer took a picture and used it to accompany the article in the paper about Roark’s success. Not of him wrestling, not him on the podium accepting his first-place medal.

  But of him and her—Stephanie half-hanging over the rail, embracing a sweaty Roark as he stood on a chair, hugging her. The caption read Stephanie Bowers congratulating boyfriend Roark Turner on his undefeated senior season.

  The paper got it wrong. They hadn’t been dating. They both had been dating other people at the time. Stephanie remembered her boyfriend Scott Lucas promptly dumping her Sunday morning without any explanation. At least, not until she saw the morning’s newspaper.

  Even her own mother had teased her for weeks about it.

  “Stupid reporters, thinking you’d ever have a chance of being with Roark Turner.” And she wasn’t the only person who mocked Steph because of the picture. The rest of her senior year had bee
n a kind of torment she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy.

  Just allegedly dating Roark had caused all sorts of strife.

  What would really dating him do to me? She wondered as she walked past the rows of single-serving chips. She tried to look over the rack to the outside, to see if Roark’s car had pulled in. She couldn’t tell, she was just a bit too short, and it was starting to get dark outside.

  So there was no way to tell if he did.

  She turned to the nearby hot dogs, her stomach growling at the sight of food. A part of her chastised walking out on a meal, but she couldn’t sit there.

  She couldn’t keep looking at him, with all that hope on his face.

  Hope didn’t have any place in the real world.

  Stephanie let out a sigh, raising on her tippy toes one more time to see if his car was outside.

  Just as he walked into the store.

  She clomped back down on the floor, her heart thundered in her chest, about to burst, seeing him there. He had that same determination he’d had when he’d climbed on the chair to hug her after his match. That there was no way, no how, he was going to stop until he got to her.

  And damn her, a tiny part of her squealed in delight, but she squelched it just as quick.

  “Steph,” he said, stopping just out of touch range, his hand raised like he would grab her. But he didn’t. Instead he made a fist and shoved it in his pocket. He was mad. Angry.

  And something else she’d seen before.

  Heartbroken.

  In a way, so was she.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied, tears welling in her eyes, bursting even though she tried to push them down. There had been so much emotion tonight—she just couldn’t keep it all in.

  “I just can’t…” She headed toward the back of the store, looking for the restroom, where she could get a hold of herself.

  Get a moment to breathe, because standing there in front of him, even with all the other people around, she felt horribly vulnerable.

  Stephanie did not do vulnerable.

  She’d been vulnerable most of her damn life. She didn’t do that anymore.

  She pushed open the heavy red door marked “Women” and went straight to the sink. Turned on the cool water and splashed her face.

  She grabbed a rough paper towel and wiped away the water from her face and then the counter, then the door behind her came open.

  “Steph, we need to talk.”

  She spun around. “Roark! This is a woman’s restroom. What are you doing?”

  “Do I scare you that much?”

  She stepped back, pressing herself into the sink, and felt the cool water flood the back of her dress.

  “No, of course not.”

  “So why are you running away?”

  “I…” And she really had no good answer. Not anything that made sense.

  “Are you that scared of what people will say?”

  “No.”

  “Then what is it?” This time he did close the distance and took her hand. “We’ve known each other for years. I almost always can tell exactly what you’re thinking all the time.”

  “So what am I thinking now?”

  “I don’t know.” He squeezed her fingers. “But I want to.”

  She shook her head.

  We don’t belong together. You’re way out of my league. Yet she couldn’t articulate the words—they were just not able to form. How could he not know? How could he think they ever had a chance of being anything more than friends?

  “If you don’t tell me, I can’t fix it, Steph,” Roark whispered, touching her shoulder.

  And damn that girly part of her for wanting to fold into his arms. To curl into him, to let him tell her it was okay, everything would be fine, but she couldn’t. Because she knew better. Tongues would waggle. It might even hurt his little store if he dated her.

  She might be a sought-after wedding planner, but wasn’t in his class. Never would be.

  She’d learned to deal with that over the years.

  But she’d be damned if she brought Roark down with her.

  She opened her mouth to speak when the door opened, and an older lady came in.

  “Oh my,” she said, glancing at the door, then back at Roark and Stephanie. “This is the women’s restroom…”

  “We were just leaving,” Roark said, putting his arm around Stephanie.

  The lady gave him the evil eye as he guided Stephanie out. Steph mumbled an apology to the woman as they passed her, and when they got back into the store proper, he didn’t let go of her.

  And Stephanie didn’t want him to.

  At least not right this second.

  Chapter Eleven

  Roark led Stephanie into his house. She hadn’t said much the entire ride back. Barely muttered her requested takeout at Taco Bell—and he knew that wasn’t good, because Stephanie loved Taco Bell. It was her guilty pleasure.

  Roark spread the offerings of burritos, soft tacos, and the biggest nacho platter Taco Bell made over the coffee table. He kept his fingers moving because he was irritated. This was not the romantic evening he’d had in mind. Hell, even on the worst date he’d ever been on, he’d never had a woman run off on him.

  Steph squeezed the red fruit slurpie-thing she’d ordered. “Some date I turned out to be.”

  “There were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Um, yeah. I can’t imagine how this could get worse.” He noticed her cheeks turned pink, and the color spread down her neck. He felt like a sledgehammer hit him over the head when he realized how embarrassed she was.

  Oh good Lord.

  He smiled at her. “I don’t know. I have vodka. We could make this really interesting.”

  Stephanie let out her first snort of laughter. “Vodka in fast food cups? That’s so high school.”

  “You would know.” He leaned over, bumping her shoulder.

  Her cheeks got even redder. “Oh my God. One time, I did that. And only because Maria Jacobsen dared me to do it.”

  “Yeah, but you weren’t supposed to fill the cup halfway with the vodka.”

  “Like I knew that,” she said, opening a soft taco package.

  Roark rolled his eyes. “You were so tanked.” He popped the lid on the nachos, then claimed a burrito for himself, starving.

  “Yes. Yes, I was.”

  “I thought you were going to puke on Mom’s new carpet.”

  She brushed her mouth, wiping away a dabble of sour cream. “I thought I was too.”

  Roark stared for a moment, caught in the sight of her lips—how soft and round they were—and forced himself to look away and take a bite of his burrito.

  Don’t think about her lips.

  What were they talking about? Oh, her… that night. “Whose idea was that?” He cleared his throat to get his voice back to normal.

  “The booze, or going to your place?”

  “Coming over,” Roark said.

  The memories came back hard. He’d had three buddies over, hanging out after the state wrestling tournament, all gorging on the smoked turkey his parents had cooked—and yes, they ate the whole damn thing—when Steph and her friend knocked on the door.

  At ten o’clock at night. Drunk off their asses. Hanging on one another, claiming they just came by to say “congrats.”

  It had been one of those “don’t talk about it” things between them. There had been things said, done, and other stupid stuff best left alone.

  Stephanie blushed. “Mine. Wanted to show off that I knew the wrestling stud.”

  “You showed off,” he said with a smirk, remembering how she’d barely been able to stand in the doorway. “I’m surprised you made it to my house.”

  “We made it fine. I had to have a few gulps of liquid courage before walking to the door
.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Why?”

  “Nerves.”

  “Why would you be nervous?”

  “Because,” she said just before biting into her taco.

  “Because why?” he pushed. Though he had a pretty good idea he knew the answer. But for some reason he wanted to hear it from her.

  “Because I thought you were still dating that cheerleader.” She took a sip of her red drink. “Because I knew your parents weren’t home, and I thought maybe you’d be, uh, occupied.”

  Roark nodded. Not quite what he thought she would say, but honest enough. “Then why would you come?”

  She shrugged. “Same reason any teenage girl goes to a boy’s house at ten at night.”

  He leaned closer, his arm brushing hers. “Did you want to be occupied?”

  She jerked away. “No.”

  “Could have fooled me.” He remembered she hung on him from the moment she’d come in the door.

  “Yeah, thank God your parents weren’t home.”

  His folks had decided a little celebrating was in order for Roark. They had left him alone at the house after the tournament—with detailed instructions of how everything needed to be back in order when they came home, but he could do whatever he wanted for the night.

  “Probably wouldn’t go over well, trying to explain why a girl—not my girlfriend—was asleep in my bed.” He noticed the differences between the girl she’d been and the woman she was now. And surprisingly, not a lot. Her face had thinned, more angular than in school, but he’d bet anything she still looked like a sweet angel when she slept. Just like she had then.

  Roark crunched on another chip. “Did your mother ever miss you that night?”

  “Heck, I don’t think my mother came home until Monday morning,” Stephanie replied. “She rarely came home before Monday, anyway.”

  More than once, Roark and his dad had gone over to her mom’s rented trailer and fixed something—a leaky faucet, a fritzy television, or whatever little thing Stephanie needed done.

  Dad called it being a good Christian. Roark called it being Stephanie’s friend. It wasn’t something Roark talked about—he figured Stephanie wouldn’t have wanted him to. He knew she did the best with what she had.