by P. Dangelico
“Glad that’s settled. Now––what’s good here? I’m starvin’.”
Chapter Eight
Stella
“Fore,” my friend yells as she swings her club. In the middle of an indoor driving range I should clarify. Simulator golf ranges––the latest rage in Manhattan. In their defense, the gourmet comfort food and craft beer are nothing to sneeze at.
Yesterday’s lunch with Dane proved to be an eye opening experience. Every time I think he’s going to do something to really put me off, he manages to surprise me––in a good way.
Again, he half-nelsoned me to the mat with his honesty. When he admitted that I made him crazy, I knew it was over for me. It hit me in a rare soft spot. Unfortunately, I have first hand knowledge that nothing good comes from having a soft spot for a good-looking, smooth-talking man.
As soon as I got home I began researching his charity work. True to his word the Dane Wylder Charitable Foundation has been hosting a summer camp for inner city at-risk boys for the past seven years called Man Up. And that’s only some of the work it does.
They’ve raised scholarship money. Donated computers. Currently they’re renovating a rec center located in one of Brooklyn’s poorest neighborhoods. He’s done more for kids than I’ve ever done; my donations pale by comparison.
With every article I read singing his praises, I shrank in my seat on the couch until I was hiding under the pillows.
As badly as I want to tell him that this won’t work––for all intents and purposes we’re oil and water, neutral colors to bright neons––I can’t bring myself to do it. He’s earned the chance.
And if I was being completely honest, something about him is endearing. Even his teasing is harmless. I spent most of lunch wrestling down a grin. And I believe him when he says he won’t shirk his responsibilities. The foundation…football. Both require commitment, effort, and time. He’s proven he can do it. Maybe he’s not such a risky choice after all.
“Tell me again why I had to meet you here?” I ask, exhaustion making me snippy. “And on a school night no less.” It’s already nine. Also known as past my bedtime.
“Because you’re my friend, that’s why. You’re contractually obligated. And because I’m researching my next novel. A time travel golf romance.”
“And what does that have to do with you futzing around on a golf course simulator?”
She stops mid-swing and leans on her club. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re human,” she says, head shaking in disappointment. “Look around you––hot guys galore.”
The place is packed with young professionals. She beams at someone beyond my shoulder. I don’t have to look to know it’s one of those hot guys.
“What about Colton?”
“Colton is on death row.” She resumes her stance, testing out her putting swing.
“What crime did he commit?”
“He’s getting clingy.”
“How clingy?” I’m compelled to ask because in the past Delia dumped a guy who felt it necessary to have a few dinners and a conversation before getting naked.
She believes gay men and women are for conversation, straight men are for sport. Her words not mine.
“He threw a bitch fit when I told him I don’t do sleepovers.”
“The nerve of him.”
“Did you forget what he did to me when we first started dating?”
And then I recall…Colton was a bad boy, jerking Delia around, canceling dates last minute and showing up on TMZ with a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader or some such person when he said he wasn’t seeing anyone else. The hazards of dating a major league baseball player I guess.
“I tried to be nice to him, I really did, but he wasn’t having it. So now that I have the five-inch heel of my Chanel thigh-high boot shoved up his ass he thinks he’s in love.” Shrugging, she adds, “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”
“I do hate the game. That’s why I don’t play. Changing topic. I think I found him.” Delia’s head snaps up and the golf ball goes flying to her left. It almost hits the group next to us.
“Sorry,” we both yell.
“Tell me everything,” she demands, attention captivated. “Gay?”
“No,” I groan, still sore about that development. “They didn’t want me.”
“Bummer.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So?”
“He’s a friend of Ethan’s. His name is Dane Wylder, he’s a––”
Her brown eyes narrow suspiciously. “A porn star?” she interrupts.
“What? No, he’s not a porn star.”
“That name is very familiar. Are you sure he’s not a porn star?”
“I’m positive he’s not a porn star. He’s a retired football player.”
And then it dawns on me…
“Oh God, do you think you might’ve slept with him?” I screech in a panic. “Is that why he sounds familiar?”
I’d have to start my search all over again. I could never look at him again without picturing him in a compromising position with Delia.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d remember him if I slept with him. You know I keep track of that stuff on my phone. I would’ve rated and shelved him and look––” Pulling out her cell from the back pocket of her skinny jeans, she taps away on the screen and holds it up for my perusal. “See, it’s in alphabetical order. He’s not there.”
Heaving a sigh of relief, I slump down on a bar stool and take a big gulp of my fancy craft beer.
“Thank God for your organizational skills.”
“Still––your kid will sound like a baby porn star. Imagine what the other kids at school will do to him.” My glare has no effect on her. She starts practicing her putt again. Not for long it seems. Straightening, expression super pensive, she adds, “And if you ever married him your name would be, Star Wylder. Very porny.”
“There’s a greater chance of me becoming an actual porn star.”
“Just sayin’. So, you think he’s the one?”
As she’s asking, the answer comes to me loud and clear. My mind whispering yes, while my lips say, “We’ll see.”
It’s only Tuesday and already one of the worst weeks of my life. I was late making a decision on a stock and my hesitation cost the hedge fund a boatload of money. I’ve never had an issue making decisions, but lately my head hasn’t been in the game the way it should be.
On the way home I made a single stop, to purchase a bottle of wine. And now as I sit on the couch, absently staring out my window with glass filled to the brim in hand, it occurs to me that once again I have no food in the house. On cue, my stomach rumbles.
My phone dings with an incoming text.
Dane: Come over?
In the whopping three days since my lunch date, my lunch companion has texted me five times. That’s five texts asking if I’d made a decision…in three days. I can only imagine what he was like as a kid. “Are we there yet?” must’ve been playing on a loop.
Me: No.
The man is relentless. While on the contrary I can’t seem to pull the trigger on anything lately.
Dane: Then let me up.
You can imagine the confusion this evokes.
Me: What do mean let you up. Where are you?
Dane: Downstairs.
I’m frozen, glass inches from my mouth and fingers hovering over the keyboard of my cell phone.
Dane: Don’t think too hard, Stella. Let me up.
If I thought there was any way to make him go away quietly, I would. However, I’ve learned that it’s almost impossible to get this guy to do anything he doesn’t want to do. With a tired sigh, I type––
Me: You’ve got fifteen minutes and only fifteen.
Dane: Deal. :)
He smiles way too much––even in texts.
Minutes later my doorbell chimes. I peer through the view hole and see throat. A moment later, he stoops and I see a broad white grin.
With a none-too-pleased look on m
y face, I open the door and find him standing there in sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. Any hope I had that he stopped by on his way to a date fizzles.
“Hittin’ the booze already, huh?” he says eyeballing my glass. “I’ll take one too, thanks.”
He walks past me without waiting for an invitation. “Come on in. Make yourself at home,” I drawl while he looks around. “Shoes off.”
After toeing off his sneakers, he moves through my apartment inspecting everything as if he were casing the joint. Then he makes a right into the kitchen. I hear the opening and closing of my kitchen cabinets.
“Nice place.” His voice carries from my living room. I follow it there.
“Thanks,” I practically grunt.
“Aside from the fact that this is very obviously where fun comes to die.” He places the glass on the coffee table and throws himself down on my couch, legs spread apart, hands locked behind his head. “I think your couch just dented my ass. Most uncomfortable couch I’ve ever sat on.”
I do not find this remotely funny.
The apartment is decorated in soothing shades of gray and ivory. Color feels like a big commitment. So I like neutrals. So what? That makes me a killjoy? And the couch is Italian, damn it. It took me months to pull the trigger on spending that kind of money.
“You have thirteen minutes.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
My stomach begins to rumble. While the traitor also known as my stomach yawns and gurgles and howls and makes a liar out of me, Dane’s winged brows nearly reach his hairline. My hand presses against it in fear the noise may never stop.
“Let me take you to dinner.”
“I’m not in the mood, Dane,” I quietly admit, throwing myself down on the couch next to him. “I’ve had a shitty day at work and all I want to do is sit here and stare blankly at the wall and contemplate what a shitty day I’ve had.”
“What happened?” Attention suddenly rapt, when I don’t grant him an answer, he prods, “Maybe I can help.”
I’ve never been one to talk about my problems. I like to mull them over in private, beat myself senseless with them, make myself stare at them until I want to vomit. Then I move on. That’s my routine. That’s always been my routine. Why mess with perfection?
Which is why I find it odd that as I study the man draped all over my way-too-expensive Italian handmade couch wearing an expression of genuine interest, I feel like talking. Dane has a way of pushing that doesn’t make me want to push back. I don’t feel forced but rather cajoled senseless, rendered too stupid to resist.
“I screwed up. The analysts said the company was well managed and had enormous growth potential but insurance is not a sector I’m very familiar with so I balked. News broke that the company was being bought out and the stock went through the roof…I cost us millions,” I explain in one breath.
“You released the ball late and got intercepted,” he offers, nodding.
“What?”
“You doubted your gut instinct.”
“Yes.”
“Happens to the best of us. You’ve gotta let it go and get ready for the next snap.”
“Huh?”
“Your work requires quick thinking and decision-making. You don’t have time to feel sorry for yourself. There’ll be another trade tomorrow and you’ll make up the potential loss in revenue. Don’t stop trustin’ yourself.”
We stare at each other.
His words continue to tumble around my head. Simple and perceptive. They soothe that raw place inside of me that says I need to work harder than anyone else, that feels the need to prove myself every single day…they smother the voice that says I need to be perfect. With a few thoughtful words Dane Wylder has accomplished the impossible––he made me feel better.
He smiles. And it’s not one of his wicked grins, or his cocky one, or the smug one. It’s soft and sweet and I find myself smiling back.
My landline rings, cutting short the easy vibe traveling between us. Blinking out of it, I reluctantly get up and answer.
“Hi, Miz Donovan. A Mr. Garner is here to see you.”
Holy crap, Jeff is here. My stomach drops, and not in a good way. I need to get Dane out of here before Jeff reaches my floor. I don’t even know how to explain Dane to Jeff. Not that he deserves an explanation but I know he’ll press for one. Lawyers.
“Eddie, give me five minutes and then you can send him up.”
“You got it, Miz Donovan.”
Back in the living room, I find Dane sipping his wine and staring dreamily at the panorama with no knowledge of the shit storm that’s coming. He turns to face me. For a fleeting moment I see some type of appreciation cross his face. Of what specifically, I’m not sure.
The handwringing starts. I hate being rude. And I hate when others are rude. Treating people with respect takes little to no effort. There’s never a good excuse. Except for this very moment.
“I hate to be rude but…uh…I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
He stares. He stares some more. His brow bunches up. “Why?”
More handwringing on my part. His eyes narrow, scanning my face and finding all the telltale signs of rising anxiety. He places the unfinished wine on the coffee table and stands.
“Is someone here? Downstairs?” His tone says he’s not going to go away quietly. “Someone you’re dating?” he adds sharply, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead.
“No!” I practically shout. “I mean––not anymore. Someone I used to date. Can you leave, please? I don’t have time to argue with you!”
“Why?” His jaw pulses with pent-up anger. Anger? Why would he be angry? “Did you invite him over?”
Didn’t he show up uninvited as well? “That is none of your business and you’re being really pushy about this. I don’t want him to see what’s going on here.” I’m talking quickly now, getting antsy as time slips away.
“What do ya mean you don’t want him to see what’s goin’ on here?” he snaps, throwing my words back at me, his index finger drawing the same invisible circle between us I just drew with mine.
The doorbell rings. Oh balls.
“All I wanted to do was drink my sorrows away! Don’t leave this room,” I order, pointing at the mulish giant before I stalk away to answer the door.
I open the front door to a tired-looking Jeff. He greets me with a wane smile. His suit rumpled like it never is. Two days’ worth of dark-brown stubble on his face and circles under his eyes.
“Are you okay?” is the first thing that comes out of my mouth.
“No.” His familiar brown eyes slide up and down my body, nothing other than mild interest in them.
“You didn’t return any of my calls.”
“I’ve been busy. Work. You know how it is.” Bald-faced lie but I’ve got nothing else.
I’ll always remember my time with Jeff fondly. Part of me still misses the early days. When I was still wowed by his J. Crew good looks and his rower’s body, that laid-back sexy way he has of drawing a person in, making them think that every word that comes out of their mouth is a diamond to be treasured.
“Can I come in?” he asks with a playful smirk. It’s then I realize I haven’t moved out of the doorway to let him enter.
“Sorry.”
Hands stuffed in his suit pants, he steps inside and halts, looking somewhat lost as he glances around.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks––is this a bad time to ask what you’re doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
Sounds ominous. For a moment, I’m worried.
“Jeff—”
“Why didn’t you want to marry me?”
Last time I saw Jeff was at a Super Bowl party Ethan threw for Calvin. This is what he asks after seeing me for the first time in five years? Standing awkwardly in the entrance of my new apartment he asks why I didn’t want to marry him nine years ago?
My instinct is to be completely honest.
Straight forward is my generally preferred style. Something in his eyes has me pulling my punches though.
“Let’s have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? I have no food in the house so if you’re hungry you’re out of luck.”
As I lead Jeff into the kitchen, my mind is still in the living room, wondering what the heck I’m going to do about Dane. Jeff finds the open bottle of red on the counter and inspects the label. I grab a glass out of a cabinet and hand it to him.
Leaning against the counter, I give him time to pour himself a glass. “Why are you here, Jeff? It can’t be about a marriage proposal that happened nine years ago.”
He takes a sip of the wine, his gaze purposely aimed at the bottle. I’ve never seen Jeff look so serious. This can’t be good.
“I’ve decided to have this kid with you. I’d prefer to get married but I’ll take the kid for now and we can discuss the rest later. I’ve already started shopping for firms in New York.”
Calling me surprised is putting it lightly. I grip the counter for purchase, the only thing I can manage at the moment.
“What…ah…I…you can’t be here, Jeff,” is all I can think to say. I’m panicking. This is too much drama for me. Any drama is too much drama for me.
“Yeah, you can’t be here, Jeff,” a voice booms from the next room.
Oh balls.
My shoulders curve in as I brace for what’s about to happen next. Jeff looks shocked, rightfully so.
“Who the fuck is that?” Jeff says.
Dane steps into the kitchen looking like the wrath of God personified. Jeff blinks, taking in the man standing in the doorway. All puffed up, the wrath of God looks even bigger.
“Dane Wylder is in your apartment,” Jeff absently tells me.
“That’s correct, Jeffrey,” says the man he speaks of.
I rub my temples. Where there was only a mild ache not too long ago, there is now a steady pounding. “Dane, can you give us a minute?”
“What’s Dane Wylder doing in your apartment?”