She smiled and those dimples popped again. They were deep enough to hold the entirety of my heart, soul, and being, and I was ready to claim my place in there now. Did she know what she was doing when she hit me with that sunshine? Did she understand?
"I really do, Cal," she said. "The raccoonasaurus was probably going to tear off my leg and run back to the forest with it, and you prevented that situation. And…" She offered a little shrug. "We're trail buddies. Trail buddies get coffee. It's the rule, Cal."
"It's the rule?"
She bobbed her head, the movement sending her ponytail swishing over her shoulder. I stared at those silky strands, wondering what they'd feel like between my fingers. Over my bare chest. And then, lower. "Yep, it is."
I couldn't argue with that. I could not.
"Let's go before that creature comes back for my leg. Today's one of those days where I know I'll need both of them."
I shouldn't have said anything but I couldn't stop myself. "What creature?"
A blank expression pulled her smile into a flat line. "The giant beast that ran out from the woods and hissed at me. I'm sure you saw it."
I scratched my chin. "I saw a little beaver but I can't say I noticed anything else on the trail. I could've missed it." My gaze dropped to the flare of her hips. "I'm sorry. I was a bit preoccupied."
Stella crossed her arms over her chest with a huff. "I know beavers and that was no beaver."
"Maybe you're not used to seeing them from that angle." I took a step back. Ran my hand down the nape of my neck. Hoped she was experiencing some momentary deafness or temporary amnesia because what the fuck was wrong with me?
"Really, Cal," she replied, dragging a slow gaze over the length of me. "Really."
"I'm not going to say anything else because it's going to come out very wrong and I will continue fucking everything up."
"I'm not sure you can stop yourself." She hopped off the tailgate and slammed me with a gut-stirring smirk. "Let's go. We're getting coffee."
I followed her red Volkswagen around the corner, gazed at her while she chatted with the barista about coffee beans, and when we sat down at a table by the window, I couldn't stop myself from blurting out the only question I needed answered.
"Who are you, Stella? I want to know everything about you."
4
Stella
Cal laid his thick forearms on the table, his tawny eyes wide as they dug straight into me, and he said, "I want to know everything about you."
Oh, he was a treasure. All that wide-shouldered strength and those soulful gazes. He was sweet in a quiet, bashful way. He was also built like a wide receiver and that made his sweetness just a touch more endearing.
And he'd been watching me?—following me?—for months.
That was a fun little recipe for early morning oddness. When viewed under a certain light, it was creepy. But that wasn't this morning's light. Cal didn't worry me. If anything, I was fascinated. A bit flattered too. And I could handle myself.
"Mmhmm." I stirred my matcha latte. He was still doing it—watching me—but now that I knew, I warmed under the attention. "Spoken like a true stalker."
His gaze snapped away from my hands and up to my face.
"No, no, that's not it," he stammered. "What I said back there, I know it sounded bad. That's not what I meant. Honestly, it never went beyond noticing you on the trail. Lime green Asics." He laughed, nodding toward my shoes. "I'd never do anything, you know, I'd never." He dropped his head into his hands and huffed out a long sigh as he rubbed his eyes. "I'm not a stalker. I'm sorry about all of this. I should go."
His ears were pink. He was blushing, and even though he was waiting for the earth to open up and swallow him whole, I was charmed. "No, don't go," I said, touching my fingers to his forearm for a second. "You have a nice, big cup of coffee here and I really can't eat this scone by myself."
Cal looked up at me, then he eyed the lemon scone smothered in blueberry glaze. I was sure it would be a two-biter for him. He looked like the kind of man who could actually, truly eat a horse and then ask for the dessert menu. He'd demolish a tray of my mother's meat pastelitos before they cooled from the fryer. "I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."
"It takes a lot more than that to make me uncomfortable. Really, I've seen it all. I'm good," I said, waving him off. "Anyway, I took a picture of your license plate and texted it to my assistant in case you decide to torture me in your basement or kill me in the woods." Cal rapid-blinked at me as his mouth fell open. "It's too early to joke about that? Okay. I'll hold off a little longer."
I broke off a corner of the scone for myself and passed the rest to Cal. He gave the pastry a resigned grin and said, "Can we start over? Please? You're so beautiful and I can't think. I've wanted to talk to you for the longest time and you'd think that would've been enough to decide on something smooth to say but nothing is coming out right."
Biting my lip to keep my dimples under control, I studied Cal. How did I miss this man at the pond? There were laugh lines around his eyes and just a few silver-white hairs on his temples, and the hint of a tattoo hiding under the sleeve of his old t-shirt. How could I have missed this?
"Okay, let's start over." I reached across the table, my hand outstretched. "I'm Stella Allesandro and I zone all the way out on my morning walks. I blame *NSYNC."
Cal laughed, but he didn't release my hand. "I'm Cal Hartshorn and I approach women by mowing them down to see if they like being underneath me."
A shocked laugh burst from my lips and I felt heat rising to my cheeks but I couldn't focus on the obvious innuendo he offered when there was more curious business at hand.
"Hold it right there," I said, leaning closer to peer at him.
"You can hold it anywhere you want it," he murmured.
"I'm sure." I held up a finger as my shoulders shook with silent laughter. "You keep them coming, Cal Hartshorn."
"I keep them coming like you wouldn't believe, Stella Allesandro," he replied. "Like you would not believe."
Laughing, I said, "Stop being obscene for a minute."
He had the balls to pull an appalled face. As if I was the one with all the bawdy comments here. "Obscene? I'm not obscene at all."
"You hide behind all your shy-boy awkwards but you're filthy," I said.
"Would you rather I hide with you in your cool-girl pretties? It might not look like I'll fit but you let me worry about that."
Another surprised laugh rumbled in my throat. "You…you should've talked to me a long time ago."
"I suppose that's as good as I'm going to get this morning," he said. "I mean, you haven't dumped coffee in my lap or run screaming."
"Not yet," I said. "But—wait. Go back. You're Doctor Hartshorn? The one on the cover of Boston Magazine's Best Doctors in the Bay State edition? The one who worked on the Patriots' defensive line coach when he had a heart attack last winter?" I tapped my hand—the one not currently swallowed by Cal's bear paw—to my breast, as if he didn't know how to find the organ in question. "You're that cardiothoracic surgeon?"
"Oh, hell," he muttered, cringing. I thought he was going to crawl back into his shell again and take his fresh comments with him but he didn't. And he didn't release my hand. "You saw that?"
"Did I see that?" I cried. "Hate to break it to you, but that magazine is on every newsstand and checkout line in New England. But I didn't recognize you without the scrubs and white coat and the I really hate this pose but I'm trying smile."
He hummed in agreement as his thumb passed over my palm in a smooth, rhythmic motion that sent goose bumps down to my toes and…other places.
"On behalf of the Patriots Nation, I want to thank you for looking after Coach Torres," I said, and it was a weak attempt at preventing myself from turning into a pile of pudding in this man's hands. All it took was his thumb stroking my palm and my game was crumbling like the scone between us. "And you've got the perfect name for cardiology. Hart-shorn."
"
I've heard that once or twice," he said with a wry laugh. "But I'm not interesting at all. I want to hear about you. What do you do? Where are you from? What are your favorite flowers and now that I've nearly assaulted you, when can I take you for a proper night out?"
I reached for my latte with my free hand because I needed more palm rubbing in my life. The entirety of his focus was on me, completely ignoring the morning rush around us. If there was a world beyond this table, he was unaware of it and I wasn't far behind.
I hadn't felt this inkling—the little tingle in my chest, the swoop and roll in my belly—since my twenties. Early twenties. Sitting here today, a thirty-five-year-old woman, I couldn't reach back far enough to grab those memories. I couldn't hold them up alongside this morning and determine whether they were the same or different. And I wasn't sure that mattered. I was different now. Even if these inklings and tingles were the same, I didn't experience them the same way anymore. I didn't melt into them, didn't let them surround me like a shawl.
I didn't want them.
But I didn't want to stop them either. I didn't remove my hand from Cal's grip, I didn't grab my latte and go back to the comfortable, organized life I'd created for myself. I stayed. I stayed because I wanted his thumb on my palm and I wanted to share this scone with him, and I didn't want to think beyond those simple desires. There was no room between his thumb and my palm for my work, my stress, my no-strings, no-futures relationships, my history of holding on too long or fucking it up with good guys who deserved more.
"Tell me something, Cal."
He replied with a crisp nod and I saw a quick flash of that military discipline in the gesture. "In my wallet, in the glove box, and in my first aid kit. Always prepared."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing. It's nothing." His ears were pink again and—oh shit, was he talking about condoms? "Go ahead. What did you want to know?"
I eyed him. "You keep them in the first aid kit, huh?"
His shoulders lifted and fell. "Never know when you'll get banged up."
"Wow," I said, a laugh cracking out of me, "you're gifted. This is a talent you have, Doctor Hartshorn." I took a sip of my latte and set it back down. "Why have you been watching me at the pond?"
"I wasn't watching you. Not exactly. I saw you one day and then again, and…I wanted to keep seeing you. I liked it. I liked you." He swallowed. "You're gorgeous and fascinating and it brightened my day every time we crossed paths. I was trying to figure out the best way to approach you, but—but I didn't know what to say. I thought you might be spoken for."
Yeah, no. None of that. I snatched my hand back because nope.
"Let me stop you right there, chief." I held my index finger up, laughing without humor. "I speak for myself, thank you very much."
It was true—no one spoke for me. No prevarication, no half-truths. I wasn't dating anyone, I wasn't looking, and I didn't belong to anyone. Didn't want to. I'd foreclosed that option long ago and never looked back. But the reality came with more layers than I was willing to share right now.
"Right, my bad. Figure of antiquated speech," Cal said. His smiling eyes never left mine as he took my finger-wagging hand, lifted it to his lips, and pressed a single kiss just past my knuckles. "Go ahead, then. Speak for yourself. Tell me everything."
"I'm in public relations," I started, amazed that I could form words after Cal killed me with the last great act of chivalry. My god. I didn't believe there were still men out there who kissed a woman's hand as if he was bowing at her feet before riding into battle. And yes, feminists could enjoy acts of chivalry. I could open my own doors but I could also appreciate a man opening one for me when it was done out of deference rather than some old-fashioned concern over my skirts being too big for me to reach on my own. "I manage publicity and communications for professional and collegiate athletes. I specialize in crisis management messaging and total image overhaul. I'm from around here. Quincy, to be exact."
Cal's fingers started moving up my wrist, toward my elbow, and I had to stop speaking because my words were dissolving like salt in stew. This wasn't me. Not at all. Not how I rolled. I didn't get lovestruck or smitten. I didn't fall for guys.
I had a healthy handful of men in my life and each of them understood the name of the game. They'd have to after the lengths to which I went to establish expectations up front. Stephen, Leif, Harry. I didn't have the time or interest in cultivating a relationship with any of them but I did have a color-coded Google calendar reminding me of my meetups. I wasn't dating them. They weren't my boyfriends. They barely qualified as friends with benefits.
Harry and I met up once a week and we'd been on that program since last fall. We didn't have any mutual friends and shared few interests but our evenings together didn't require any of those things because he was a big believer in the two-to-one ratio and he didn't get his until I got both of mine. Leif traveled a solid forty-five weeks out of the year but we managed to get ourselves in the same place about once every other month. He had a few kinks that didn't interest me but he always came with his A game and I admired that. Stephen lived in London but his firm shipped him off to Boston for a week each quarter. The man was a beast in bed but drier than a week-old biscuit.
Those guys didn't need relationships, exclusivity, feelings. They were predictable and reliable, and I never worried about my world collapsing because I figured out all the important things a minute too late.
And none of them ever kissed my hand or dragged their fingers up the inside of my wrist like they were amazed by the feel of my skin.
Stopppppppppp, Stella. Just stop. Throw a flag. Call a penalty. Get out of here.
Cal wasn't following any of my rules. He was already two thousand percent more invested than I wanted him to be but I couldn't stop him. Couldn't stop myself. I didn't pull my hand back or edge away. I didn't shut him down. I scooted my damn chair closer to his side and—and yeah, this was un-fucking-believable—I dropped my hand to his thigh.
Stelllaaaaaaaaaa.
What the actual fuck was I doing? What was I thinking? Was I thinking or had I fallen into some kind of hand-kissed dream state where I made moves on a man without first communicating the rules and boundaries? Because I always laid down the rules and boundaries. No one walked away bitter and bruised and hating me when there were rules and boundaries in place.
Cal glanced down at my hand. His brows pitched up. Then he shifted his chair toward mine, closing the whole damn distance between us. Boundaries? Gone. Rules? Nowhere to be found. And those inklings? They were everywhere. Everywhere.
"And what about the flowers and your first available evening?" he prompted. "Tonight comes to mind. You'd be doing me a big favor if you agreed because I don't think I can go back to lurking around you at the trail. If you think this has been awkward, I've got some news for you about the way tomorrow morning is going to shake out."
I wanted to touch him. More than resting my palm on his leg. I wanted to feel him. It was an urge twisting deep inside me. I wanted him to hold me the way he did when we stumbled away from that raccoonasaurus on the path, his arms around me and his big body making me feel small and precious. Even though I was neither of those things. I wanted to spend time cataloging every inch of him, feel the places where he was hard and soft.
Stellllllllllla. Noooooooooo.
"I'm not really a flowers-and-proper-dates girl," I said, fully aware of his thigh muscles tightening under my hand. "I'm more of a burgers-and-football girl, to be honest. Baseball or hockey since we're in the off-season. Basketball too. Burgers, sports, nothing proper. I'm not proper."
Cal rested his forehead on my shoulder with a quiet groan. That sound, it was more intimate than a kiss. It belonged to private spaces where no one else could listen in. But we'd already forgotten about the rest of the world. We were alone here, me and Cal, and I wasn't smitten. I wasn't lovestruck. "Marry me, Stella. Marry me and bear my children."
His hand skated up my arm and over m
y shoulder to cup my face, and just like that, I was kissing a man I'd met an hour ago.
5
Cal
I was forty-two years old.
I'd studied in the most demanding cardiothoracic surgical residency program in the country.
I'd done two tours through an active war zone as an Army Ranger.
I'd hiked the Appalachian Trail straight through from Maine to Georgia. Twice.
But all of that age, experience, and constitution of will faded away when I dragged Stella into my lap and nestled her sweet curves over my crotch. For the first time since my gangly teen years, I was suffering from a very prominent, very public erection, and the tender sweep of her lips against mine was making matters worse.
And when I said worse, I meant better than anything else in the known world.
"Stella." It was spoken as a broken plea. I was aching for her, for anything she'd give me, and desperate enough to beg.
Her fingers moved up my chest, my shoulders, my neck, and her touch was like coming home. It was a comfort and a craving like I'd never known before.
She was tiny in my arms and as soft and sweet as springtime. The faint scent of citrus echoed from her skin. Her ponytail tickled my wrist and though I wanted nothing more than to wind those silky strands around my fist and tug until I was drowning in her big, brown eyes, my hands weren't leaving the safe harbor of her hips.
No, ma'am. I'd met my daily quota for shameful and indecent acts. I was not mauling this angel in a coffee shop. I'd knocked her to the ground, confessed my obsession, and asked for her hand in marriage, all within an hour. An hour. She deserved better than the live-action version of the fantasies currently on heavy rotation in my head.
I was going to find some decency even if it took sheer force of will now and an ice-cold shower later.
Before Girl Page 2