Before Girl

by Kate Canterbary

  "Should I keep him on your calendar for next week?" she asked, still staring at her tablet.

  "Please don't devote any time to worrying about Harry," I replied. "I'll handle him."

  "Let's set the man-handling logistics aside for a second," Flinn said, picking up the invisible issue and moving it away. "You thought he might sell you into the sex trades. The dude from this morning. Meeting him for dinner is a curious choice given that concern."

  "No, I didn't think that. Not really. I was being excessively cautious," I said. "There was a weird moment before we got to talking and I wanted to cover all bases. I don't really pay attention to anything while I'm walking. It's like meditation for me. He said he'd noticed me before, but I hadn't noticed him. Not beyond his running shoes. I thought he was a Clemson fan. You can see why I'd avoid that. But he's not a stalker. I would know."

  Flinn and Tatum shared a brow-furrowed glance before turning back to me.

  "Confirm this for me one more time. You're seeing Stalker Boy again tonight?" Flinn asked. I nodded.

  "Is that what we're calling him?" Tatum asked, shifting toward Flinn. "Stalker Boy?"

  "I gather from your tone you have a problem with that," he replied.

  She held up her hands before crossing her arms over her chest. Nice and defensive, almost as if I hadn't taught her how to maintain an open face when people said things you didn't want to hear. "It's fine if you don't mind it sounding like an early 2000s Avril Lavigne song."

  "Let me know when you come up with a better option," he said. "Until then, we're sticking with Stalker Boy." He propped his elbows on his thighs, his fingers steepled under his chin. "You're seeing him tonight?"

  "You're both overreacting," I said. "We're getting dinner and drinks, and that's it. I'll be home by midnight."

  "If you are ri-fucking-diculous enough to go anywhere alone with Stalker Boy, get a picture of him and his driver's license," Tatum said.

  "And text it to both of us," Flinn added. "And your location. We need to know where you're going with him so the sniffing dogs can start at the right place."

  "Maybe we should come with you," Tatum suggested. "We'll sit a few tables away and keep an eye on things. He'll never know."

  "I'll know," I objected.

  "Then you need to work on your open face. Stage presence too. Fix your face and get your shit together," Flinn said.

  I rolled my eyes at that. There was no hierarchy in my office. Not one bit. Not that I minded. I appreciated people who told it to me straight but it wasn't every day they were telling it on the topic of my love life.

  Love life. What a funny phrase. I had a life and I could catch a dick whenever I wanted but love…that didn't enter into the equation anymore. I loved my sisters and my parents but I wasn't looking for more. I had friends, I had family, and I had regular visits with Stephen, Leif, and Harry. I didn't need anything else.

  Until this morning, I'd believed that the same way I believed the earth was round. I still believed the earth was round but now I had a few other questions brewing.

  Flinn leaned back and patted Tatum's shoulder. "I think this conversation is closed, Tate."

  She nodded. "I think you're right, Flinn."

  I glanced at my phone and then my assistants. "Let's get back to business. We have to divide and conquer because Lucian McKendrick isn't going to make it easy on us."

  9

  Cal

  I paced in front of JM Curley, the tavern I'd suggested a block from Boston Common. I was early—really, really early—and that free time was growing my doubts like a petri dish loaded with listeria.

  Would Stella like this place? She liked burgers, I knew that much, but what if this wasn't her style? Not everyone was up for Russian dressing running down to your elbows or a fistful of slaw under the bun. What the hell was I thinking? Oh, fuck. This was a bad idea.

  Was this too late? She'd agreed to meeting me at nine thirty, but she was also a fan of first thing in the morning walks. Maybe she was an early to bed, early to rise kind of girl. If that was the case, I was ruining her day. Her night. Whatever. All of the above. Everything. Why stop with knocking her down on the trail when I could rip her whole damn day from stem to stern?

  Was I clinically insane? Was this entire day nothing more than a series of delusions predicated on the undeniable truth that I hadn't had a woman in a long, long time?

  Was I overdressed? I'd spent half an hour contemplating my usual day-end uniform of scrubs, running shoes, and a Massachusetts General Hospital fleece jacket, and decided that would not do. The suit I wore when I arrived at the hospital this morning was my only other option. It was appropriate for the day's cases but seemed woefully out of place on a casual date. Despite the excess of time, it hadn't occurred to me to stop at home and agonize over my clothing choices there. At least, not until I'd arrived here and a return trip was out of the question.

  And what if this wasn't a casual date? If that was the case, I had no hope of selecting the right attire. What did I know about dating and its clothing protocols? Clearly, nothing.

  Would she come? This was all rather quick and unusual, and given twelve hours to contemplate, it was possible—if not probable—she was rethinking. Stella didn't strike me as a woman of whimsy, regardless of whether she was rocking some lime green Asics.

  But then again she seemed playfully pragmatic: she maintained a fiercely disciplined morning routine but also insisted on taking semi-random dudes out for coffee.

  What if she did come? How could I sit across a table from her without succumbing to the desire to touch her? I wanted to know absolutely everything about her and I wanted to feel her.

  It was shameful.

  The more I thought about it, the greater the shame. A decent, respectful man didn't look at a woman and hear the slap of bare skin in his head. He didn't imagine the sounds she'd make when pinned beneath him, her body soft and welcoming and needy. He didn't dream up filthy things to whisper into her ears. He definitely didn't take himself in hand under the shower's spray and pretend the warm, wet heat was her mouth.

  Turning on my heel to pace back toward the tavern, I shoved my hands into my pockets to prevent another glance at my watch or phone. When she'd agreed to dinner with me, I was too dumbstruck to ask for her number. I couldn't text or call her to confirm the time or place or whether she'd given any thought to that marriage proposal because I hadn't stopped thinking about it.

  But then I heard it—her. I swiveled in the direction of her voice. She walked toward me in a short green trench coat, belted at the waist, with earbuds tethered to the mobile phone in her hand. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, and I couldn't remember ever seeing it that way before. She was moving her hands while she spoke, and it had the effect of rippling through her entire body.

  I loved it. So much it hurt.

  "I know we haven't been working together long, but I'm going to be straight with you. My advice: don't show up at Icon or Guilt or Storyville tonight. The last thing you need is to be photographed in a bottle service booth with all the chickies hanging on you and a magnum of Dom in your hand. That isn't painting a remorseful picture and you can bet your balls the judge and the team's owners will hear about it."

  Stella came to a stop in front of me, close enough for me to hook my fingers in that belt and tug her to me. It was a move I never would've attempted before today. It wouldn't have occurred to me to physically drag a woman into my space but here I was, not sorry about it in the least.

  She inclined her head toward the phone and gave a nod-shrug combo that suggested she'd be finished quickly.

  "Listen, I know you've been off the field since last October and you're itching to get back. Unfortunately, you're only eight or nine games into a suspension that won't end until summer's here to stay. If that's what you want and this string of stunts isn't a ploy at getting out of the game, you need to get comfortable with your home gym and Netflix, my friend," she said.

  Gree
dy, impatient feelings started filling my chest. I'd waited all day for her, and now I wanted her to myself. It was rude and wrong and entirely unnecessary but the pressure to wrap her up in my arms and tell everyone she belonged to me was oppressive.

  "Netflix is actually pretty great," she continued. "I'm especially fond of several original series, and I need someone new to talk them over with. Does it even count as binging a series if you don't analyze it to death with someone? I don't think so."

  Marry me, Stella.

  She paused, nodding, and met my eyes as if she'd heard my thoughts. Her lips curled into a smile that fired up those sweet dimples, and I reached for her again.

  Closer, pretty girl. Closer.

  Her shiny yellow ballet flats carried her forward, and she pressed a finger to my lips while she finished her conversation. There was a tremendous quantity of restraint involved in preventing me from sucking on that finger. I couldn't explain why I'd want to suck anyone's finger, but some fuzzy, prehensile portion of my brain gave zero fucks about all the microbacteria thriving on the average fingertip and simply wanted to taste her.

  "Okay, that's fine," she said, her shoulder lifting. She was right here, my hand still gripping her belt and her scent filling my lungs. "I don't care whether you watch Netflix, Hulu, HBO GO, or PBS fucking Kids, McKendrick. Irrelevant. Keep your ass out of the clubs, your dick in your pants, your hands to your everlovin' self, and let me and your agent work on convincing the owners that you've learned your lesson and deserve to come back from this suspension. Otherwise, you need to learn how to enjoy retirement."

  Oh, I knew all about Lucian McKendrick. Any New England sports fan knew about the relief pitcher's penchant for drunk groping, drunk driving, drunk strip teases, drunk Red Line riding, drunk pissing on walls and fire hydrants and people. He was awaiting sentencing for his most recent debauched behaviors, and though I barely had time to skim the national headlines, I'd heard that McKendrick was bollicky bare-ass in the Back Bay last night.

  "That's wonderful. That's a great idea. When we're done, hand over your phone to one of your new personal assistants. Tell them to lock it up for the night. Veda and I know how to track you down and there's nothing you need on social media, my friend. It's all trash and rage. You don't need that in your life."

  The guy was a handful, an overgrown and overpaid toddler, and Stella was charming him right into submission.

  And he wasn't the only one.

  When the conversation ended, Stella tugged her earbuds loose and stuck her phone in her pocket before looking up at me. My eyes landed on her dimples first, and then those perfect heart-shaped lips.

  Under normal circumstances, I would have said hello and asked if this restaurant sounded good to her, and maybe asked about her call.

  But these were no normal circumstances and I did none of that. I cupped her face, drove my fingers through her silky hair, and brought her lips to mine.

  This was no simple chemical reaction. This wasn't a basic attraction. There was a string tied between us, a fine thread drawing us together. It reminded me of the old transatlantic telegraph cables, the ones originally laid in 1858. They ran from Valentina Island in western Ireland to Heart's Content, Newfoundland. Those cables reduced the travel time of communication from ten days via steamship to minutes. Those cables shrunk the world. They changed everything.

  That was how I felt right now. Like I was connected to Stella in ways I couldn't see and barely understood but I knew it changed everything.

  My hands moved down her back to her waist. Her coat was knotted too damn tight for my tastes. "Stella," I whispered against her mouth.

  "Whatever you need to tell me," she started, her teeth scraping over my jaw until lust was chasing heat down my spine, "it needs to involve a burger and a truckload of fries unless you want me yelling at another client."

  I brought my hands back to her face, gazing into her eyes before I spoke. "Yes, we're going to eat. But then," I said, pausing to breathe. "Then I want to take you home with me. I want to see you in a place that's just ours. I don't want anyone else around."

  Stella's fingers trailed up and down my chest, over my tie, and she smiled. "I have a question for you."

  Yes, I'll marry you tonight.

  Yes, you can name our babies whatever you want. But not Melvin, please.

  Yes, I'm feeling a bit snarly about you handling pro male athletes all day—actual specimens of human excellence—but more than that, it impresses the hell out of me.

  Yes, your ass is a deity in my world.

  Yes, I'm disease-free and can name my sexual partners on my fingers.

  No, I don't think any of this is moving too quickly.

  My thoughts flew back to those transatlantic cables, the protection of which featured in several Ranger school drills. The original cables only lasted three weeks before the hostile environment of the North Atlantic destroyed them.

  I blinked, forcing that thought away. "Anything," I whispered against her jaw.

  "What if I want to take you home with me?" she asked.

  10

  Stella

  "What if I want to take you home with me?" I asked.

  Yeah, it was bold. It was brazen. It was even a bit ballsy.

  But that was how I was feeling today. I'd started the day by narrowly avoiding death by raccoonasaurus, followed that up with the most intense, panty-melting cup of coffee this side of Ryan Reynolds, and then I kicked some ass at the office.

  I'd earned some bold, brazen, and ballsy. It was mine and I was keeping it. Even if I'd never invited a man to my home before. Never once. It seemed I was crossing a lot of nevers off my list today.

  Lust-fueled hunger washed over Cal's face and his lips parted with an eager breath. "Anything, Stella," he said, his grip on my waist impossibly tight and his erection nudging my leg. That was a lie. It wasn't in nudge territory anymore. It was straight-up knocking on my leg, impatiently waiting for me to open the door and invite him inside. "Anything."

  He looked up and around, as if seriously considering some biblical acts right here, a block from Tremont Street and the Common. His hazel eyes moved quickly, assessing everything around us. Looking for a dark alleyway, no doubt. Eventually, his gaze tracked down to my level and he offered a wobbly smile. "Would it be too forward to ask to go there now?"

  My stomach rumbled in response, long and loud as if I had some sort of unpleasant gastric situation, and we shared an uncomfortable laugh at that.

  "I'm fine. I swear," I said, gesturing to my torso. "There's not a lot of things I take more seriously than food and I've been thinking about this meal all day," I said, drinking up the sight of Cal in a suit.

  Oof. This man knew how to wear the shit out of track pants but the expertly tailored suit was an entirely different level. Working with athletes, I'd often run across big guys who wore suits like straightjackets—stiff, forced, uncomfortable—but Cal wasn't one of them. There was a thick cloud of strength and power around this man-brick, and I'd spotted it from two blocks away. That and a cloud of testosterone that seemed to beam off his tanned skin.

  "Eat first. Go later." I tilted my head toward the restaurant's dark door. "Don't let me forget. I'm supposed to text my friends a picture of you and your driver's license if I make the quote-unquote ri-fucking-diculous decision to go anywhere alone with you."

  A smile pulled at one corner of Cal's mouth and his tongue darted out, painting his upper lip. Another oof. I felt that tongue, its quick flicks. I felt it on my lips, my skin, between my legs. And he knew it. The way his smile turned into a smirk said he knew it all.

  "You told your friends about me," he said, and for such a shy guy, he had no problem squeezing my ass right here in the middle of downtown Boston. "But they think I'm…"

  "A stalker," I supplied. "Not a legit stalker, like one who'd hide under my bed for six months or steal my panties—"

  "Oh, I'll steal your panties," he murmured.

  "Or build a creepy sh
rine out of the takeout containers and wine bottles you scavenged from my trash," I continued. "They have very active imaginations. They're obsessed with true crime podcasts. Maybe a bit too much."

  We weren't talking underwear yet. Nope, nope, nope. If all I wanted was for Cal to take me to Pound Town, we would've checked that box earlier this morning. Right there in the back of his SUV, nice and proper like the goddamn lady I was.

  Cal's eyes drifted shut as he nodded. He brought his lips to my forehead. "My friends, the people who've busted my balls for months because I couldn't figure out how to talk to you, they didn't believe you were going to show up tonight," he admitted. "They figured you'd think it over and come to your senses."

  "Why is this so unimaginable? You said burgers and beers, right? If I went up to someone on the trail and said, 'You, me, food, drinks?' They'd say yes. Anyone in their right mind would say yes."

  "They'd say yes because you're a walking wet dream."

  My lips parted as a small laugh tumbled out but I had no other words. Not for a solid minute. That smirk of his stayed right there, almost challenging me to ask him for details. Not doing that. Nope. It was clear I had some catching up to do as far as this man was concerned. And that was why this trench coat was double-knotted. A mite of distance was necessary to keep myself from diving in headfirst. I knew better than that.

  Mostly.

  "Yeah. Yeah. So what if I'm having dinner with my stalker? We're in public. It's all good."

  "Never going to live down this thing, am I?"

  My arms twined around his trim waist. "It all depends on whether I eat in the next five minutes," I said. "Get me my own order of sweet potato fries and I'll spin it into an entirely different story. I'm good at that sort of thing."