Before Girl

by Kate Canterbary

  He caught my lips in an urgent kiss and if it weren't for my bleating hunger and desire to know this guy before I knew him better, I would have pointed us in the direction of my house and saddled up.

  But this wasn't going to be a quick and easy hookup. This wasn't a regularly scheduled night with Stephen, Leif, or Harry. I didn't want that. I wasn't certain what this was or what I wanted, but I knew it wasn't that.

  "Cal," I gasped against his lips. "Feed me."

  "Oh, honey. I will," he promised.

  Gulping, I walked my fingers up his tie and over his shoulders until my nails scraped back and forth over the nape of his neck. He purred into my touch. "Food. I need to eat food."

  "And then? After the food?" he asked.

  "We'll see where the evening takes us." I leaned away and pulled on a stern expression, the same one I used when some of my clients balked at the notion of someone managing their social media accounts. They paid me to be their filter but they often forgot that meant filtering. "Now, let's eat."

  He held open the tavern's door, motioning for me to step through. "I'd rather eat you," he murmured as I passed.

  "I heard that," I said, glancing over my shoulder.

  "Good," he replied. "That's why I said it out loud."

  There was a comment ready to leap off my tongue but Cal turned his attention to the hostess, gesturing toward an open table near the windows as he spoke. When the hostess nodded in agreement and marched toward that table, he waited, tipping his head in that direction. I waved for him to go ahead—I wanted to get a look at that suit from behind—but he wasn't having it.

  "Ladies first," he said.

  I waved toward the table again. "I insist."

  "Believe me, Stella, I insist." He stepped up behind me, his hands on my waist as he pulled my back to his chest. "Get in that seat, sweet thing. If you wait another minute, we're turning around and walking right outta here."

  Even the hottest guy with the most incendiary growl-pout couldn't make me miss a meal.

  Sorry, no. I was many glorious things. A girl who forgot about food I was not.

  And I wasn't taking Cal anywhere unless I had a plan. No plan, no penis.

  "Then we'll sit," I said. "We'll stay awhile."

  The beers arrived first but Cal didn't seem to notice. He was looking at me in a way no one ever had before. Like he needed to gobble up every inch of me before I disappeared. I didn't know how to make sense of it.

  So, I didn't. Not everything required analysis.

  I lifted my glass. "To sitting," I said with a laugh.

  Cal nodded, raised his glass to mine, and then watched while I drank. He went on staring for another second or two but then he blinked away and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry about that," he said. "Whenever I stop to think about this, I realize how crazy it is."

  "Don't stop," I replied. "Don't think." Don't plan. I shocked myself with that thought but shook it off as quick as it came.

  He took one sip, then another before setting it down. He ran his fingers over his lips before dropping his chin onto his fist. "Where did you come from, Stella Allesandro?"

  "Quincy. I already told you that. Come on, Cal. You gotta keep up here."

  Cal laughed, quick and surprised at first but then deep. As if I'd presented him with true comedy. "That's fair," he said. "That's a fair response. I probably would've said the same thing."

  I reached for my glass and gestured for him to do the same. "And where did you come from, Cal Hartshorn?"

  "Anywhere you want," he replied.

  "No. Nope. Offensive foul. Ten-yard penalty." I shook my head, putting my drink down while the server set our plates in front of us.

  "Ten yards?" he asked, his face crinkling in mock outrage. "You gotta be kidding me, ref."

  "Illegal play," I replied, stealing some fries from the basket between us. "Sweet talk. Pandering to the receiver." I sliced my hand through the air, the call official. "Ten yards."

  Cal brushed his palms together, an inkling of mirth peeking out from behind the heavy fog of his adoration. I couldn't operate like that. If there was one thing I'd learned from my life before the color-coded calendar it was that relationships required balance. I could be his queen but only—only!—if he was my king. Anything less and the whole thing teetered on unsteady legs.

  I wasn't saying—after a matter of hours with this guy—he couldn't be my king. But I needed to know my king loved The Goonies and understood the happiest place on earth was the fifty-yard line and let me borrow and then slowly steal his t-shirts and never asked whether I was wearing too much mascara because—in the immortal words of Mean Girls—the limit did not exist. And my sisters needed to love him. My parents too.

  "All right," he muttered, resting his forearms on the table. "What do you want to know, Stel?"

  Stel. I'd never heard that one before. It was usually a deep, bellowed "Stella!" or my sisters' favorite, Stellaluna. I'd take A Streetcar Named Desire over the children's book about a bat any day.

  Fuck plans. Just…fuck plans. I could get away without a plan this one time. What was the worst that could happen?

  "I want to know the same things you do," I replied. "Everything."

  And that was it. That was the worst thing that could happen—everything.

  11

  Cal

  "Everything," she said, as if it was the simplest request ever made. Give me everything you have and don't think twice.

  Where did I even start? What could I say that would allow us to bypass the bullshit and get right down to business? I wanted to know what she loved, what she craved, what she wanted from this life. But I didn't know how to get there from here.

  I didn't know when it happened but I was a heathen. I wasn't about to apologize for it either. Stella's presence, it loosened something in me, granted me permission to be—to be a little wild. Then again, maybe it wasn't Stella so much as me wanting to be wild with her. For her.

  "I'm from rural Oregon," I said, plunging straight into the bullshit while I arranged my burger. "Went to OSU. Undergrad through med school. Then the Army, Ranger school, two tours in Afghanistan. After that, residency in Minnesota. Attending gig here in Boston. Never married. One sister, older. Mom's a family physician, Dad works with wood."

  Her eyes glittered as she asked, "But you're open to the possibility?" I frowned, not immediately understanding her question. "Or was that proposal this morning purely comical?"

  There was something to be said for women like Stella. The ones who knew their worth, knew their mind. Who didn't give a fuck what anyone else thought, or so it seemed. Who didn't tap dance around what they wanted. It was a variation on sexy that would hold strong when everything else evolved as the years passed.

  "That was completely serious," I said, feigning some indignation for her benefit. That was the game we were playing right now. "Still waiting on a response, Stel."

  Her shoulders shimmied back and forth as her gaze swept over the tavern. "We're clearly compatible on the burger front," she said.

  I nodded. "Clearly."

  "We should see how it goes with pizza," she said with a shrug. "And then a restaurant with really bad service. Like, awful service. Because true colors come out when forced to deal with that kind of situation."

  I gestured toward myself. "What? You think I'd lose it over a waiter forgetting about us or a burnt steak?"

  She shook her head. "That's just it. I don't know. And you don't know how I'd deal with a two-hour wait to be seated."

  It was my turn for the head shaking. "Yeah, I do. You'd find somewhere else to go. There are no two-hour waits for anything in your world."

  She seemed to agree with this but barreled on. "The real test is Italian. My dad's great-grandparents came over on the proverbial boat from Sicily so this one is personal. Clams or sausage, linguini or ziti, red or white. That's where it gets tricky. If we aren't compatible on the lasagna front, then—"

  "Then we make two different pans of lasagn
a and life is good," I interrupted. "Lasagna is not a zero-sum game."

  She took a big bite from her burger, nodding, her gaze fixed on me. Eventually, she said, "I hadn't thought of it that way. No fighting over the crispy, cheesy corner pieces."

  I bobbed my head. "Even better."

  "If we wanted to go wild, we could throw in a trip to Ikea. Now that's the proving ground," she said.

  I reached for my beer, took a sip. I wasn't sure what I'd ordered but it was fine. A little hoppy but fine. "What do we need at Ikea?"

  "Probably an extra lasagna pan." She was busy rearranging her hair and pulling it out from where it had slipped under the collar of her coat.

  That goddamn raincoat. I couldn't determine whether it was a dress intended to look like a raincoat—that was a thing, right?—or she really wanted to keep her coat on, but I needed it off. And whatever was underneath, I needed that off too. I didn't want her naked in the middle of this tavern but I couldn't think with all those layers between us.

  As if I'd be able to think with nothing between us.

  I glanced down at my half-eaten burger and then back up at her. "And then you'll give me an answer?"

  Another shrug. "I'll introduce you to my family. They'd guilt the shit out of me if I got engaged before they had a chance to draw and quarter"—her eyes widened as she pressed her fingers to her lips—"I mean meet the guy."

  "Pizza, pasta, bad service, Ikea, medieval torture," I said, marking the invisible checklist on the tabletop. "Then you'll decide?"

  "Yeah, probably." She tipped her chin up, a smile pulling at her lips. "What else do you have for me? What's your everything, Cal Hartshorn?"

  You.

  The thought came out of…I didn't know where. But now it was here, expanding like a chemical reaction.

  "Hearts," I managed. "Hearts are my thing."

  "That I know," she said. "Rumor has it you're pretty good with them too."

  "I am," I admitted. "But I'd rather talk about you. I'd rather know your everything."

  I was waiting—hoping with the most ludicrous hope in the world—for her to tell me I was it, I was her world as of today. It was straight insanity. Instead of shoring up that insanity, she said, "Balls."

  "Balls?" I repeated.

  She bobbed her head as she sipped her beer. "Balls." Her tongue swept out, over her top lip and I didn't know how to breathe anymore. "All about those balls, 'bout those balls," she sang, wiggling her shoulders. The tune was vaguely familiar but I couldn't focus on anything while her body was moving like that. "Baseballs, footballs, fútbols, basketballs, tennis balls, the occasional golf ball. Pucks are just ice balls so I allow those too."

  That made more sense than the scrotal thoughts bouncing around my mind. "How did you get into this work?" I asked. "Pro athletes and everything?"

  "Strange but true, women make up a solid portion of sports fans. It does seem to contradict conventional wisdom," Stella replied. "I imagine that's where the question comes from. People rarely ask the dudes at my firm how they found their profession."

  She had me there. I never would've asked a guy how he got involved with professional sports.

  "Uh, yeah. You're right about that. Sorry," I said.

  "No worries," she replied. "I like sports. College is great. I love college football something fierce. But it's the pro balls that pay the bills."

  "Yeah," I said, nodding. "There's a lot of restrictions on collegiate players, right?"

  She groaned. "Like you wouldn't believe," she said, launching into a detailed accounting of NCAA restrictions and how they made her life difficult. "But that's a technical conversation for a different day. Tell me something crazy. I'm sure you have some wicked good stories with everything you've seen, everywhere you've been."

  She leaned forward to grab some fries. She went for the thin, crispy ones. The runts at the bottom of the basket. When she propped her feet up on my side of the booth, I reached for her bare legs, bringing them to my lap. It was what I'd been missing all this time—touching her.

  I traced the socket of her ankle bone, dragging my fingers around and around as if it was something more private. She snagged a few more fries and sent me a curious glance. Brow wrinkled, eyes narrowed, lips pouty. That pout smacked me like a belly flop. Every inch of my skin smarted. I wanted to retreat, curl into myself but also stretch myself out and feel that throb everywhere. Oh, I was a goner. She could've asked me for the entirety of my liver and I would've dug it right out for her.

  My thumb and forefinger circled her leg then moved up to the back of her knee. She squirmed, giggling as I touched her. She was ticklish. Very ticklish. That knowledge cracked open a cavern of dark ideas and I couldn't stop myself from saying, "You're my craziest story, Stel."

  "Is that so?" she asked, a grin on her face that said, Yes, I am delightful.

  "You know it," I replied. "Just like you know tomorrow morning's walk is going to be a slow one."

  She arched an eyebrow but didn't drop the smile. "And why is that?"

  "Because I'm gonna make sure your body knows who it belongs to, sweet thing."

  It sounded fantastic in my head. It sounded exactly as possessive and craven as I felt. But oh fuck, the look on her face. It was a cross between complete shock and total horror.

  What the fuck was I thinking?

  I knew what I'd been thinking. It was Stella in my apartment. Stella in my bed. Stella's legs over my shoulders. Stella in the shower. Stella bent over an assortment of furniture and fixtures. Stella…just Stella.

  With me. I wanted her. Simple as that. But broadcasting such a primitive thought was a bad move. This wasn't the straightaway to her heart.

  Her lips parted as if she was about to say something, but she stopped herself, instead staring at the bottles of ketchup and malt vinegar between us. A line formed between her brows and she dragged her teeth over her lower lip. She didn't look at me.

  Fuuuuuck. Fuck.

  This—right here—this was why I didn't talk to women. I didn't know which chromosome carried the ability to speak to women I found attractive without gnawing on my feet but I was certain mine was deficient.

  "Okay, so that was direct," Stella said, a laugh rolling through her words.

  She shifted in her seat, pulling her feet from my lap, but I tightened my hold on her ankles, keeping her there. And with that, I'd managed the Creepy Guy Hat Trick. Announcing I'd semi-stalked her for months. Proposing marriage. Mouthing off in public and holding on when she wanted me to let go. Well done.

  Jesus. Who the fuck am I right now?

  I held up my hands. She was allowed to say no. "I'm sorry."

  "Don't you worry, dearie. If I can handle a D1 locker room after a bowl game, I can handle your pervy tendencies. Go ahead. That calf massage was better than anything I get at my pedicure place."

  I reached for her. Didn't have to tell me twice. But I had to make this right. "Stella, I don't—"

  "Let me guess. You don't say that to all the girls?" she asked.

  Her eyes twinkled with her smile and I had no idea how to respond. Other girls? No, no other girls for me. I barely allowed myself to acknowledge the existence of women in the romantic sense. But here I was, throwing down my carnal desires and hoping they folded neatly into our conversation about alma maters and hometowns.

  They did not.

  "That wasn't what I meant," I said, the backs of my fingers running up her calf. Her skin was satin and I didn't want to let go. "Or…I didn't mean it like that."

  "Now, now," Stella said, her dimples popping as she smirked. "I don't think that's true. I think you meant every word, exactly as you said it."

  I did. I absolutely did.

  "And if I did? What do you think about that?" I asked.

  Her gaze pawed over my features for a heavy beat. When I met her eyes, she arched a brow. "If I had a concern about it, you would've had a heel to the balls by now," she said with a sharp shake of her head.

  Her dark
hair spilled over her shoulder with the movement, and it sent a twinge to my gut, a fine ache that would only be soothed by dragging my fingers through that hair while I moved inside her.

  And there we go: another mark in the Public Erections column for today.

  "But I should warn you," she continued, "I don't belong to anyone but me."

  I heard it as a challenge. There was a clear warning issued under those words but all I heard was come and claim me. Others had tried and they'd failed, that was obvious. I wasn't going to be one of them. For all my awkwardness and fumbled moments, I knew how to set my mind on a target. I knew how to win.

  "All right," I said. "Can I belong to you too?"

  Stella studied me, her brow still arched up. "You seem like a lot of trouble," she said after a beat.

  "More than you know."

  "The good kind of trouble?" she asked. "Or are you telling me—reminding me—you're a naughty boy, Cal?"

  My jaw locked, the muscles ticking as I fought off the urge to roar. To whip my belt open and rip my trousers off and prove to her that I could be everything she ever needed. But I shook my head. "I'm not saying that at all."

  Stella leaned back in her seat, that sparkly smile faltering. "You're trouble," she started, "but not the fun kind? Hmm. Let me think on that for a minute."

  "I'm plenty of fun," I said. "But you're wrong about something, Stel."

  She snorted out a laugh and made no move to smother it. I loved her. Loved her. Not because she was a cool girl but because she didn't give a fuck what anyone thought. "Yeah? What's that?"

  "I'm no boy, sweet thing."

  I heard her gulp from across the table. Hell, they probably heard it back in the kitchen and down the street. "I don't doubt it, Cal." She held her index finger up, tapping a spot in the air between us. "I don't doubt it at all."

  My breath was coming quickly, and I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "Stella. Let me take you home and—"