"This isn't going to end well," Cal said.
I shook my head. "He ended it that time. No explanation, no discussion. Nothing." I shrugged, forcing the weight of that relationship off my shoulders. "But he got married within a year. Ten months after demanding his ring back, if I remember correctly. He gave it to her. The woman he married. That was awful. Just fucking awful. I knew he wasn't the one for me but it still hurt to see it go down. It hurt worse to see it without a whisper of explanation." Another shrug. "Not that I'd really given him an explanation. I gave what I wanted and I got what I gave, you know?"
"I'm sorry," he said. "I…I'm sorry you had to experience that."
"Thank you," I replied. "I'm pretty sure I would've filed it away as a bad start to my twenties and moved on but then the pattern kept repeating. Not that I got engaged. Jesus, no. I've learned my lesson there. But I got back out there and dated someone else. We were clicking. It was good. Then it ended. Five months later, he was engaged. It happened one more time after that. Dating, clicking, everything. Then it was over. He was married within a year."
"So," he started, "you don't do this. I get it now."
"I don't do this. Yeah," I agreed, a hint of defensiveness in my tone. "Those relationships were disorganized train wrecks and I'm happy—no, fucking thrilled—I'm not married to any of those guys. But please don't look at me and think those times broke me. They didn't. They helped me figure a lot of shit out and now I get to have fun. I get to make myself happy. I don't have to worry about anyone else."
"And there's no future," Cal said.
"I'll figure out the future when I get there," I argued. "Right now, I like my life. I like what I have going." I squeezed his fingers. "And I like you too."
But he didn't want the things I had to give. I knew he didn't. And I didn't want it with him. Cal was altogether too intense for a slot on my calendar. He demanded too much, played too hard, adored too deep. He wanted everything and he couldn't help himself.
Worse yet, I couldn't help myself around him.
"That's something to consider." His words were tight, as if I was asking him to choose which type of poison to ingest.
"Yeah," I agreed. "Think about it. You know where to find me."
He offered a noncommittal murmur but said nothing else as we rounded the last quarter of the trail. He didn't need to say anything. He hated this—as I knew he would—and I hated it for him. Cal wasn't like Stephen, Leif, or Harry. Even when he had me on the tailgate of his SUV, treating my scrapes and being bashful, I knew he didn't function that way. He vibed on a different level, my man-brick. He wasn't meant for anything but full-out, balls to the walls, unrelenting intensity when it came to work, women, even burgers. His whole damn life moved at that level. All or nothing at all.
And what a treat that full-out, balls to the walls, unrelenting adoration would be. But it wasn't meant for me. Not for now, not for keeps.
I knew it but that didn't stop it from stinging worse than some well-placed bites to the ass.
I pointed at the park gates as they came into sight and a gangly creature hunched over an abandoned coffee cup. "Is that my raccoonasaurus?"
"No, Stella. That's a plain old raccoon. A little one too. No dinosaur lineage whatsoever," he said with a laugh. "It's not even the same animal from last week. That was a beaver. This is a raccoon. I'm sure of it."
"I swear to god, it was at least three feet tall and speaking in tongues. That thing wanted to enslave humans, starting with me."
Cal laughed. "You're fucking adorable." He shook his head, hitting me with a smile hot enough to thaw an ice sheet. "All right, Stella. That's our walk for today." He stepped back, pointed to the gates. "The beast has scurried off now that he's had his morning mocha."
"Thank god," I said, starting in that direction. "If that's the price, I'll pick one up on my way over tomorrow. I don't mind paying off the bouncer."
Cal stopped near my car, crossed his arms over his chest. Oof. Walking by his side protected me from the full frontal. I glanced across the street, down at my nails, up at the brightening sky. Anywhere but the gun show. Because I couldn't help myself. I really could not.
"What do you have going on today?" he asked. His question came out stiff, as if he didn't know how to talk to me anymore. "Do you get any downtime after working straight through the weekend?"
"Downtime, no," I said, laughing. "After the draft, there's a day or two where everyone breathes and the players are busy bathing in champagne and buying fancy cars. Unless they combine the champagne with the fancy cars, I'm usually off the hook. But after that, it's right back to the mayhem." I lifted my hands, let them fall. "What about you?"
"My schedule is light. That's always a cause for concern," he said, his knuckles running down the line of his jaw. "The shit always hits the fan when I have time on my hands."
"Because you invent your own trouble?"
He shook his head. "When it comes to hospital life, downtime attracts trouble. If it's quiet, wait a few minutes and all hell will break loose."
"Hmmm." The light hit his beard scruff and I was pretty sure my ovaries catcalled him. I rolled my eyes at myself but went straight back to admiring his scruff.
Stella don't Stella Stella Stella don't go there.
Cal shifted, unfolding his arms and setting his hands on his hips. "Any late meetings or calls tonight?"
I blinked away, mentally paging through my calendar. "Nothing after eight, assuming McKendrick's babysitters succeed in keeping him confined."
He stepped closer to me, moving into my space the same way he did before I left him on the sidewalk in front of his building. I could smell those manly pine trees. I could feel his skin, warm under my touch. I could almost taste his lips. God, I wanted to kiss him.
Don't do it don't do it don't do it Stella don't do it don't don't don't.
"Then I'll meet you for dinner at eight thirty," he announced.
No awkward. No shy. No bashful. Just my man-brick, disregarding the fuck out of my routines and systems and entire world order.
"Eight thirty," I repeated. "No ice cream."
Stelllllllllla. What the fuck.
He pulled a smirk. "Just because I didn't eat the ice cream doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it."
Looking away for the sake of my ovaries, I patted his forearm. "That's not strange at all, Cal."
"I'll text you," he promised, backing away.
"Yeah," I murmured, pressing my fingertips to my lips. My head was spinning. What the fuck just happened here?
I watched him hop into his SUV and drive away. His taillights faded from view but I didn't move. Not for another minute or two. I replayed all the words I'd spoken, the truths I'd divulged. Some hadn't seen the light of day in years. A decade, maybe.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd talked about my broken engagements. I hated the disorganized, frenzied way I'd expressed myself. Talking was my job. I knew how to say things to get a desired effect but instead of doing that with Cal, I couldn't get a message across any more than I could handle myself around raccoons. Or beavers. I was full of contradictions.
Then my phone buzzed with a new text message. My first thought was Cal and his promise to message me. My second thought was Flinn and Tatum and McKendrick, and a fresh new disaster. "Heaven help me," I muttered, removing the device from my armband and swiping it to life.
* * *
Harry: Hey. Sorry we couldn't connect last week. On for this week?
* * *
"Um, no. No, thank you," I said to myself. I was typing faster than I could think. I didn't want to see him this week and I knew that before arriving at the trail this morning. But now I knew I needed a break from him.
* * *
Stella: Yeah, sorry about that.
Stella: So, I have a new client and my life is insane right now. I know I'm going to be tied up this week and next.
Harry: No worries. We'll reconnect in May.
Stella: You're too sweet,
thank you.
Stella: I know I'm going to be high-touch with the client for a bit and I don't want to make plans but end up breaking them at the last minute. How about we hold off a little longer than that?
Harry: Yeah. Cool. Hit me up when you're free.
Stella: I hope it goes without saying but if anything changes for you and you want to go a different direction, just let me know.
Harry: Of course. Same goes.
Stella: Take care.
Harry: You too.
16
Cal
As easy as that, I managed a standing date with Stella every morning at the Jamaica Pond trail and another nearly every evening. We were going on two weeks of mornings and evenings, walks and after-work meals, and all I had to do was stop asking permission. Take what she wanted to give but wouldn't let herself have.
For as easy as it was to will this into reality, it was equally difficult.
On more than a few occasions, she was called away from our walks or dinners to handle issues with her clients. Lucian McKendrick and his inability to stay home weren't scoring any points in my book. Neither were her mysteries. She wasn't available on select evenings but never offered a hint of explanation. The notion of her seeing another man on those nights burned me from the inside out. I had no right to demand all her time, all her attention, but I damn well wanted it.
I wanted to touch her too. Touch her, laze in bed with her, waste hours on nothing more than dragging my fingers through her hair, winding those strands around my palm and then watching them unfurl on my pillows, my chest. I imagined her hair would slide and pool like silky ribbons. And that was just her hair. One fantasy about one part of her. Oh, I wanted all of it. All of her. I wanted to hold her and taste her and keep her.
But our interactions knew nothing of the heat we'd shared that first day. She opened her arms to me—seemingly in spite of herself—every time we met and parted, and that would suffice until she asked me for more.
The name of this game was outlast.
I'd waited a long time to approach Stella—such as it was. And I could wait a bit longer while I picked off the other men in her life. Whatever she had with them, it wasn't what we had. Not even close. I'd outlast McKendrick too. I was counting down the days until he was back on the mound and Stella claimed her promotion.
Then I'd claim Stella.
It was as easy—and really fucking difficult—as that.
I met Stella at an underground restaurant a few blocks from her Copley Square office. It wasn't socially underground like some kind of off-book speakeasy only known to the cool kids. It was actually underground—in a basement. But probably a cool kid hangout nonetheless. She swore I'd love this spot and I stopped myself this short of telling her I loved her.
"Everything is so fresh," she gushed, spreading both hands over the assortment of salsas and guacamole. "And flavorful. You think you know what flavor is and then you eat here and realize you know nothing."
She reached for a chip and dug into the guac. She hummed, sighed, moaned. All that from some mashed avocado. I was torn between offering a stray but undeniably filthy comment inviting her to handle my avocados and clearing the table, taking her right here and giving her something worth moaning over.
Two strong options. Unfortunately, Stella beat me to it, saying, "Did you know the term avocado comes from the Aztec word for testicle?"
I took a long pull from my beer before replying, "Yep." Another sip. There wasn't enough beer in Boston to drown my arousal but I was going to give it a good shot. Outlast. "I do."
"Ahuácatl," she said, her smile twisting around the word. "I can see the similarities but I don't think I could handle two at once." She held her open palm up, her fingers spread wide, wiggling as if she was struggling to cup some, ahem, avocados. "That's a whole lot of produce, you know?"
I choked on the beer, which was bad enough, but Stella shot out of her seat, rounded the table and stood at my side, patting my back like I was a three-year-old struggling over a bowl of sliced grapes.
"Arms up, open the airways," she said, still rubbing. "Isn't that what you told me last week? When that super sweet wine went down the wrong pipe?"
"You always forget you don't like Moscato," I said through a cough. I recovered after draining a glass of water but Stella didn't stop. And if she wasn't stopping, neither was I. I curled my arm around her waist, bringing her closer. She went stone still but—then she softened. Leaned into me. "Thank you."
She didn't respond for a moment. Then another. I was starting to think we were going to dine like this, with Stella standing at my side and my arm anchoring her there. I would've been content with that setup. But then she said, "I always think it's rosé I don't like."
"It's Moscato." I rested my temple against her belly. "Don't worry. I'll remind you next time."
"Thanks," she replied. "I take it testicles aren't your favorite dinner topic."
I laughed. "Warn me next time. Especially if you plan to use that hand gesture again."
"Got it." She moved her hand to my shoulder, patting once. Stella returned to her seat, her lips folded together and her gaze focused on the small dishes between us. "What's going on with you? How was your day?" she asked, hitting me with a dimple-popping smile.
I stared at her for a second, taking in her dark hair, dark eyes, dark olive skin. God, she was beautiful. Just fucking gorgeous. "It was all right," I said, captivated by the shape of her lips. It was like a bow, a heart, a fuckdoll fantasy right across the table. "I spent most of my time involved in a heart transplant case."
"But," Stella started, gesturing toward me with a chip, "isn't that good news? Someone got a new heart, right? Or did it not go well?"
"The outcome was positive," I replied with some reluctance.
"Then why aren't you pleased?" she asked.
She was still holding that chip. I curled my fingers around her wrist, tugged her toward me as I leaned forward, and ate it out of her hand. Then I washed it down with the last of my beer. Not asking permission. "I don't like harvesting organs."
"Why not?" When my shoulders sagged with a deep sigh, she continued, "I'm truly curious but we don't have to discuss this if you don't want."
I ran the napkin over my lips, stifling another sigh. Today was a tough one. My patient needed a heart. Wouldn't have seen the end of the week without one. The donor was out of time too.
"I don't like harvesting organs. I prefer saving lives," I said. "Harvesting organs is the end of a life. Removing a heart, a set of lungs, putting them on ice—that's the end."
Stella nodded once. "You don't like it but you still do it."
"I do it for two reasons. One, I don't like transplanting organs after someone else retrieved them. The stakes are far too high for the work to be anything short of perfect. And two, that loss divides itself. At the end of the day, the donor is still gone. A family goes home short a loved one. Nothing will ever minimize that loss, but a life—usually more than one—is saved. That's why I do it."
She brought her drink to her lips. "I've never thought about it that way."
"Most don't," I replied. "It's not part of the average person's thought process. Not until they're faced with needing donor organs or consenting to give them." I shoved my hands through my hair. "Nothing is without consequences."
"Oh, trust me," she said, her voice heavy with meaning. "I know all about consequences."
I watched for a her a minute, studying the way she tucked her hair behind her ears, reached for her water glass, straightened her silverware, checked her phone. All without making eye contact. Finally, I asked, "Do you punish yourself? For breaking your engagement?"
"I don't think so, no," Stella replied, all warmth absent from her tone. She speared me with a quick glance before focusing on the salsas. "Why do you ask? Are we donating his organs? I mean, I'm not his biggest fan but I don't want him dead."
"Right, right," I conceded. "It's just that, sometimes, you mention conseq
uences or knowing better, and how you're well versed in both. Makes me wonder whether you're referring to your ex-fiancé or"—she turned her attention away from the bowls, hitting me with a cool stare—"or just being cryptic. Because that's fun too. There's a guy I work with—"
"The miserable one?"
"Yes, that one," I said, laughing. "Sebastian Stremmel. He's cryptic as hell. I actually believe he was meant to live in a different era. He's dark and tortured, like Dracula. Heathcliff on the moors. Poe and the damn raven. Sherlock Holmes and all his shenanigans. He belongs in a period of time where it's acceptable to turn your collar up and wander along the river at night."
"I feel like that could be any time period. We could do that right now and no one would find us suspect," Stella replied. "But I do know a few players like that. They aren't the media darlings who give good face on gameday but they show up, put in the time, make the plays."
"That's Stremmel for you," I conceded. "He would've dug graves during the plague and then robbed them during the Enlightenment. I still think he's stuck in the wrong era."
"You also think I still punish myself for the mistakes of my childhood," she added, her words cloyingly sweet. "That's what I call it, by the way. Childhood. Or baby adulthood."
The server arrived then and we stopped talking to rearrange the table to accommodate the entrees we'd selected for sharing. When we were alone again and Stella was finished humming her excitement over every plate, I asked, "Do you? Do you feel like you deserve to be punished?"
She scooped an enchilada onto her plate. "Yeah, I deserved to be punished," she said, her gaze focused on her food. "Punished for letting myself accept proposals and agree to weddings—not just once but twice—all while knowing those were the wrong choices for me. Yeah, Cal, I blamed myself. But that was a long time ago and I don't do it anymore." She seesawed her fork between her fingers. "There was a time when I thought my penance was dating men only to see them leave me and meet their wives. But that confirmed for me that I didn't want to be in the dating-to-find-the-one game."
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