"Nick," I supplied. "His wife is the climate scientist."
"Right, those two," he said. "They're hosting a dinner party on Saturday night. They're very chill people so it's not one of those dinner parties with place cards or anything like that."
A laugh burst out of me, louder and harder than I expected. "That's where you draw the line? Place cards?"
He waved me off but said, "You'd like Nick and Erin."
"I'm sure I would," I replied. "And now it sounds like we both have Saturday evening events. I wish there was a way to make it work." I pressed my hands to my face as I gasped. "Oh my god. I just assumed you were inviting me to your dinner party. Shit, that's embarrassing. I didn't mean—"
"Stop." Cal dropped his hand on my shoulder, squeezed. "I was inviting you."
I peeked up at him through my fingers. "Then this was even more embarrassing."
He gifted me one more shoulder squeeze before lifting his hand. "This is good," he mused. "I hover around this level of awkward whenever I'm with you. It's only fair you experience fourteen seconds of it."
"So pleased I could hand you this reprieve," I said, laughing. "If I could get out of this media event, I would. From everything you've told me, your friends sound awesome. Would I get to meet Stremmel? I really want to meet Stremmel. I want to put a face to the misery."
Cal gestured toward me, the back of his right hand grazing my left arm in the process. "Why not split the difference? I'll meet you at your thing and we'll do that. Then we'll go to my thing. I've never once been on time to a party at Nick and Erin's house. Why start now?"
I bobbed my head in agreement. I didn't know what else to say. Cal was introducing me to his friends and colleagues—more than the quick hellos we'd shared on the sidewalk last month—and I couldn't pretend we were merely trail buddies or dinner companions or people who shared a fondness for ass biting. We were none of those things.
What we were…I wasn't ready to say that.
18
Cal
I couldn't stop myself from looking around the room, staring at the athletes and industry professionals as if I'd be able to identify who owned a no-attachments spot in Stella's life from sight alone. And if they didn't belong to her current cadre, had they in the past? Were they hoping to belong in the future?
Stella and I shared several evenings each week but not all. Work commitments claimed some evenings but I was left wondering about the others. I rarely saw Stella on Sunday. Did she spend that night with any of these men? Tuesdays were also tricky. Was she with someone then?
I shot another glance at the crowd, careful to assess everyone without making direct eye contact. But then I noticed a man approaching on my left. He was average height and on the slim side, the way young guys seemed to be these days. As if their goal weight was a size medium t-shirt and they enjoyed pairing skinny jeans with a jacket layered over a sweater over a shirt. In the springtime.
He ran a hand over the crown of his head, down to the short ponytail that corralled his thick, dark hair. He walked straight toward me as an unpleasant idea hit—what if Stella had told the other men about me? And why wouldn't she? She'd told me about them, opaquely. It was only logical. I couldn't imagine why she wouldn't.
And what if he was one of them?
He stopped at my side, close enough to communicate his intention to strike up a conversation. Or a pissing contest. Hell, I'd win that. This kid looked scrappy but he was just that—a child. What he offered in stamina, I made up for in style.
"Hey," he said, holding out a hand. "Flinn Martin. Stella's media coordinator."
I took his hand, pumped it vigorously as I worked on holding back a relieved sigh. "Cal Hartshorn," I said, eventually releasing the man's hand. "I've heard a lot about you."
"Now that's scary," he said, staring at something over my shoulder. He beckoned in that direction and I shifted, following his gaze toward a strawberry blonde with two martini glasses in hand. "What is she doing? I told her I'd get my own damn drink."
He didn't wait for me to weigh in on the matter, instead bypassing me entirely and plucking a glass from her grip. They exchanged words—and eyerolls and head shakes—on their way back to me.
"Cal Hartshorn," Flinn started.
"You're the stalker," she continued.
Groaning, Flinn hung his head. "May I introduce Tatum Altschul."
I nodded, extending my hand as Tatum shifted the drink to her other hand. "Nice to meet you both," I said. Even with the stalker barb, I was thrilled to assign this man to the staff column and eliminate him from the bedfellows column.
"What do you think of all this?" Tatum asked, tilting her glossy bob toward the models and athletes.
"It's really—"
"Don't answer that," Flinn interrupted. "No one cares. It's all the things and no one cares. We want to know how it's going with Stella."
I'd heard he was direct but this was heat-seeking. "Good. Great. Everything is"—I scanned the crowd again, my gaze cooling at the sight of her hand settling on a man's forearm—"really good."
Flinn followed my stare. He chuckled, saying, "Don't worry about Robertson. There's an extra bicep in his skull but no brain. Not an ounce. He needs a little handholding from time to time but that's it. That's where it ends. Bruh might even be a virgin."
"You would know," Tatum muttered.
He cleared his throat, spared her a sour glimpse. "Save it for later, Tate."
She hid her annoyed glare behind her drink. Then she asked, "What do you want to know? We're here, we're greased up on the good vodka, and we spend more time with Stella than anyone else. Anyone else."
This was a trap. It was an IED hidden in roadkill. Flinn and Tatum—through their special blend of hate-love—shared a knowing grin. Definitely a trap.
"That's a generous offer," I replied. "But I'm not lacking for information, thank you."
"Because of the stalking," Tatum offered. "I can see how that would be ripe for content."
I shook my head, smiling. "I come by it honestly."
Flinn caught me watching the crowd again, saying, "None of them. She doesn't bring anyone she's seeing to work events." He lifted his glass in salute. "Save for yourself."
Stella chose that moment to catch my eye from across the room. She spoke a few words to the group surrounding her before smiling, full dimples, and heading toward me.
And she was beautiful. Just too damn beautiful for words. Her coral-red dress fit like a sunburn and her hair spilled over her shoulders in long, loose waves. As if that wasn't enough, she looked bright and fresh—and happy.
Even better, she didn't bring men to work events. She'd said as much previously but hearing it confirmed by Flinn nailed the truth all the way to the front door.
"Hi," she mouthed as she approached, offering a quick wave. "Sorry I've been so busy. This wasn't an event we managed so—"
"So it was a hot mess shit show," Flinn interjected.
"With a side of train wreck," Tatum added.
"Not a problem." I brought my hand to the small of her back. "Not at all."
She smiled at Flinn and Tatum. "I see you've met my offensive line."
"We prefer special teams," Flinn said.
Stella gifted them with a sweet smile before shifting closer to me. "I have to say two things to one person, and then I can go," she said, glancing down at her phone. "Are we super late? Or just really late?"
I rubbed my hand up her spine, thought about skipping that dinner party altogether. I could stand here all night, touching my woman and grinning over the fact she didn't bring dudes to work events. Until now. "Doesn't matter," I replied. "Nick and Erin aren't waiting on us. We'll get there when we get there. Unless you'd rather skip it."
"Nope, not skipping it," she replied, shooting another glance at her phone. "Just give me five minutes to handle a few quick things."
I shifted my hand down as she spoke, over her waist to pat her backside. Squeeze. Pinch just enough to remind h
er she enjoyed it. Especially there. "Take your time."
She walked away but not without lobbing several heated stares over her shoulder as she went.
"Mmhmm," Tatum murmured, watching Stella. "Yeah. Okay, then."
I blinked at her, confused. "I'm sorry?"
Flinn shook a hand in my direction. "Don't mind her. She's just—"
"She's just admiring some very subtle and very effectively executed public affection," Tatum said, cutting him off.
I wasn't positive but it seemed like these two didn't know how to speak without interrupting each other.
He harrumphed out a sigh, turning his attention back to the crowd. "I'll call Stella's car service," he said, mostly to himself. "They'll pull up right outside and notify me when they're here. That saves you from getting stuck talking to people on the curb, and people on the curb always insist on dragging you along to the after party and then the after-after party, and you don't need that hassle in your life." He tapped his chest. "I do. I enjoy the hassle. When I'm not enjoying other hassles or generally beating my head into walls."
"Thanks, man," I said, offering my hand. That was my game plan: thank him for the assistance, ignore everything else.
"It's the least he can do," Tatum said, sparing Flinn an impatient glare as he pecked at his phone. "We want to see you around again. You're the only one we want to see."
"Thin ice, Tate. Thin fucking ice," Flinn said.
Then Stella was at my side, her arm sliding around my waist and her smile warming me through. "Ready?" she asked.
You have no idea, sweet thing.
Stella was a wonder.
I couldn't name the seven wonders of the world but I knew without a doubt she was one of them. How else could she hang with my people—Nick and Alex, and Stremmel and a handful of other random docs and residents—and make it look like she'd known them her whole life? How else could she charm a lopsided smile out of Stremmel, that stone-cold bastard?
She was a wonder and all I could do was hang back, watching her cast spells on my people. I nursed a beer while she peppered Stremmel with questions about his time in California. He gave as good as he got, hitting her with questions about—of all things—the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders.
This was everything I wanted out of a Saturday night and I didn't have to weigh the possibilities of running into one of Stella's past or present hookups here. Motherfuck it, I didn't want to claim this emotion as my own but I hated—hated—the idea of her being with other men.
Not that I had clear evidence she was with them but she hadn't said anything to the contrary. If she'd stopped seeing them, wouldn't she tell me? Wouldn't she run up to me at the trail one morning and announce she'd stopped spending time with her regularly scheduled dudes which meant I didn't have to grind my molars to dust every time the thought of them crossed my mind anymore? Wouldn't she show up at my apartment, gesture up and down her luscious body and then tell me she wasn't for sharing?
I needed those news bulletins. I needed the green light.
And I needed Lucian McKendrick to keep his damn hands off her too. I knew he was a client and I knew there was nothing between them but hell, I couldn't deal with another photo of them together. The smart move would've been for me to stop seeking out the photos but now that I'd started, I couldn't stop visiting the sports news sites and blogs.
As I pondered this, Nick shuffled to my side, tapped his beer bottle against mine. "This is nice and cozy," he remarked. He tipped his chin toward the kitchen island where my future wife entertained my problem child and my excessively diligent resident with a true account of the locker room drama at last year's Super Bowl game. "She's great."
I shot him a sidelong glance. "Glad you think so," I replied. "I know you had your doubts."
An annoyed grimace pulled at his face as he shook his head. "Would you stop it? You have to admit this is a complicated case."
I waved him off. I didn't want any of Doctor Acevedo's logic tonight. Especially not when his scenario was an even more complex case. At least I lived in the same state, country, and continent as Stella. It'd taken him the better part of two years to claim the same.
"Where is your brother-in-law this evening?" I asked, referring to Alex's fiancé Riley. He and Nick's wife Erin were siblings. They came from a big family that threw fabulous parties. Any time the Walshes invited me, I went.
"Riley had a work issue," Nick replied. "Something flooded and something else shorted out and that's the extent of my intel on the matter. I'm told he'll be here eventually and I wouldn't put it past him to show up soaking wet. Or naked save for the drop cloth he found in his trunk and fashioned into a toga."
"Looking forward to that," I replied.
From across the room, I watched Stella peek at her phone and frown. She typed out a quick message before returning to her conversation with Stremmel and O'Rourke but I knew she was distracted. A minute later, another message came through. Then the screen lit with an incoming call. She rejected the call, shot a quick eyeroll at the device, and stepped away from the group.
Holding up her phone as she headed toward me, she said, "I have to take this." She glanced toward the sliding glass doors that led to the deck. And the rain beating against them. "Is there a laundry room or somewhere quiet I can duck into without bothering anyone?"
"Head upstairs," Nick offered, pointing in that direction. "There are several empty rooms available."
"He actually means empty," I added. "He's got a bedroom and his wife has an office, and aside from that, there's no furniture to be found."
Nick jerked a shoulder up as he glared at me. "So fuckin' what, Hartshorn? Since when are you the interior design police?"
"I'm not," I replied. "But you've lived in this house almost a year. Isn't there a point at which you decide to do something with your empty spaces?"
"No," Nick answered. "No, there's not but you can be sure I'll be coming to your house one of these days and making comments about your shit."
Stella folded her lips together as a laugh shook through her. "Upstairs it is," she said. "I'll only need a few minutes."
"Take your time," I called.
As if Stella's urgent call could set off a chain reaction of urgent issues, Nick and I reached for our phones. Alex joined us, asking, "What's going on? Why do we look worried?"
"No reason," I said. "Just checking on things."
The three of us scrolled through our messages in silence and then returned the devices to our pockets.
Nick said, "I like her. She's what you need."
"And what is that?" I asked, taking a sip of my beer.
He followed suit, bobbing his head as he drank and considered my question. Finally, he said, "Warm."
"As in alive and breathing?" I sputtered. "Or—"
"As in"—he circled his arms in front of him, miming some form of embrace or wheat harvest, I wasn't sure—"warm. You know, pleasant. Generous. Outgoing. Kind. Capable. Good head on her shoulders." He made another grain-gathering motion. "Warm."
"You need a better vocabulary," I said, mostly to myself.
"You do," Alex agreed.
"You need to lock that lady down," he replied.
"You say that," I started, "but you don't seem to realize it's unusual to marry women the same day you meet them. You're also missing the fact many women aren't willing to go along with that kind of crazy."
"Truth," Alex said.
He barked out a laugh. "Some women invent that crazy all on their own. Now, those are the ones you need to lock down. Hold on tight and never let go because they're the best of them."
"My god," she muttered.
"I'll work on it," I grumbled. "Your feedback is always appreciated, Acevedo. Even if you're out of your damn mind." I pointed my bottle at the residents gathered near the pantry chalkboard, where they were busy drawing a set of kidneys and arguing over surgical methods. "Perhaps we should ask them to run an EEG on you this week. Maybe a psych consult. You need a good talk
session."
He made a sound in his throat, something rude and contrary. "Oh, that would be fun."
"I don't agree with the substance of Acevedo's argument but I think you should consider the overall thesis. Think about it this way, Hartshorn. How did you introduce her tonight? Oh, right. 'This is Stella,'" she said, dropping her voice as she imitated me. "She's Stella. That's it. If I was Stella, I'd be climbing out the guest room window right now and finding a better situation."
I stared at her, unblinking. "You don't believe she's actually doing that."
Alex made a face, something between yeah, I totally believe it and who the fuck knows? and said, "Probably not. I've been on some rough dates and never climbed out a window to escape. Not a second story window, that is."
"Alex," I snapped.
"Cal, chill out," she replied. "I'm sure everything is fine. You're great, she's great, everything is great. But maybe think about framing your relationship in less wishy-washy terms when introducing her to new people. That shit matters, dude."
Nick frowned, jerked both shoulders up. "She's been gone awhile. It's a short drop to the roof of the porch. I figure it's easy enough to make it down from there."
"For fuck's sake, Acevedo." I set my beer bottle on the countertop with as much care as I could muster, glaring at Alex. "And you."
"What did I do?" she asked.
"Nothing," Nick said. Another frown, another shoulder jerk. "You should probably go check on her."
They didn't have to tell me twice. I charged up the stairs two at a time and poked my head into every door I could find. More doors than anyone would ever need. Barren rooms by the dozen. Linen closets, laundry closets, closet closets. And then—finally—Stella standing in an empty bedroom, her phone pressed to her ear, her arm braced against the far window as she stared at the rain.
"Is there any way you can resolve this?" she asked, her voice low. Impatient. "I'm looking for you to handle this situation without my intervention."
I stepped inside, shut the door behind me. She glanced over her shoulder, offering me a tight grin followed by an exaggerated eyeroll. My shoes were soundless against the floor but the old hardwood sent up a creak and grunt as I moved closer to her.
Before Girl Page 15