How to Win the Dating War

by Aimee Carson

  “I do not have lists.”

  Cutter barked out a scoff and turned the book in his hand, displaying a page. “What do you call this?”

  She stared at the text she had marked up, passages underlined, notes scribbled in the margins...and fluorescent highlights through the author’s bullet points on how to argue effectively.

  The ice crystals vaporized from the flaming heat that swept up her face. “I just wanted Steve—”

  “No,” he said, slapping the book closed and cutting her off. “That’s the problem. You didn’t want Steve. You wanted the idealized version of him.”

  Her whole body rejected his claim, her mind circling in a whirlpool of disbelief, desperately scrabbling for the safety of logic. “There is nothing wrong with trying to improve yourself.”

  Cutter’s face went so hard it could have deflected a bullet at close range. “Let me be the one to tell you how demoralizing living with that would be.” He tossed the book to her desk, and it landed with a loud thump that echoed in her small office. “I spent my entire childhood not being wanted by my parents. And until I was ten years old, I thought if I tried a little harder, was a better kid, a little nicer, more agreeable—” the sarcasm dripped from his voice “—one of them might change their mind.” The awful words hung between them, and Jessica’s eyes began to burn. “But my dad left and never came back, and my mother never stopped talking about how her life got worse after I was born.” He raked his fingers through his hair, spiking his bangs in all directions, and his tone morphed from hard cynicism to biting bitterness. “So put me down as someone who refuses to try and improve myself anymore.”

  Years of adulation from his adoring fans could never undo the damage done by those who really mattered—rejecting him time and again. The tragic reality of his past added to her pain, boosting her sorrow exponentially, and her chest grew tight again, making it impossible to breathe. Everything about Cutter, the anger, the cynicism, and even the no-holds-barred honesty suddenly became clear. Unfortunately, the knowledge came too late. “You know what the problem with your theory is?” she said quietly.

  “No,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “But I bet you’re about to spell it out for me.”

  She ignored the dig and pushed on, before she collapsed from the feeling of futility. “You’ve given up.” She shook her head, sadness overwhelming her. “No, that’s not true. You haven’t just stopped trying, you go out of your way to tick people off. But it hasn’t made you happy.”

  The hot color of anger tinted his cheeks. “And you’re so blinded by everyone else’s faults that you can’t see your own.”

  She blinked back the burning threat of tears, realizing that she hadn’t fully grasped the extent of their relationship. They weren’t just wrong for each other...

  They were bad for each other.

  And the misery ended all hope for any kind of a future with Cutter Thompson. “I think you can handle the last debate alone.”

  Eyes dark, he said, “I think you’re right.”

  And with that, Cutter pivoted on his heel and left.

  * * *

  Cutter parked the ’Cuda at the curb in front of the Boys and Girls Club, wondering what the hell he was doing here. After calling Steve to locate Emmanuel’s whereabouts, and then learning the news about the kid’s latest troubles, coming had seemed the right thing to do. Now he wasn’t so sure. Of course, nothing felt right anymore.

  And he doubted it ever would again.

  Gut churning, he gripped the gearshift, remembering how alive he’d felt the night he was here with Jessica. It had been six days since he’d last seen her. Six horrendous days that had felt like infinity.

  After their blowup, he’d stormed home and finished the competition alone. Annoyed with every response his contestants had sent, he’d bitten his tongue—or his texting fingers, in this case—and finished the job. Numb from his fight with Jessica, he’d suffered through two hours of response after response, forcing himself to participate.

  With the competition over, and the benefit dinner behind him, he’d buried himself in his work, finishing the ’Cuda and focusing on his new business. He’d ordered the equipment for the shop, and had even hired a third mechanic to start next month. All in all, Cutter’s life was back on track.

  But with Jessica gone, it felt as if every bad event in his life—his dad, his mom and his horrific career-ending wreck—had all been rolled into one and magnified by a hundred.

  A fresh wave of agony bowled over him, and he dropped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. Since he’d left Jessica’s office, his mind had been spinning its wheels but never gaining traction. He’d been stuck in a never-ending neutral hell. Time and again he’d contemplated seeking her out, and to heck with how sorry he’d be in the end. Or how much it would cost his dignity to be with someone who didn’t really want him, outside of the sexual sense of the word.

  He would have shoved aside every semblance of self-

  respect and groveled like that seven-year-old boy who’d chased his father down the road. Or the ten-year-old who had sat by the phone, waiting for his dad to call him back.

  But he couldn’t get past the memory of Jessica’s expression when he’d accused her of causing the destruction of her marriage. In honor of the cocky bastard he used to be, and apparently still could be, he’d dragged out her painful past and flogged it again, ensuring the wounds would be fresh forever.

  These last six days, it was the image of her devastated expression by the bookshelf—juxtaposed with the you-just-shot-me, Bambi eyes by the pool—that had precipitated his perpetual orbit around the ninth circle of hell.

  And while he’d finally concluded he could never fix things between the two of them, he could at least mend one fence he’d smashed. And maybe it would make up for a little of the pain he’d inflicted on Jessica, as if, in some minor way, he could become the man she’d hoped she’d seen in him all along.

  He blew out a breath and stared at the Boys and Girls Club. Steve had said Emmanuel would probably be here. But if Cutter sat here any longer, the boy would leave and the opportunity would be gone.

  With renewed determination, Cutter exited the ’Cuda and entered the building. When he asked about the kid, the gray-haired lady at the front desk asked him to sign in and then directed him out back, and Cutter passed through the beautiful new gym where a dozen teens were playing basketball.

  He eventually found Emmanuel outside, alone, shooting hoops on an old concrete court. Unlike the teens inside who wore athletic wear, Emmanuel was dressed in black cargo pants and a black T-shirt that swallowed his tall, lanky body. His hair was dyed an unnatural color that matched his clothes.

  When the teen caught sight of Cutter, his face reflected the mood of his dark attire. “Why are you here?”

  “To talk to you.” Cutter waited a moment, feeling totally out of his element. Being on the receiving end of an adoring teen had been easy in comparison to the stone wall he now faced; Emmanuel had obviously changed his mind about the Wildcard.

  Smart kid.

  Cutter went on. “Heard you were caught racing a few days ago and got tossed in the clinker overnight.”

  “What’s it to you? You’re not my dad, so beat it.”

  Cutter regarded him for a moment. The animosity seeping from the kid was daunting. But, instead of leaving, Cutter crossed to a box of basketballs, pulled one out and sat on the ball. He stared at the teen, the wall of fury seemingly unscalable. “Don’t have a clue how to go fatherly on a teen.” He gave a small shrug. “My old man split when I was a kid.”

  Emmanuel cast him a scathing look. “Yeah?” He took the jump shot, missing by a mile. “So cry me a river.”

  Cutter’s forehead wrinkled in brief amusement. It was interesting to be on the receiving end of his teenage self. “I als
o heard you got fired at the auto parts store as a result of your escapade.”

  This time Emmanuel didn’t even acknowledge his presence, dribbling down the court and successfully planting a hook shot. When the ball bounced to the ground, the teen begin making shots from the foul line, his back facing Cutter.

  Damn, disagreeable was hard to hold a conversation with.

  But Cutter tried again. “I’m here to offer you a job.”

  “I don’t want your charity.”

  “Gonna be hard to get hired anywhere with a record.”

  “So?” Like a cannon, Emmanuel shot the ball and it slapped against the backboard, the sound echoing on the small court.

  A part of Cutter wanted to give up. He didn’t need this. He had a fledgling business to get back to. Taking on an angry teen would hardly be the smart thing to do.

  He swiped a hand through his hair and stared at the boy’s back, remembering all the times Jessica had hunted him down. No matter how rude he’d been, or undeserving of her efforts, she still had come back.

  At least until he’d accused her of destroying her marriage and killed all hope of her retaining any lingering affection.

  The knifing pain in his chest didn’t come from his now-healed rib injury. It was from the band encircling his heart, making each breath hurt. But he’d spent a lifetime feeling sorry for himself and he was tired of the emotion.

  And it was time to just step up and take the higher road. At least put in the effort to be the better person, instead of going out of his way to piss everyone off.

  Just like Emmanuel.

  Cutter stood, picked up his ball and found a new location on the sidelines, balancing on his makeshift seat. From this angle, he could see the profile of the teen’s face, but the boy continued to mutely dribble his ball, clearly unhappy with Cutter’s persistent presence.

  With a sigh, Cutter said, “It’s easy to blame yourself when a parent splits.”

  Emmanuel’s hand fumbled briefly on the ball, but he recovered quickly. But the scowl that had settled on his face was Psycho, knife-through-the-shower-curtain worthy.

  Cutter had definitely scored a hit with his comment.

  “’Course, I was pretty little when my dad took off,” Cutter said, feeling stupid, but staying anyway. “But for a long time I thought if I’d been a better kid, he wouldn’t have left...”

  His voice died as he remembered all those times his dad had dropped him off after a visit. Cutter would sit on the front porch, wondering why the man always left. After his father had moved, Cutter had manned the chair next to the phone, dreaming of the day his father would come back for good. Hoping his old man would come clean about why he’d left, and maybe even convince his mother it wasn’t because of Cutter.

  He blinked, pushing the memory aside. Dumb dreams. They’d never done him any good. But Jessica was right.

  Adopting the screw-the-world attitude hadn’t helped either.

  Elbows on his knees, fingers linked, Cutter watched Emmanuel ignore him and said, “Take it from someone who’s been there. The anger will eat you up if you let it.” The kid continued to bounce the ball, and Cutter wasn’t sure if the surly teen was listening or not. If he was anything like Cutter at that age, probably not. “I let it control me when I bumped Chester, and I blew my racing career.” Funny how that didn’t hurt near as much as losing Jessica. His breath escaped with a whoosh, and he swiped a frustrated hand through his hair. “Not the kind of thing a hero does.”

  The pause was filled with the sound of a dribbling ball as Emmanuel continued to refuse to acknowledge his presence. After several minutes passed with no response from the kid, Cutter pushed up to his feet. He’d said his piece. He’d made his offer.

  It was up to the kid either to accept it or not.

  “I’ll leave my number inside in case you change your mind,” Cutter said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TRYING to work, Jessica sat in her office, used tissues strewn across her desk, eyes puffy from lack of sleep. The frequent crying binges weren’t helping their appearance either.

  It had been exactly seven days since Cutter had walked out, and she’d spent most of it bawling her eyes out. A massive crying jag that had been thirteen years in the making. And once she had started, she couldn’t seem to stop.

  She’d indulged in a whine festival that would put most vineyards to shame.

  Some of her tears were a little girl’s grief over the end of what she had thought was a happy family, and some were a grown woman’s hurt over Cutter’s claim she had ruined her marriage.

  But the biggest trigger by far was the unbearable pain of missing Cutter.

  An ache the size of the Atlantic had taken up residence in her heart, and there was no ignoring this unwanted guest. Every time she closed her eyes, the horrid memory of Cutter’s past, and his stunned expression at the bookshelf—one part censure and two parts pity—had hit her again. And yet, despite everything he’d said to her, she missed his cutting sarcasm, his cynical take on life, and that rare almost-smile that lit her world.

  Toss in her body’s intense longing for the fire in his touch, and she was a mess of gigantic proportions.

  Between the huge hole Cutter had left in his wake and the nagging fear that she might have messed up worse than the majority of the ludicrous divorce stories she’d heard

  over the years, she wasn’t getting much rest.

  She was hoping her personal, in-depth exploration into the effects of sleep deprivation would end soon—but so far, no such luck. Especially on the night Cutter was supposedly sitting at the charity banquet with Calamity Jane.

  By all accounts the dinner had been a huge hit. The Brice Foundation had made more money than ever before. And what had started as a potential publicity disaster had ended on a personal one of cataclysmic proportions.

  For the millionth time since Cutter’s awful claim, her gaze drifted to the wall sporting the shelves of self-help books. At first she’d been too angry for an objective look, convinced that Cutter had lashed out in his usual fashion, choosing to come out swinging when he felt pushed into a corner. But as time had passed, she remembered the open honesty in his eyes, the conviction in his voice, and—most damning by far—the lack of anger. Doubt had taken hold, and the shelf had loomed larger and larger, until now it was an ominous beast that seemed to sop up every oxygen molecule from the room.

  It was draining her of any capacity for hope, much less optimism.

  Miserable, Jessica slumped deeper into her chair, eyeing the tower of books warily. To be so thoroughly paralyzed by a stack of paper and ink was dispiriting. To be forced to live without Cutter was brutal.

  Heart thumping painfully, her mind pushed away the implications of the thought. Her precarious—and entirely questionable—ability to function could shut down altogether if she began to explore why she missed Cutter.

  Fear squeezed her chest at the idea. “God,” she said, and snatched up her cell phone. Facing her past had to be easier than facing her feelings for Cutter. She dialed Steve’s number, and when he answered, she didn’t bother with a hello. “When did you first realize it wasn’t going to work?”

  She heard jazz music in the background. “Jess?” he said, his voice confused. “You haven’t returned my calls. I’ve been worried—”

  “I’m talking about us, Steve,” she said. She took a breath and forced herself to slow down. It had been five years since their divorce. Giving him a minute to catch up would only be fair. “I want to know when you first thought we were a mistake.”

  “Jess,” Steve groaned. There was no confusion now, only a man who didn’t want to have this conversation. And she was very familiar with the reluctant tone. “It hardly matters any—”

  “Don’t,” she said. More evasion on Steve’s part. Or maybe it was s
imply a delay tactic. She remembered those, too. The jazz music in the background took on a lively tune, and her fingers clamped harder around her phone. “When was the first time you remember thinking you wanted out?” When the moment stretched to uncomfortable levels, Jessica said, “The truth, Steve.” She hoped she wasn’t hurting her cellular with her grip. “Please.”

  The sound of his sigh was loud. “I guess it would be when the CEO of the Wallace Corporation was flying down from New York for our meeting.”

  Stunned, Jessica sat up in her chair. The visit had taken place only four months into a marriage that had lasted for fifteen. Shock made her words sluggish. “You were positive he was going to hate your presentation.”

  Steve had never been a workaholic before, and his late hours and distracted mindset had started to wear her down. She knew he’d been working hard, but a little part of her had been hurt.

  And worried.

  Okay, actually she’d been scared stiff. Especially after she flipped through a woman’s magazine and landed on a survey that asked the readers how they first realized their relationship was in bad straits. The working-late excuse had been the number-one-reported sign.

  Looking back, the fear seemed terribly ridiculous, but it had felt so real.

  “Yes,” Steve went on. “The morning of the presentation I was stressed and forgot to say goodbye when I left. After I got home, you asked if I was mad at you. But when I said no...you didn’t believe me.” His pause was longer this time, but there was a ton of meaning in the silence. Her heart grew heavy, and he went on. “It took me two hours to persuade you it wasn’t a sign of a bigger issue.”

  She didn’t bother to tell him that, deep down, she’d never really believed it wasn’t. Four months later, after multiple similar episodes, and with Steve burying himself further in his work, she’d purchased her first book. She remembered the look on Steve’s face when she brought it home. But that was nothing compared to his horrified expression when she purchased the second one three weeks later. At the time, she thought he was avoiding talking about their problems.