This Changes Everything

by Gretchen Galway

  “I am. In fact…” Sly launched into a brief history of his work at WellyNelly, his relationship with Mark, and the start-up he’d just left. Cleo seemed to relax, sinking back into her chair with a smile as he talked with Poppy. In his element, he was able to shove aside thoughts of curves in emerald-green satin and lose himself in the conversation.

  At least for a while. Salads appeared before them, other people at the table caught Poppy’s attention, and Sly let the business conversation fade away. He’d gotten her personal email and the impression she was interested in something new, especially with Mark.

  While Poppy was looking the other way, Cleo leaned against him. “You’re good,” she whispered in his ear.

  Inhaling her perfume, heat rushed through him, obliterating the calm he’d regained while talking shop for a few minutes.

  This attraction wasn’t going to go away. He was going to have to deal with it.

  He looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of what he himself was feeling. “You have no idea,” he said in a low voice.

  ♢ ♡ ♤

  The live auction would’ve been a lot more fun to watch if Cleo had been able to pay the smallest bit of attention to any of it. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, and the various educational foundations raked in a fortune thanks to the professional auctioneer who lathered up the privileged crowd and inspired higher bids for each item, praising their generosity, their social consciousness, and their obscene wealth (that last one was a running joke that always got a laugh.)

  Cleo was glad when the meal was over. Sly’s romantic playacting—whispering in her ear, touching her hand, holding her gaze—had lathered her up in an entirely different way.

  But finally she could relax. Sly reignited his professional rapport with Poppy over the cheesecake, and when loud dance music started playing, the four of them escaped to the lobby. Sly and Poppy walked shoulder to shoulder, talking business, while Poppy’s grumpy husband and Sly’s fake girlfriend trailed in their wake.

  His grumpy fake girlfriend.

  “Nice guy,” Bob said to her. “Your boyfriend.”

  “He is a nice guy,” Cleo said.

  “You can tell a lot about a person by who their friends are. Or girlfriends.”

  Afraid shy Bob was about to get too personal, she glanced over his shoulder for the exit.

  “You’re a nice woman,” Bob went on, confirming her fears. “That tells me Sly is a nice guy. He could be with somebody like that lady over there.” Bob nodded at a woman in a sleeveless black dress that ended just low enough to cover the bottom curve of her ass.

  Cleo couldn’t resist. She smirked. “He likes that type too.”

  “Of course he does. But he’s here with you, isn’t he?” Bob seemed to realize he’d used up his daily allotment of words, because he shook his head, pressed his lips together, and walked faster, patting her on the shoulder as he left her behind.

  Poppy took her husband’s arm, waved a business card at Sly, and walked out a side door. Cleo saw Bob cop a feel just as they were turning the corner.

  “Nice guy,” Sly said, unwittingly echoing Bob’s words.

  The thought of going up to their room for the night filled her with dread.

  OK, not nearly enough dread.

  “So, who won the piano?” she asked.

  “Let’s go see.”

  “Where?”

  “They mark the winners and the highest bids on the sheet. It’s fun to see what they went for.” He bumped his shoulder against hers, a platonic gesture that shouldn’t have made her shiver.

  They returned to the space where they’d seen the silent auction, but the door was closed and all the tables with the winning bids were lined up outside with a dozen or so people looking at the results.

  “Checkout is in the lobby,” a woman in a dove-gray dress said, looking them over. “If you’re a winner, bring the tag to the register and we’ll give you a receipt.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not a winner,” Cleo said.

  “Sure you are,” Sly said in her ear.

  Shaking off another shiver, she searched the posters and tablet displays, but didn’t see one for the piano. “The last bid I saw was way over what it was worth. I’m curious to see how high it went.”

  “I bet it’s still in the room.” Sly gave her a meaningful look and moved toward the door. When the woman in the gray dress was looking the other way, he turned the handle, pushed, and signaled for Cleo to follow.

  “You rebel,” she said, hurrying past him into the room. This was what she loved about him. He was fun.

  He closed the door, enveloping them in darkness. Only the moon and the city lights outside illuminated the room. At the far end, the grand piano sat in the shadows, dark and alone.

  “It looks lonely,” Cleo said. “I think it would rather be at the party.”

  “Why don’t you try it out? Make it feel better?”

  “You didn’t buy it for me or anything, right?” she asked, suddenly worried he had.

  “Cleo, don’t say that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I would’ve loved to buy it for you, but I figured you’d never accept it.”

  She nodded. “Totally true.”

  “But you thought I might.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I should have. Sneak it into your apartment when you aren’t looking.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Where would it go? It’s bigger than my living room.”

  “That’s not saying much.”

  “Don’t insult my home, mogul boy.”

  Clapping his hands together, he walked deeper into the room. “All right, piano woman. Why don’t you play us a song?”

  She looked around at the stacked chairs in a ring facing the windows. “It looks like they’re getting ready for another event.”

  “Looks like they’re not here.”

  Why not? It would delay the moment they went back to their room. She walked over, sat down, lifted the lid, and lightly caressed the keys first. “It’s not new.”

  “The poster said it was just a stand-in for the donation. This one is always here.”

  She played a chord, sending rich notes into the darkness. Then she began to play in earnest, loud enough to feel the vibrations in her chest, her arms, her legs. Tension drained out of her. Whatever was bothering her, music lifted her out, above, and up into that space beyond reality where she could recognize her own insignificance and touch, for just a moment, the vastness of the universe.

  Until she felt Sly’s presence behind her. Her hands stilled, and her last chord faded away.

  She waited for him to say something, joke about her forgetting the rest of the song, but he was silent.

  Oh God. Her heart thudded against her ribs, more in step with a disco beat than the dreamy sonata she’d been playing.

  Was she imagining this thing between them? Years of nothing, and now…

  “Cleo.” His voice was rough.

  Frozen, she closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath. Frantically she searched her memories for something silly and embarrassing that would return him to his Friend Box. She would stuff him inside, close the lid, lock it, and throw the key over the balcony outside this room and onto the rocky cliffs below.

  He touched her hair. Softly, just a graze. “Cleo,” he said again.

  “What?”

  “You know what.”

  Shaking her head, she closed the lid over the keys, stood, and moved so that the bulk of the piano was between them. Its curved surface felt cold and smooth under her palms. Soothing.

  He followed her, his face hidden by the shadows. “You play beautifully.”

  Her mouth was dry. “Thanks.”

  He took another step, close enough for the cuff of his jacket to brush against her arm. The perfume she’d worn that evening had been too strong, overwhelming every other smell in her environment. But now his scent was close enough to detect. Familiar but dangerous, like a pampered pet that suddenl
y bared its fangs.

  Her pulse, already racing, shifted into a higher gear. He moved, putting himself between her and the door. A shaft of light from outside reflected in his dark, gorgeous, almond-shaped eyes, pushing her over the edge into mindless wanting. He was actually taller than she’d thought he was, his shoulders broader. And she couldn’t see his handsome face at the moment, but she remembered it, not as a friend, but as a—

  He caught her face in his hands and kissed her.

  He was kissing her.

  Fire engulfed her belly and spread throughout her body. Hot, wet fire. His mouth was warm and tender, barely touching her, but she felt as if she would collapse under the shock of it. Explode.

  His lips slid across hers, gently nibbling. She tasted wine and something sweet, and was shocked by how good it felt for him to hold her, even just one hand on her cheek, the other digging into her hair. She imagined taking off his shirt and licking her way down his chest to his navel and beyond, she imagined liking it very, very much. And then he would take off her clothes too and treat her to the sexual expertise he’d acquired over his years and years as a handsome, rich, successful bachelor. She would be one of his women, one of the many, and she knew that as long as he was making love to her, she would enjoy it.

  But then it would be over, like it was always over.

  She breathed his air, her legs wobbling, desiring him so much she hated herself. And she hated him too, for teaching her that all this lust was inside her, just waiting for him to unleash it.

  She wrenched herself away and strode to the door, not knowing where she was going to go but needing to be there as soon as possible.

  9

  “At least return my calls so you can get your clothes,” Sly said, finally leaving a voice mail message after days of Cleo ignoring his text messages. “And I owe you for the hotel room. That was… my fault.”

  He didn’t know what else he could say, but he certainly couldn’t say it to a machine that was recording every mistake. After a quick good-bye, he hung up.

  Talking in person was the only way they were going to survive this. He’d screwed up; he could admit it. But she had to give him a chance to explain and atone. Grovel.

  He put his phone in the console and tapped the steering wheel. Sitting in his car outside her apartment was making him feel like a stalker, and as frustrated as he was, he knew it was time to drive away.

  But instead of leaving, he watched a young guy, probably a Berkeley student, lift a bike onto his shoulder and walk into the apartment building. Coming to Cleo’s place always made him feel two hundred years old.

  He slapped the steering wheel. It was Thursday night. Their Thursday.

  But what if there was no longer any “their” there?

  He dug his knuckles into his forehead and started the car, driving very slowly in case she called him back, then faster when she didn’t.

  Maybe Uncle Hugo was around. The clinic was open late sometimes, and he often worked after hours anyway. Sly didn’t want to go back to his place right now and be reminded of what was missing in his life, that he was jobless, friendless.

  Cleo-less.

  When he pulled up in front of the vet clinic, Hugo was walking out the front door with the biggest dog he’d ever seen. The thin leash looked about as useful as dental floss would be to lasso a grizzly bear.

  Sly rolled down the window. “Tell me his name is Yogi.”

  “Afraid not,” Hugo said, patting the giant black dog’s head without bending over. “This is Mouse.”

  “What is he?”

  “Don’t be rude. You’ll hurt his feelings.”

  Sly got out of his car and walked over, shivering as a blast of wind came down San Pablo Avenue. Mouse stopped lumbering, looked up at him with enormous, droopy, gentle eyes, and smiled. Sly held out a hand. “Can I pet him?”

  “Try not to,” Hugo said.

  His skull was the size of a soccer ball, and his long fur was soft as velvet. White flecks of drool spotted his jowls. “Newfoundland, right?” Sly asked.

  “I couldn’t resist. His mommy couldn’t bring him to Hong Kong with him. New job.”

  “Mommy?” Sly shook his hand to dislodge the fur and drool sticking to his fingers.

  “The woman who used to own him.” Hugo scratched Mouse behind his floppy black ears. In response, the big dog closed his eyes with rapture and sat down on Sly’s shoes.

  It hurt.

  “He’s got to weigh two hundred pounds,” Sly said, stroking Mouse’s soccer ball of a head.

  “Oh, no. Only one sixty-three. On the small side for a male. It’s selfish of me, but I figure a vet’s the best home for a dog like this. He has a few health issues. Can get expensive. Besides, he’s great with everybody, other dogs, lies around all day, keeps me company.”

  “When I said you needed company, I was thinking you might find a woman,” Sly said. “A human woman.”

  “Have plans tonight, actually.” Hugo clucked his tongue and began walking, and Mouse immediately hauled himself to his feet and followed. “I told Trixie Johnson I’d come by and see how Luna’s doing. That Chihuahua that got run over when you were here.”

  “And then you have a date? What’s her name?”

  Raising an eyebrow, Hugo opened the passenger door of his Fiat and shoved the seat forward. “For a smart kid, sometimes you’re pretty slow.”

  Sly’s mouth dropped open. He tried to picture his uncle and Mark’s mother together. He loved Hugo, but he was a gloomy, difficult old bachelor, and Trixie was a sunny, tirelessly happy grandmother. “Trixie?”

  “I think she’s ready for a relationship,” Hugo said. “Now that her kids are all paired off, she can think about herself.”

  Mouse stared into the backseat of the tiny Fiat and then up at Hugo, as if thinking, You’ve got to be kidding.

  “Go on, you’ll be fine,” Hugo told the dog.

  If a dog could shrug his shoulders, Mouse would have. But he put one paw in, then the other, and after a short struggle he was sitting in the backseat, facing forward with his head brushing the sloped rear window.

  Hugo slammed the door. “Hope he’s not too afraid of Trixie’s Chihuahuas. Barking gets on his nerves.”

  “If they don’t get along, your relationship will be strained from the start.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I’m bringing him now. Lay the groundwork. Get everyone used to each other.”

  “I had no idea you felt that way about her. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “For one thing, she insists she’s given up on romance,” Hugo said. “Only for herself, obviously—she’s always talking to me about setting you up. And you’re friends with her son. I thought it might make you uncomfortable.”

  “But now you’re getting me used to the idea,” Sly said. “Like the dogs.”

  Hugo flashed a rare smile. “Laying the groundwork.” He walked around the car and opened the driver’s side door, suddenly frowning. “Did you need something, or were you just driving by?”

  Sly glanced down at Mouse, who was watching him through the window, a string of drool hanging down from the left corner of his mouth. He could fit both Chihuahuas between those jaws and still have room for a ham sandwich.

  “Just driving by,” Sly said with a wave. “Good luck with Trixie.”

  ♢ ♡ ♤

  Cleo picked up the phone for the third time and stared at the screen, feeling ridiculous about the way her heart was pounding. If she was worried about losing Sly’s friendship, refusing to talk to him and then standing him up on their Thursday night was an irrational method of rescuing it.

  Biting her lip, she hit the button. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Hey,” he said. Then a pause. “Thanks for calling back.”

  “Sorry I didn’t earlier.”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s all my fault.”

  “You keep saying that,” she said. In his texts, in his phone message.

  “It’s true.�
��

  She moved the phone away from her mouth to let out her breath. Hearing his voice, so familiar, took the edge off her nerves. And whatever lust had driven her wild down in Carmel seemed to have vanished. This was just Sly, her old friend. They could get past this.

  “You’ve probably made other plans for tonight,” she said, “but I thought we might get together next week. Or the week after. Pick up where we left off.”

  No, had she said that? A smoky hot memory of his lips dragging across hers blasted through her mind. That wasn’t the leaving-off place she’d meant.

  “On TV,” she added.

  “I know what you meant.”

  Awkward silence swelled between them. After a moment she strode over to her work area and played a silent song with one hand on the powered-down keyboard. Maybe they couldn’t get past this after all.

  “I don’t think we should wait that long,” he said. “I’ll come by tonight.”

  “It’s already eight.”

  “We have time for one episode.”

  She looked down at what she was wearing. If she didn’t change into her usual pajamas, he’d think she was coming on to him. But now, going without a bra and panties carried an entirely different message. Convenient access.

  This was stupid. She’d never been his type and wasn’t now. Every one of the women he’d dated over the years she’d known him had been tall, thin, and athletic, well suited to their conventional, professional lifestyles. They were also brunettes, for the most part. She was so blond that some people, from a distance, mistook it for white. Sly was in his midthirties, a classic age for a midlife crisis. Because the two of them were so close, he was grasping at anything that would give him comfort as he hurtled toward his inevitable approaching death.

  Perhaps she should tell him that. Then he’d stop trying to kiss her. In fact, she’d probably never see him again.

  “I’ve already eaten,” she said, “but how about you bring the beer? Lager, not that pee you like to drink.”

  He laughed. “See you soon.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she compromised on the fashion dilemma by changing into a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt but leaving on her undergarments. When he rang the buzzer, she felt almost normal.