by P. Dangelico
“When did you turn into such a cynic?”
“When I found out that Brad and Angelina were getting a divorce.”
A tall wall of muscles suddenly appears in my open doorway. For realz? He’s naked. For all intent and purposes, the man is naked. I’ll go on the record once again that I’ve sworn off men for all eternity, and yet it’s impossible for me to pry my eyes off of him. My mouth runs bone dry and heat crawls up my neck as I marvel at his body. I chalk this up to simple biology, to the fact that I’m female and alive. He’s staring, those unyielding cool eyes fixed on me over the bowl he’s busy eating out of.
“Amber, have to call you back. There’s a man darkening my doorway.” Before she can answer, I hang up.
He’s leaning against the doorframe in nothing but a pair of embarrassingly old and ratty boxer briefs. Those trapezius muscles, my own personal brand of kryptonite, are on full display. I swear I can see everything. Good grief, how does he even walk with that thing between his legs?
Without making it too obvious, I sit up in bed and slowly pull the sheet over the white tank top I sleep in. Unlike Mr. Modesty here, I do care that my boobs are on full display. The subtle lift of a black, masculine eyebrow tells me he’s noticed and finds this amusing.
“Did you at least heat up that pasta?”
“Nope.”
“I would’ve done it for you if you asked.”
A shrug. That’s what I get, a one-shoulder shrug. My eyes focus below his waist. Technically, it’s eye level for me so there’s that. And if he doesn’t have a problem with the log between his legs practically poking me in the eye, then why do I have to pretend I don’t see it? Something about his shameless, close-to-total nudity in front of me, a stranger, irritates the shit out of me. I can’t keep my mouth shut for a second longer.
“Do you have an allergy to new cotton?”
“Nope.”
“Then why can’t you put on underwear that isn’t about to disintegrate if a strong wind blows?” Lordy, did I just use the word ‘blow’ again? I’m so cringing inside. He chews his food slowly and continues to stare, his expression not giving a thing away. A half-century later, I’m still waiting for an explanation for this impromptu visit.
“You’ve been checking out my underwear?” There he goes again with his nonquestion.
“Calvin.”
“Hmm.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m going furniture shopping tomorrow.”
“Congratulations.”
“You’re coming with me.” Standing away from the doorframe, he turns to leave. “Sam, too.”
Chapter Ten
“I just love this piece, don’t you?”
No, I think it looks like dog shit, but no one is asking me. The decorating consultant, an attractive woman in her early thirties with a perpetual smile on her face that the peacock has hired, doesn’t seem to be doing a very good job consulting. I say ‘peacock’ because today he has another one of his snazzy designer outfits on. A black cashmere hoodie with designer distressed jeans and biker boots that no biker on this planet could ever afford.
He stares at the heavy, dark wood coffee table with as close to contempt as I’ve seen on his face. To her, it probably looks like apathy.
“You don’t like it?” she asks with a brittle, nervous smile. She brushes his forearm again, probably for the tenth time today; I stopped counting at eight. He glares at her and she misses the look. I have to lock down the urge to snicker every time. She’s either the most incredibly stupid woman I’ve ever met, or arguably the craftiest.
At the sound of me clearing my throat, Calvin takes an extra long, heavy lidded glance in my direction. Then his eyes move back to the woman who is trying her hardest not to stare at him with serious yearning in her eyes. How does she do this? Allow me to explain, by forcing her eyes wide open. I haven’t seen her blink in like three minutes and it’s disconcerting, downright creepy actually. Like I said, after he takes a long look at me, he turns to her as says, “No.”
This is how most of the day has gone. Right now I’m the Emoji with straight lines for eyes and mouth with a gun pointing at it––and I’m not talking the squirt gun. By the time we’re leaving the fourth store without anything to show for it, I’m losing my patience and Sam looks bored and annoyed and no one wants to shop with a grumpy eight year old.
“Calvin, if you don’t buy something soon we’re leaving,” I hiss out of earshot of his decorator. “Where did you get her anyway?”
“Barry.” My blank stare prompts him to continue. “My agent.”
“Whatever––Sam and I are going to grab a snack.” For a split second, something resembling worry crosses his face…actually, it looks exactly like worry. “Meet us at Pain Quotidien on the corner when you’re done not buying anything. God’s sake, you’re not playing the Patriots, stop making this look difficult.”
The last part earns me the filthiest glare. He looks over his shoulder, and I take it as my cue I to leave.
“Madison, we’re done. My girlfriend and nephew are hungry.”
And my steps come to a screeching halt. Girlfriend? Girlfriend? The fuck?
Madison looks shocked right out of her Manolo Blahniks. Armed with this new information, her eyes do a much more thorough inspection of my person. The confused look on her face telegraphs that she’s found me lacking.
I don’t blame her. From an objective perspective, even if he wasn’t a ridiculously talented professional athlete, his supermodel good looks place him in a completely different league from me, maybe even a different solar system. And this very obvious fact does not bother me in the least.
I’ve never wanted to be in that league. Why would anybody? I like to fly under the radar. I’ve never had the desire to be famous, or love a man that just about every other female on the planet with a pair of eyes lusts after. No thanks. I mean, Matt was attractive and his charming, playful personality made him even more so, but nowhere near this caliber––and that was just fine by me.
I turn toward Calvin wearing probably the most astonished, confused look on my face ever, and all I get in return is a slight narrowing of the eyes, which I know––bizarre that I know this––means not to contradict him. He doesn’t wait for Madison to respond. On go his sunglasses, and out the door we go.
The café on the corner serves brunch. We eat at warp speed. When you have one of the most celebrated athletes in the city sitting next to you, you can count on a long line of people crowding the table for an autograph as if they’re entitled to it.
Pictures are taken. Hands are shook. I’m only beginning to understand what Shaw has to endure every time he steps out the door and a pang of sympathy hits me. Every once in a while, I get a curious look, however, no one is forward enough to ask who I am. Even though he barely has time to take a few bites of his egg white omelet with spinach, Calvin signs each and every one without complaint. I have to give him credit––by the thirtieth, I’m starting to get antsy.
Sam is busy devouring his second chocolate croissant. His eyes have been glued on his uncle the entire time. The awed, worshipful look on his face makes my heart squeeze painfully. If only Calvin could see it. It’s become abundantly clear that Calvin is no fan of children. This is a riddle I have yet to solve because for all his grumpiness, Calvin is fundamentally a decent person. This seems out of character, even for him.
As soon as Sam is done with his food, we get ready to leave. Just as we’re about to step out the door, a man approaches Calvin for an autograph. He’s having trouble speaking, his hands quivering as he offers up a napkin for Calvin to sign. I don’t know what ails this man, what his troubles are. But whatever they are, they are not insignificant. And Calvin? Well, the patience and genuine warmth he handles this man with…yeah, it’s pretty much the most amazing thing I’ve ever witnessed.
As I listen to the two men quietly discuss football strategy, my heart starts to expand inside my chest until the ache is too muc
h to bear. Something inside of me cracks wide open and I have to fight like hell not to let the tears welling in my eyes roll down my face.
Up until this moment, I was doing a damn good job tolerating Calvin for Sam’s sake. There was a certain comfort in my dislike of him. I know that sounds strange, but not being able to trust my own judgment really screwed me up. And now I have to reassess everything I believe about this man, too.
As we exit, Sam places his small hand in mine. On my other side, I can feel Calvin’s eyes drilling a hole in my skull. I brush the dampness away as quickly as possible.
“What’s wrong?” Calvin asks. There’s nothing remotely consoling about the gruff tone he favors.
“Nothing,” I blurt out. Sam can clearly see what I’m doing and keeps my secret. “Why don’t you have any furniture?” I ask, hoping to distract him.
“She took it.”
“You’ve been without furniture for two years?”
“Three,” he corrects. He walks ahead, head and shoulders above the crowd, and I watch every female and some male heads he passes swiveling to get a better look. On the way back to the waiting Town car, we pass a Restoration Hardware that spans an entire city block. Calvin walks inside and without a glance in my direction, says, “Pick out what we need.”
We? What we need? I stand there unsure how to react for ten full minutes. My stare goes ignored. His eyes remain glued to his cell phone while he heads straight for a double-wide goose down armchair and plops his big body down.
“Calvin?” Nothing. He continues texting. “Calvin, I don’t know what you like,” I say more sternly. Without looking up, he says, “Order whatever you want,” adding, “and one of these,” while he points to the chair he’s sitting on. I’m speechless. But then again, he does that to me a lot.
When we get home, Sam disappears to his playroom to work on a new Lego village he’s building, and Calvin heads to the gym. I consider dropping by my parents’ house, though before I leave, I know I have to deal with what happened today. With that in mind, I go in search of the man that called me his girlfriend. Just the thought has me on the verge of hyperventilating.
In the gym, I find him in the middle of his TRX workout. The closer I get, the clearer it becomes that all he’s wearing is long, loose shorts. Those frigging traps are like a homing beacon for my eyes.
Eyes up. Eyes up damn it! Did he catch me? Of course, he did.
Standing before him, I wait patiently for him to finish a set of bicep curls. Sweat is dripping down his body, muscles are bulging in stark relief from bone and sinew. I have no idea where to put my eyes because everywhere I look there’s danger. Finally, I settle on my own nails.
Does he stop what he’s doing as any other normal, polite human being would? The answer to that is a hard no. One minute passes, two, three––by the fifth minute of listening to him grunt through another set, my nerves are on fire. Taking a deep breath, I jump into a conversation I didn’t think, not even in my wildest nightmares, I’d ever need to have.
“We need to talk.” His sharp gaze flickers to mine, and still he says nothing. I like the strong silent type as much as the next girl but seriously? “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yup.”
“Can you stop that for a minute, please?”
Pulling himself up and standing, he places one hand on his hipbone. The unintended consequence of this is that the waistband of his shorts is pushed down and…again, no underwear. Wiping his chest with a hand towel in his other hand, he says, “Talk.”
So charming. “Why would you call me your…umm…girlfriend?” I almost choke on that word.
“She was touching me.”
Huh? I’m stumped, I’m completely stumped. Then I think, there must be some kind of hidden meaning here, and spend an extra few minutes searching for something I do not find. “Are you a germaphobe?”
“No.”
“Do you suffer from some other condition I should know about?” In response to this, I get a triple dose of his signature nasty scowl. “Then what’s with this aversion to being touched?”
“I don’t like it.”
“You. Don’t. Like. It. So you announce to the world, ‘cause I can guarantee this will get to the tabloids in no time, that I’m your girlfriend without thought to the consequences?”
“What consequences?”
I am this close to laughing like a deranged hyena. His face is totally relaxed, like we’re discussing the series finale of Downtown Abbey and not the total and complete destruction of what little is left of my life.
“What consequences? What consequences?” I am fully aware that I keep repeating everything like an idiot, but I am steeped in disbelief. Can he really be this self-centered?
“You keep repeating yourself.”
“I told you what it’s like for me! I’m trying to lay low. The last thing I need is to draw any attention to myself, whatsoever.”
“That won’t ever happen again if people think you’re my girlfriend.”
I ignore this ridiculously arrogant statement and plow full steam ahead. “I don’t ever, ever want to wind up on another newspaper as long as I live. And now you want me to play the pretend girlfriend of the biggest sports star in the country. How is that supposed to help me? How is that staying off the radar?”
I’m getting a panic attack just talking about it. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in…
He scrunches his face up, his head bobs from side to side and says, “Second biggest.” I blink repeatedly just to be sure I’m not dreaming this ridiculous conversation. For a second, I’m sidetracked into contemplating who he thinks number one is. “Why are you breathing like that?”
Nope, I’m awake. This shit’s real.
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
“You can’t hide forever.”
I don’t know what’s pissing me off more, the smug look on his face, or the fact that he’s dismissing every legitimate concern I have as if it’s trivial nonsense.
“Thanks Dr. Phil, but that’s exactly what I plan to do, hide forever. And what about how this could hurt you? What a PR nightmare this could turn into. Dating the widow of a Ponzi scheme mastermind, whether it’s bullshit or not, isn’t going to endear you to your fans or the Davis family, for that matter. Your contract expires soon. This could hurt your chances to sign again.”
“Camilla––” My name on his lips snaps me out of my rant. There’s a serious amount of exasperation implied in the way he pronounces it, like he can’t believe he has to labor through an explanation. “Does it look like I give a shit what other people think?” That’s the problem. He really doesn’t. “It’ll be fine.”
“For whom??”
“For both of us.”
I go for forceful. “Sounds awesome. But again, NO. You better fix this.”
“I don’t want a relationship and I don’t want the hassle of not being in one. I won’t get touched anymore, and people won’t mess with you. It’s real simple. Don’t make this more than it is.”
The arrogance.
“I’m sure you’ve dated a number of women who would love to be a part of this dog and pony act. Get one of them to do it.” There’s a long pause and I’m momentarily relieved to think I may have finally scored a point. He seems to be mulling it over.
“No.”
Relief erased. I stand there slack faced, marveling at his obstinacy. So it’s no surprise that my hands go to the roots of my hair and begin to tug. It’s like trying to reason with a brick wall, enough to drive anyone absolutely bat shit crazy. He starts doing those hanging stomach crunches double-time as if I’m not still standing there glowering at him. Up down, up down, his knees pump rapidly. I’m momentarily distracted with a washboard I could do laundry on.
“Anything else?” he grunts out. I throw my hands up and march out the door because what else is there to say?
After a thirty minute shower, in which I spend the better part of it holding my head under the j
et stream trying to soothe the tension headache one gets after a conversation with one pigheaded man, I feel marginally calmer. With this newfound sense of peace and calm, I step out of my bathroom and it all goes to hell.
“Jeeeeezuuuz!” I screech-shout. “What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?!” With absolutely zero shame, he’s sitting on the end of my bed, legs spread apart––clearly to accommodate the boulders he has for testicles––lying back on his elbows, in his so-called underwear. Incredulity forces my eyebrows to the top of my head.
His unblinking gray gaze slides up and down my body. “What if I paid you?”
I stand there dumbstruck trying to process what he’s just said, until rage hits critical mass and takes over. “Explain to me why you think you have the right to barge in here?” I squeeze out between clenched teeth.
“The door was open.”
“For Sam! In case, he needs me.”
“I need you.” By the look on his face, he’s as shocked he said that as I am. “You’re the only person that wants a relationship less than I do.”
Can someone actually go mute from a surplus of anger? I wonder, because I can’t force a single word out of my mouth. Ten minutes later, nostrils flaring, red faced, I say, “Get out.”
“Why?”
He can’t be serious. “You’re messing with me, right?”
“No, I really will pay you. I’m not messing around.”
“Not about the money! Although that’s completely screwy, too. I’m talking about you intruding on my privacy while I’m naked! Boundaries! Ever hear of them??”
“You’re not naked. You’re wearing a towel.”
“Calvin, if you don’t get your barely covered ass off my bed and leave right this minute I will throw something at your head.” A second later, my eyes are searching for an object of substance within reach. Utilizing the two brain cells he does posses, he gets off my bed and stalks to the doorway, hovering just outside of it.
“Think about it. What are you going to do once the three months are up? After taxes, that hundred grand isn’t going to last very long.” There are so many things wrong with that doozy it would take way too much of my time to correct him. “You don’t have an income. What if you can’t get another job?”