by P. Dangelico
“This may be the last contract I sign. I don’t need the complication…besides, I like being alone.” He says it so earnestly I can’t bring myself to tease him anymore. We descend into silence that eats up time, the mood suddenly grave.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Keep going when the world is against you? I remember people calling for your head two season ago. But you bounced right back.” For the next few minutes, I watch and wait for his answer.
“I don’t listen when they’re cheering, and I don’t listen when they curse me to hell.” Large pale orbs peer at me thoughtfully. “I know what I want, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it––nothing gets in the way of that.”
If only I had a tenth of his strength and determination. The single mindedness it must’ve taken him, the force of will––especially since I know he didn’t grow up under the best of circumstances. I take those words inside of me and tuck them somewhere safe. So that next time, when things seem bleakest, they might light the way.
Calvin decides to stop by the groom’s house before we head to the hotel. The house is a sprawling Nantucket style beach home covered in pale blue shingles with white rose bushes surrounding it. A lawn as tidy as a putting green extends for acres all around, backing right up to a deserted beach. Real people live here? It’s a fairytale house, for goodness sake.
Barry Marshall, Calvin’s agent, an attractive black man in his late fifties I estimate by the look of his short silver hair, greets us at the door with an easy smile. After a lot of bro hugging and back slapping, he directs those pearly whites at me.
“Pleasure to meet you, Camilla. Calvin’s told me so much about you.”
Huh? I sneak a peek at Calvin and find his attention trained on Barry. “Some of it good, I hope?” I follow that up with a strained laugh.
“Come in, come in,” he prods, ushering us into the kitchen. Through a wall of windows that overlooks the back of the house, I notice a swarm of people busy setting up the backyard for the wedding. “I’ll show you to your rooms.”
What?
“We got a room in town, Barry. We don’t want to impose,” Calvin pipes up. Thank the good Lord.
“Knock it off. Leslie may leave me at the altar if she finds out I let you stay in a hotel. Besides, the kids are all here. Sam has his own room, and you guys are just down the hall from him.”
Did he just say room? As in singular? I’m not sure I heard him correctly. What’s worrying me more, however, is that Calvin isn’t arguing with him, a man that lives to argue is presently not arguing.
“Alright.”
Excuse me? I turn to glare at him and get nothing but mild amusement in return.
“Is that a good idea? I mean––you have a wedding to set up for,” I manage.
“It’s fine,” Barry continues. “Calvin’s family.”
Two minutes later, we’re being shown to a large guest bedroom one door down from Sam’s room. After Barry leaves us to get settled, I’m off to Sam’s room to make sure he’s okay. Cracking the door open, I hear two small voices drifting out from the room. A beautiful girl with long, light brown corkscrew curls and cocoa colored skin is holding a tiny bunny rabbit while Sam is petting it gently on its head. She’s older than Sam. I’m guessing around ten years old.
“What’s his name?” Sam asks.
“Velvet,” answers the girl…and I suddenly feel like a party crasher. Swallowing the lump of cuteness overload stuck in my throat, I back away and walk reluctantly back to my room to deal with the change of plans.
Inside our room, that being half the problem, I find the cause of my annoyance sprawled out on the bed with one hand tucked behind his head, and the other flipping through channels. And surprise surprise, he’s in his underwear and a t-shirt. Without context, I sometimes forget how big he is––until I see him taking up most of the king size bed I’m supposed to be sharing with him.
“Umm, this is––inappropriate,” I say, my tone broadcasting my incredulity. I didn’t grow up with brothers. My dorm in college was sex segregated. I’ve been with one man my entire life! This is NOT OKAY.
With a completely straight face he says, “Why?”
“How about you put some clothes on.”
“I have clothes on.” The fact that he’s completely earnest when he says this would’ve had me doubled over in laughter if I wasn’t so put off. Should I tell him that I have great view of his balls and pubes from this angle?
“Again, does Barneys not sell underwear? What you’re wearing is not underwear. It’s considered a scrap of cloth––barely.”
A deep v carves itself on his brow. “I don’t like underwear. And you’ve seen me in these before.”
The hint of sarcasm insinuating that I’m the one being unreasonable burrows under my skin. “Yeah, and I didn’t care for it then, either.”
Without pausing, he boldly continues, “I’m wearing a t-shirt,” and then adds, “for you.” Heavy emphasis on the last two words.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I press my index finger and thumb to the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the dull ache growing larger by the second. “You said I would have my own room.”
“Change of plans. Roll with it.”
Roll with it? I can feel the heat rolling up my neck. “I thought this was an asinine idea to begin with, but I deferred to you because I thought just maybe your judgment wasn’t as impaired as I had originally thought. I’m not rolling with jack shit. I work for you. I’m the help, remember? We’re not besties. I didn’t pinky swear to share a bunk at summer camp. I don’t owe you any favors.”
His deep exhale lasts a good five minutes. Then I get a blink, another blink, then more silence. “I’m sorry I said you were the help. I didn’t mean anything by it.” His voice is low…remorseful. “I’ll go tell Barry that we’re not staying.” He sits up, his legs swinging over the side of the bed. “I’ll put some clothes on,” he mumbles. I might as well be sticking hot needles under his nails. Just when I think my life can’t get any stranger. Inexplicably, I’m gripped by an overwhelming urge to laugh.
“So I look like the villain?”
“I’ll tell him we need––privacy.”
It’s my turn to exhale deeply. I’m such a frigging pushover it’s disgusting. “Forget it. I’m not troubling them on their wedding day.” He turns and stares, his gaze expectant. “But you’re putting pants on.” A quick nod and he’s up, rummaging through his large duffel bag. He pulls out a pair of threadbare bottoms and shoves them on.
“What time do we have to be ready by?”
“Four.”
That gives me two hours to try and sleep the headache away. “I’m going to take a nap. If Sam needs me wake me up, but I think he’ll be busy with his new girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Cute girl with long, curly hair.”
“Phoebe. Barry and Leslie’s daughter.”
Grabbing my lounge pants and t-shirt, I walk into into the bathroom to change as any normal person would when sharing a room with a man they are not routinely sharing bodily fluids with. Upon my return, Calvin is in the same spot I left him in, lounging back on the bed like he’s the Sultan of Brunei waitin’ on his harem. I watch his eyes work their way down the length of my body and chalk this up to him being male, and therefore, simple.
“This is the line you do not cross under any circumstance,” I state, drawing an imaginary line down the center of the bed. He says nothing, though I notice a subtle twitch of his lips. Lying down with my back to him, I set the alarm on my phone and fall quickly asleep.
Why is my cat scratching my head?
“Dooozzzer, get de fud off,” I mumble, drifting in and out of consciousness. The scratching sensation on my head persists. Frigging cat. Then I catch a whiff of laundry detergent and…man. This piques my interest. Prying my eyes open one at a time, I realize I am not, in fact, on my pillow, nor is my cat even in the general vicinity. It
’s a beard scratching my head.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit. I peel my face off a hard, t-shirt covered chest, my cheek sweaty, a little spittle on the side of my mouth, and look up. Damn. He’s staring down at me, his expression relaxed. As if it’s perfectly normal for me to be sleeping with my entire body wrapped around him like I’m a baby orangutan clutching its mother with my arm thrown over his waist and my leg straddling his…
Is that a woody against my thigh?
I want to die a thousand deaths at the moment, a thousand frigging deaths. Slowly, ever so slowly, I pull all my appendages away from his body and roll over onto my back.
“Sorry.” What the hell else is there to say? When he doesn’t answer right away, I brave a sideways glance.
“It’s fine.”
“Why didn’t you wake me…push me off?” Punch me in the face––it would’ve been less humiliating.
“You were comfortable.”
Without meeting his eyes again, I scurry into the bathroom with my tail tucked. “Taking a quick shower.”
Twenty minutes later, after a long shower, I’ve mostly recovered from my bout of shame. It’s so strange sharing a room with a man again. It reminds me of Matt, the first time I’ve given him a thought in the last three weeks. I guess this is just one more step in the grieving process. Maybe I should thank Calvin for helping me with it because I can’t imagine ever doing this willingly with another man.
I step out of the bathroom wearing a large robe I found on the back of the door, and find Calvin in the process of stripping out of his t-shirt like he gets paid to do it. I’m instantly rooted to the spot on the carpet. Do I turn around and go back into the bathroom? Do I say something? He lifts it over his head and a wall of cobbled muscles swiftly kicks me in the organs that make babies. Not like I haven’t seen them before, but I was never allowed to stare. I’m staring now.
The words “breeding stock” come to mind––no doubt they thought of him when they coined the term. I might have sworn off men for all eternity, but I still have all my reproductive parts intact and they are presently rousing from deep hibernation. I can almost hear them sputtering on in the same manner my grandmother’s forty year old Lincoln Continental used to every Sunday when she drove it to church. Not five minutes after I’ve stepped out of a shower, my pits are sweating heavily.
His head pops up, and I quickly look away.
“Bathroom’s all yours,” I mumble. Taking his stuff, he shuts the door behind him. Thank frigging heaven.
Inside the Barneys garment bag is one of the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever seen. A pink, gauzy Valentino creation that I’m scared to touch because I’m certain it costs a small fortune. I’m convinced it won’t fit. And yet as I zip it up, I’m shocked to learn that it fits perfectly. How Zoolander even got my size right is beyond me. Also, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.
Without fanfare, I pull my long hair back, slap on some mascara, and apply lipgloss. I’m ready to go to Sam’s room when Cal steps out of the bathroom wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. I give myself major props for managing to keep my eyes fixed firmly on his face.
“I don’t know how you got my size right––and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know––however, thank you for the dress. Playing your pretend girlfriend isn’t such a hardship in this,” I say, glancing down at the pink gauzy silk swishing around my legs. My eyes lift and I realize he’s scowling. “It’s a joke, Cal.” Still scowling. “Obviously, a poor one––I’m thanking you for the dress. It’s very generous of you.” I get one of his signature short nods and he walks off to get dressed. “I’ll go get Sam,” I say over my shoulder. Well, that was weird.
Chapter Thirteen
Sam is one handsome young man dressed in his gray dress pants and blue dress shirt. He hands me his tie and I make quick work of it. After he slips on his loafers, we go in search of Calvin.
Guests have been steadily arriving. The din emanating from the backyard reaches well into the large house. Calvin steps out of the bedroom just as we’re passing. He’s wearing a three-piece, dark gray suit with a pearl gray shirt and black tie. If this football thing doesn’t work out, he definitely has a future as a fashion model.
“Ready?” I ask. A short nod later and I’m taking Sam’s hand again.
In the backyard, a who’s who of professional athletes in a variety of sports, a couple of team owners, and other industry professionals mingle like they all know each other well. You can smell the money wafting off these people. The thought makes my steps falter. Right about now I’m feeling like a real fugazi. Cal’s observant eyes catch the reticent look on my face. Scowling, he takes my hand, and pulls me and Sam through the crowd.
A stunning trellis covered in hanging wisteria, along with rows and rows of white chairs, sets the scene for the service. Acres of green lawn back right up to a deserted beach. Soft jazz plays in the background. Not only does every detail scream money and class, but worse yet, full blown romance. And not of the over the top kind. The kind that every female, even the cynical ones, melts over.
As we walk through the crowd, Calvin’s expression is tight, vigilant…well, tighter than usual. He seems to be growing progressively more stressed by the minute.
“Are you okay?” I dare to ask. His eyes, glacial as they play off the color of his shirt, snap to me in irritation. Okay…I’m sorry I asked. Then he spots someone in the crowd and the muscles of his neck pop in relief, his jaw pulsing. I’m actually afraid he may shatter a molar.
“What is it?” My gaze follows his and lands on a tall brunette. She’s elegant, very pretty, not eye popping gorgeous though definitely noticeable. She’s also older than me. Around late thirties, I estimate. Not that she has a single line on her face, but she has a certain confidence about her that comes with age. Her wide smile is all for the tall, attractive man with salt and pepper hair standing next to her. I study them surreptitiously. They seem very much in love and I determine they suit each other. My gaze shifts back to Cal. He’s still watching them. And then it dawns on me.
“Is that your ex?”
“Let’s get a drink.”
Suspicion confirmed. He walks away before I can utter another word. His ex? And now I know why he wanted me here. Sam puts his hand in mine and we follow Calvin to the bar. While we’re waiting for our soft drinks, Phoebe comes to fetch Sam. There’s a glimmer of excitement and curiosity in his big gray eyes I haven’t seen before.
“Hi, I’m Phoebe,” she announces without a shred of timidity. She’s so cute in her pale blue flower dress it’s no wonder why Sam is so taken with her.
“Hi Phoebe.”
“Can Sam come play with us over there?” she says, turning to point to a bouncy castle off to the side of the house.
“Sure, you don’t mind if I tag along, do you?” Without a reply, she takes Sam’s hand and leads him away.
Glancing up, I find Calvin staring out in space. I know what loss looks like and it’s written all over his face. Something about that look pricks at my conscious. However, this isn’t the time, nor the place to explore what’s going on in his head. I murmur to Calvin that I’m going with Sam, and distractedly he gives me a curt nod in reply. While I’m standing near the bouncy castle, with two other nannies in attendance, I notice a friendly face approaching.
“Has your ear recovered?”
“No. Can you kiss it and make it better?”
“Didn’t I warn you to save that stinky ass cheese for my mother?”
Vaughn’s smile is wide and ultra white. One hand is tucked in the pants pocket of a navy suit, the other cradling a drink. He’s absurdly handsome. Though now that I’ve gotten over the initial shock of all that handsomeness, I notice it the same way I would notice if someone was wearing two different shoes––as an interesting and peculiar novelty.
“On the run from your fan club?”
My eyes are still on Sam, who looks like he’s having the time of his life. He’s holdin
g both of Phoebe’s hands as they bounce up and down out of synch, both of them giggling and screeching hysterically.
“My ego needed a boost so I thought to come find you.”
Surveying the growing crowd, I ask, “Have you seen Calvin?”
“Talking to Hendricks.” He looks over his shoulder, and motions to the twin towers near the bar. One, dark and brooding. The other, light and sunny.
“How long have you known him? It seems to be more than a working relationship.”
“We’ve been friends since Florida State.” Lids at half-mast, lashes throwing shade, he peers at me thoughtfully with deep brown eyes. “How did you convince him to come?”
“Get him to come? Are you joking? I can’t even get him to wear underwear––” My words come to a stuttering stop when Ethan’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Strike that from the record, counselor. You should know your client well enough by now to know that he does whatever he wants. He asked me––strike that, too. He didn’t ask, he informed me that I was to attend as his date.”
Ethan’s mouth hooks up briefly. “That sounds about right.”
Before the silence has a chance to grow awkward, he adds, “He pretty much hasn’t been out of the house for the last three years––besides practice and games.” His intense eyes remain on me like a spotlight, measuring my reaction. Three years? Wait…what?
“His ex is here,” he adds.
“We saw her with a date.”
He nods. “Yeah––her husband is the new GM of the NY Gladiators. That’s another reason I’m glad he came with you. Now it won’t be so fucking awkward when we see her at team functions.”
I can do nothing to hide my surprise. “Why would he see her at team functions?”
“She’s Director of Player Personnel for the Titans.”