Sweet Talker

by Robin Bielman

  And in about an hour, Ethan will walk through the door with an aura of sexy sophistication and charm that is completely unfair. And captivating.

  And dangerous.

  I walk to my favorite table by the window to put my stuff down and find a folded note with my name on it. Won’t be in until later today. Hitting Elite Paintball with Zander. —Ethan

  Paintball? Shit. There goes my cheerful mood. What is he thinking? He’s an open target at a paintball facility. I grab my phone and call Violet, one of our two hostesses. “Hey, Vi.”

  “Hi, Pascale. Is everything okay?”

  I hate lying to her, but I need her here sooner rather than later. The restaurant isn’t open for lunch, but I am expecting a delivery or two. “Yes, but I forgot about an appointment I have. Would you mind heading over in about an hour to receive some deliveries for me?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “Great. Thank you. Ethan won’t be in until later so you’re in charge.” For the past month he’s kept the same routine so this deviation better not be a new regular occurrence or I’m in trouble.

  “No worries.”

  Violet is terrific, so I have none. We disconnect and I call Serenity. She picks up on the second ring. “Hi, Pascale.”

  “Hi. You busy for the next few hours?”

  “Nothing I can’t push out.”

  “Great. I need you to be my paintball date.” I tell her about Ethan’s note. “We’ll head over there like we had it arranged, bump into them coincidentally and then team up.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Come to me and we’ll drive together.”

  “Perfect. I’ll need some casual clothes and shoes.”

  “I’ll have them ready.”

  “FYI, this whole secret thing sucks and makes my job a lot harder. I think I should tell him.”

  “I’ll reach out to his family again.”

  “Thank you.” I leave the note exactly as I found it so Ethan doesn’t know I was here. Wednesdays are our slowest day of the week, so it’s not unreasonable for me to schedule something with a friend this morning. A yucky feeling invades my chest. This game of secret bodyguard is eating me up inside.

  Ethan’s car is in the parking lot when Serenity and I get to Elite Paintball. The hood is still warm to the touch so he hasn’t been here long.

  Serenity and I stroll into the facility, two girlfriends ready for some adventure, equipment in hand. It’s been a while since we’ve done this, but it isn’t our first rodeo. We look like experienced players. There are several other walk-on players (meaning no reservation) including, as luck would have it, Ethan and Zander.

  I catalog everyone in the room before “accidentally” bumping into Ethan.

  “Ethan?”

  “Callie? This is a surprise.” He exchanges a quick glance with Zander. “What are you doing here?”

  “Same thing as you, I’m guessing. This is my friend, Ren. Ren, Ethan and Zander.” They exchange greetings with Serenity.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at Royal?” Ethan asks, a rascally twist to his mouth.

  “I didn’t mention I’d penciled in some fun this morning?”

  “No, you didn’t. Looks like great minds think alike today.”

  “We should team up,” Serenity says, taking the suggestion off me. I love her for knowing what to say and when.

  Once again, the guys share a look I’m not sure what to make of. “You girls any good?” Zander asks. “Our experience level is pretty high.”

  “Ethan, Zander, I’ve got you set up with a group of advanced players,” a twenty-something guy says.

  “Have room for two more?” I ask, unworried about joining an advanced group. We’re about to show everyone how it’s done. I have no doubt Ren and I will be the last two standing.

  The guy eyes our equipment, long sleeved T-shirts, jeans, baseball caps, and scuffed high-top athletic shoes. “Absolutely.”

  We tell him our names, sign some paperwork. “Put Pascale on my team,” Ethan says. “That way I can keep an eye on her.”

  “Or I can keep mine on you,” I argue, my competitive streak rearing her head. Plus, dressed-down Ethan is super easy on the eyes. In cargo pants and a black muscle-hugging long-sleeved shirt, he’s caught the attention of the four other females here, too.

  “As you wish,” Ethan says.

  We put our personal belongings in a locker then suit up with our face shields, helmets, gloves, and ammo-carrying packs. Several different playing fields are spread out over a couple of acres and we’re on the main one. Play begins under a cloudless sky. A light breeze keeps the temperature cool. There’s dirt under our feet. Patches of grass and trees in the distance. Crates and large wooden spindles are stacked in various locations to provide cover.

  Twelve of us take off running. I eyeball our opponents on the break to see who drifts to the right of the field and who takes cover to the left. I follow closely behind Ethan, fighting the urge to lead. I’m here to keep an eye on him, not try to win this thing.

  We hide behind a tower of crates.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed you like paintball,” he says.

  “I’m surprised you do, too.” I peer around the crate. No one’s in sight.

  “Two brothers, remember? My mom needed somewhere to drop us off where we could get out our aggressions and not kill each other. Plus, I’m an adrenaline junkie. I love anything that gets my blood pumping.” Ethan does his own reconnaissance, leaning around the other side of the crate. “This morning was a chance for Zander and me to have some fun.”

  “Same here.”

  “You still get off doing things outside.” It’s a comment, not a question, and my heart pounds at his deliberate choice of words. Ethan got me off plenty of times while outdoors.

  Thankfully, a player runs into the middle of the field, stealing our full attention before I can come up with a good response.

  “Don’t do anything yet,” I tell Ethan. Paintball is a game of strategy. If we delay our first shot, we keep our whereabouts a secret, and there’s always someone else anxious to let fly that first ball of paint. Sure enough, a blast rings out and the exposed player’s thigh is slapped with blue paint.

  “I’ve got him,” Ethan says, meaning—I assume—the person who just gave away their position. I follow his line of sight to Zander. Unfortunately for Zander, the reflective lens on his face mask glitters off the sun and makes him easy to spot. Ethan takes aim and fires. He misses, but Zander decides to take the offensive and runs straight at us.

  I try not to laugh at his brave, but misguided attempt to retaliate.

  Ethan fires again. Zander dodges right and keeps coming. Okay, so he’s more agile than I gave him credit for. He’s a big target, though, and I catch him square in the middle of the chest. He stops, looks down with his jaw hanging open. He can’t believe I hit him, which is hilarious considering he’s over six feet and out in the open.

  “Gotcha,” I say for Ethan’s ears only.

  “Nice,” Ethan says. “Ready to move?”

  “Ready.” We take off along the edge of the field, stopping to catch our breath when we reach a large tree to hide behind. To stay out of sight, we have to stand face to face.

  “He was easier to tag than I thought he’d be,” I say, steeling myself to stay cool. Ethan’s chest is mere inches away from mine. His close-shaven jaw. Full lips.

  “Yeah, he doesn’t have a lot of patience. Usually plays round after round because he doesn’t last long in any of them.”

  “Do you?”

  “What?”

  “Last long?”

  He twists a piece of hair escaping my baseball cap around his finger. Our close proximity is exhilarating and the reason I’m flirting, right?

  “You know I do.” His blue eyes blaze through his clear face mask.

  “Things can change.” I’m glad he can’t see my eyes behind my tinted mask.

  His hand moves to curve around the side of my neck. “And some thi
ngs stay the same.” Ever so slowly, his palm slips toward my jawline. My breath catches in the back of my throat.

  Splat! Ethan’s back is sprayed with white paint. “Damn it,” he says.

  I drop to the ground and roll away from him. Just far enough to remove myself from being target practice. I stay low, my body flat. This isn’t the best angle to trade paint with someone, but it gives me a minute to assess.

  “Ren. Two o’clock,” Ethan says.

  “Yeah, kind of hard to miss her.” She’s waving a yellow flag at us, smug as a bug. It’s been a while since we’ve played this game, but Ren is like Zander. She doesn’t have a lot of patience. Sure enough, she moves from behind her tree and makes a run for it, daring me to chase after her.

  I jump to my feet.

  “What are you waiting for?” Ethan asks. “Go get her.”

  I open my mouth to say, “Follow me,” but that would be weird. He’s out of the game. Instead, I survey the area to be sure no one has eyes on him. The coast is clear.

  A string of shots crack in the air. Shouts and jeers follow.

  My guess is Ren is taking no prisoners.

  “Callie? Go!”

  It would be nice to beat her for the first time in forever. I run through the trees in her direction. Hearing footfalls behind me, I take a quick peek over my shoulder to see Ethan at my six.

  Whoosh. A paintball zings past me. I spy the culprit and take him out on the run, red paint decorating his shoulder and arm. Victory grows closer.

  So does Ren, who ambushes me from the side, taking aim, but missing. I drop and somersault. Bounce back to my feet to face her. We’ve done this battle before and grin at each other—a love you, but I’m not letting you win smile. I one-arm cartwheel out of the way when she lets another paintball fly. She spins out of the way of mine. We run, pivot, twist, turn, duck, and dodge each other’s paint.

  I’m out of breath. Dirty. When she goes full-court press, I do the same in return, sliding on my knees and shins to take a shot from the down-low. She anticipates my move, though, and jumps out of the way.

  I spin around on my knees. She whirls around on her feet. She’s got the upper hand and takes aim. I pitch right, get to my feet, run, and dive over a crate for cover.

  And that’s when she nails me. Right in the ass. I roll to a stop and lie there on the ground, face to the sky, arms wide, chest rising and falling. I hear her whooping it up. I pull off my face mask, blinking to adjust to the bright sun.

  A shadow falls across my body. I cover my eyes with my hand and see Ethan looking down at me. “Holy shit, that was hot,” he says. “You okay?”

  “She hit me in the butt.”

  “I know. But your moves were so much better than hers.”

  “They were, weren’t they?”

  He extends his hand to help me up. His grip is firm and does most of the lifting since I’m limp with exhaustion. “Are you some kind of secret weapon I know nothing about?”

  “Umm…” Yes? No? Don’t be ridiculous?

  “Nice try, Cal,” Serenity says, jogging over and patting my bottom.

  “Ow.” I rub my rump. I’m messing with her. It doesn’t really hurt. “One of these days I’m going to beat you.”

  “You can keep trying.” She smiles. “Come on. Gatorades are on me.”

  Ethan takes hold of my wrist to keep me put. “We’ll be right there,” he says.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  He slowly sticks his tongue out of his mouth, licks the pad of his thumb, and then rubs it across my forehead. “You had some dirt.”

  “Oh. Uh, thanks,” is all I manage to say because I’m still picturing his nice pink tongue and all the things I know he can do with it.

  “And you know, if you need someone to soothe your butt for you, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  Something is different. Ethan and I have flirted, but this feels next-level. There’s no disguising the words he just said. I don’t know what’s prompted this change, but I can’t in good conscience get romantically involved with him. Even if the truth were out there, he’s my client. I screwed up my last job. I’m not going to screw up this one.

  “I’m fine,” I say. To prove my point, I slap my butt. “Doesn’t hurt anymore. The initial sting is gone. How’s your back? You were hit pretty hard.”

  “If I say terrible, will you soothe it for me?”

  I cross my arms. “You’re in a mood.”

  “I just caught you acting badass. I’m in complete awe, and if I’m being totally honest, turned on. Who knew under the sophisticated clothes and sexy heels lurks a warrior princess.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean ‘caught me’?”

  “I mean if I hadn’t chased after you, I would have missed the smackdown with Ren. What did you think I meant?”

  “Nothing.” I shake off my uncertainty. There’s no way Ethan knows about me. If he did, he’d say something. “Let’s go grab those Gatorades.” I quickly walk toward the main building so 1) I don’t dwell on the “turned on” comment, and 2) I keep some distance between us.

  *

  I’ve never been the jealous type. I might wish I’d ordered what you’re eating instead of what I’m eating, but that’s the extent of it. Seeing Ethan talk with an attractive woman who’s kept his attention for the last hour, though, has me twisted up inside. That’s a new record for Mr. Sweet Talker. Normally he works the room, spending a minute or two with customers and then moving on.

  The two of them are seated across the dining room at my favorite table. Which only makes the situation worse.

  Thankfully, it’s five minutes past closing so the few remaining customers will be on their way soon. Then I can head home to ice my shoulder. Don’t tell anyone, but I suffered a bruise for my efforts on the paintball field this morning.

  I busy myself at the hostess desk with reservations for tomorrow. Make that try to busy myself. I keep stealing glances at Ethan. He definitely knew this woman before tonight. There’s a familiarity and ease that indicates friendship. Is she someone special? Someone he’s seeing?

  How will it feel if they leave together?

  Horrible.

  I blink away the unpleasant thought. It doesn’t matter how I’ll feel. He and I are not a thing. Far from it, given the falsity of our relationship. Just because I like him and he’s helped me forget about the mess with Grant doesn’t mean he owes me anything.

  The woman smiles at something Ethan says, and he glances in my direction like he can sense I’m trying to read his lips. (I can’t, damn it.) I look away before I’m caught, grateful when my phone rings so I’ve got something to occupy myself with.

  My stomach drops when I see who it is. I haven’t heard from him since everything blew up in Seattle and I left. We agreed it was best not to be in direct contact. Well, he agreed after I told him I’d never screwed up professionally before and needed a clean break.

  My last assignment was with Ireland Wilton. Ireland is a famous chef known for her exotic look as much as her cooking skills. She’s got her fingers in multiple entertainment avenues and is extremely popular. About a year ago a fan got a little too close and she hired me.

  At that time, she’d been dating Grant Stone for two months. He wasn’t in show business, but a tech guy who did consulting. He had a home office in a nice house, and an adorable and precocious four-year-old daughter named Rylee. Rylee’s mom was completely out of the picture, deciding motherhood wasn’t for her. She and Grant never married and she signed over all parental rights before she left to parts unknown.

  I spent a lot of time with the three of them. In public, I blended in seamlessly. Friend, neighbor, relative. I was always there, but never singled out or questioned. I stayed quiet, reserved, always in the background and on guard. Privately was different. I tried to keep my distance, to give them space, but Ireland sweetly insisted I be part of their “family.”

  Looking back, from our very first day together, Ireland manipulated th
e situation to best suit her needs and wants. It took me longer than it should have to realize she didn’t like sharing Grant with Rylee.

  One day she asked me to pick up Rylee from preschool because Grant was stuck in a meeting. I happily did so, and that day changed the course of our lives. It was the first time Rylee and I were alone together and my big sister slash maternal instincts took over. I missed Paige, and here was this incredible little girl longing for a female figure to bond with.

  We took to one another like mermaids take to water. Every day after that, Rylee insisted it was okay for her daddy to keep working because I could pick her up, take her home, and hang out until he was ready to pop his head out of the office.

  I couldn’t pick her up every day. It depended on Ireland’s schedule. But on days when Ireland was safely experimenting and cooking in her gourmet kitchen or filming an episode of her show in the studio, I was Rylee’s for a few hours.

  Grant had always been warm and considerate with me. He was a good guy and Ireland was lucky to have someone like him. At the start, he only ventured out of his office when I had to leave. About a month in, on a Tuesday, he overheard me reading I Need a New Butt! to Rylee. We couldn’t stop giggling and laughing. Grant joined in and over the next several weeks the pages of the book grew worn and well loved. Reading the story together became a ritual for the three of us.

  When Rylee’s preschool held a special fund-raising luncheon, she asked if I would be her guest. The invitation did not go over well with Ireland. I declined, explaining that if Ireland went with her, I’d be close by. On the day of the event, the network needed Ireland for a meeting with a huge sponsor. She asked me to go to the luncheon without her. Rylee and I had a great time, getting matching flowers painted on our faces and decorating a small wooden birdhouse for Grant.

  He grinned from ear to ear as Rylee told him about our day. His daughter lit up his world. Watching them together brightened mine. Soon, my gaze started to find his more often, his attention already on me. While Rylee played by herself, we talked about ourselves. I told him about Paige and all the “fun times” he had to look forward to with a daughter.