by Addison Fox
Not a mindful adult.
“Where’d you go?” Fender lifted his head, that full focus and intense gaze unyielding.
“Nowhere.”
His eyes narrowed. “Now who’s keeping me out of the loop?”
“No loops. Just a few senseless, abstract thoughts.”
“About?”
“High school and mechanics class.”
Chapter Six
As answers went, “mechanics class” was highly dissatisfying. Kissing Harlow Reynolds? Anything but.
On a level that left him vaguely uncomfortable, Fender tried to figure out how they kept ending up in the same place. He’d never considered himself a man without moves, but diving in and kissing a woman simply because she was there wasn’t his style.
Nor did it make any sense.
There was nothing to be gained by pushing this forward, no matter how tempting the tempter.
Opting to ignore the odd—and determinedly vague—answer, he stepped back. “What brought you to Brooklyn this fine Friday evening?”
“You.”
When he said nothing, she continued.
“I’ve been thinking about our discussion the other night.”
“Oh?”
His question hovered in the air before she continued. He had the sense she came to some decision as the haze of attraction in her eyes cleared, replaced with steely resolve. “We have some unfinished business between us.”
“I’m not sure I’d put it in that category.”
“Then I’ll give you a few more so we can try to get a handle on it. Confusing attraction. Untimely opportunity. Inappropriate fuck buddy.”
The last one caught his attention—as it was designed to—and Fender fought the wave of irritation that coated his thoughts. She was a lot of things—and he’d cop to more than a few fantasies about the two of them exploring their attraction—but he’d hardly call her a convenient fuck when he was lonely at 2:00 A.M.
He’d never found those types of relationships all that appealing, and he’d be damned if he’d start now. If he was in a relationship, he was in. He didn’t use women as a sexual convenience and had little patience for those who bragged when they did.
“That thought bother you?” Her lips were still plump from their kiss, and they quirked lightly at the corners.
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“I don’t lie to myself. I’m plenty aware of how adults scratch an itch.”
The answer was as sophisticated as the woman, but something ran false for him. “Sweetheart. You may be a lot of things, but I can guarantee you, an itch is not an accurate description.”
That same frustration that had carried him forward only a few minutes before pushed him once more. Pulling her against him, he reveled in the long, lithe lines of her body. Slender yet firm muscles of her back flexed beneath his fingers. Round, generous breasts pressed to his chest.
No. The woman wasn’t remotely an itch. She was a heady poison, one that got in the blood and refused to abate, no matter how many ways you attempted to get past it or imagine yourself cured.
With a gentleness at odds with that fever that raged in his blood, Fender bent his head and captured her lips once more. Her mouth opened. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her body pressed even more firmly to his.
And he gave in and took what he damn well knew could never be his.
The lightest bite on his lower lip had a shot of need racing through his body, and he knew she knew it by the smile he felt pressed against him. The sexy move only added to the sheer want this woman seemed to generate with little effort. While he hated to break the kiss, he couldn’t resist lifting his head to look down at her.
Had he ever felt like this before?
With startling clarity, he realized that he had. While a relationship had never engendered such need inside of him, he was shocked to realize he had experienced the emotion before.
That craving for something that went beyond him.
He’d wanted that when he was eight. He’d pass the soccer fields every day when he walked home and saw the running kids kicking that shiny white ball, and he had the sense that they had nothing more to worry about in their lives than depositing that ball in the goal.
It was simple and easy, and he had found himself day after day pressed against the chain-link fence, his fingers wrapped in the diamond-shaped holes, watching the action.
Up and down they ran.
Back and forth, they passed that shiny ball between them.
They were a team and a unit, yet each had a role. And each had an opportunity to shine.
He’d recently started ditching school every now and again, especially after a bad night with the old man. On the nice days, he’d started going to the ball field, climbing onto the bleachers to lie in the sun and fantasize about having nothing more to worry about than running after that white ball.
“Last I checked, today wasn’t a school holiday.”
Fender’s eye shot open to see the grounds keeper standing on the nearby steps. How had he missed the man’s climb up the thick metal?
He scrambled to a sitting position and calculated the distance between the man and the steps, gauging how easily he could get away if he needed to from an old pervert, when recognition dawned in the man’s gaze.
“Enough of that, boy. I’m gonna sit down over here and you’re gonna talk to me.”
The man had stayed true to his promise, settling himself several feet away. More than enough distance for Fender to make a run for it if he needed to.
Only he hadn’t run.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Turner Monroe.”
What are you doing here?”
Fender heard the bravado in his own voice, but at least the quaver that had crawled into his throat when he’d opened his eyes to find the man standing there had faded.
“I keep the grounds.”
“You do a nice job.”
“Thanks.”
The man smiled in that way adults always did. Like they thought you were funny.
And suddenly it mattered to Fender that Turner Monroe knew he meant what he said.
“Everything’s all green. And you make sure the lines on the field are always bright white. And there’s never any trash or cigarette butts or anything.”
The smile faded.
“Thank you. I try my hardest.”
“It shows.”
“You seem to like it here.”
“It’s quiet. There aren’t many places in Brooklyn that are quiet.”
“Until around three in the afternoon when it gets really loud. And you’re here then, too.”
The suspicion returned, and Fender felt the unease slick over his belly once more.
“You watching me?”
“Watching out for you. Yes I am.”
“I don’t need anyone watching out for me.”
“Then why are you ditching school?”
Fender stood at that.
“Look, mister—I don’t need you telling me what to do.”
“And I don’t need juvenile delinquents laying on my bleachers.”
Fender wasn’t sure why the words bothered him so much, but they did. It was one more place he wasn’t welcome. He should be used to it by now.
“Which is why I’m prepared to make a deal with you.”
“What sort of deal?”
“These last few weeks have just been practices. The real games haven’t started yet, and the way I hear it, Jamie Dugan and his parents are moving to New Jersey and there’s a spot open on the team.”
That oily feeling went away, replaced with a hunger Fender had never felt before. Only instead of wanting to eat, he wanted Jamie Dugan’s spot. Wanted to run up and down that field, forgetting the shitty apartment he lived in and the asshole old man, doing nothing more than focusing on that little white ball.
“You seem like a quick study. Maybe you’d like Jamie Dugan’s spot on the team.”
&n
bsp; They might only be practicing, but Fender had seen the special shoes the players wore, and the outfits. There was no way his father would give him the money for any of it, and the small amount he’d managed to squirrel away would never pay for all of it.
“What makes you think I’d want it anyway?”
With that, Turner Monroe shifted on his bleacher set, his gaze boring into Fender’s with an intensity he’d never seen on anyone.
“I know what it is to want something. And I know what it to have nothing. I’ve got things now. And I can pay for one young boy to have a spot on the soccer team.”
“You can’t pay for me to—”
“I can and I will. And you will go to school. I’m not paying the freight for a juvenile delinquent.”
So he’d gone back to school. And later that afternoon, just like he’d told Fender they would, Turner Monroe and his wife June met him at the ball field and took him to the small sporting goods store in Park Heights to buy cleats and a soccer uniform.
“Fender?”
The hard punch of reality pulled him from the memory. It wasn’t one he thought of often, yet every time he did, it was filled with warmth and gratitude. In many ways, the Monroes had prepared him for life with Mama Lou. Through soccer, he’d met Nick and Landon. And through the kindness of the elderly couple, he’d begun to see the world was bigger than life with his old man.
“Now whose mind wandered?” The tease was light, but curiosity was there all the same.
“Just a funny memory from when I was a kid.”
“Tell me.”
“When I know you better.”
Her bright smile faded. “Of course.”
“Let’s go out to the bar and get a drink. We can start working on better.”
* * *
Harlow had spent her life around wealthy people. She had done well for herself and worked hard, but also knew that her success was steeped in a base of tremendous privilege. Reynolds Investments had provided a legacy and a lifestyle that was rare.
She knew that. She did her very best not to be defined by it, but she knew it all the same.
None of that diminished how hard she worked or her personal ambition to contribute to the world, but she was honest enough to recognize that there was an ease to her life that came from having money. But as she sat in the End Zone bar in Park Heights, Brooklyn, in the midst of Fender Blackstone and his assorted family and friends, she couldn’t help but think that he was the one with real wealth.
Laughter. Kindness. Warmth. It tumbled and bounced around her, and she was immediately smitten, caught up in the funny personalities and genuine enjoyment everyone seemed to take from each other.
She’d never considered her life cliché, but in the loud, boisterous noise, and surrounded by happy Friday-night bar goers, Harlow had to admit that her endless treadmill of weekend dinner parties and thousand-dollar-a-plate dinners had worn thin. The conversation was always the same, and no one would dream of talking about anything real, like news or celebrity gossip or the latest story about potty training a three-year-old.
She’d heard all of that and more this evening.
After they left Nick’s office, Fender had led her to a large table in the back, filled with people. She’d convinced herself that she would never remember everyone’s name, but two hours later, she knew who everyone at the table was.
Daphne and Emma had made sure to introduce her to Nick’s neighborhood-famous margaritas. Daphne’s best friend, Jasmine, had joined them, happy to let off steam from a crazy day of work and add to the field of green frozen drinks on the table. Emma and Nick’s friend Tommy and his wife had joined early, as had Becky, the fiancé of the bar’s bouncer. They’d been quickly followed by a few of Daphne’s brothers, and a software developer from Landon’s team who personified Brooklyn hipster. Several more had come and gone after them, grabbing a seat for a drink, then moving on.
All had melded in and out of the conversation with ease despite a range of ages, outfits, and life stages. No one had walked away without wearing a large smile.
And all had provided Harlow with considerably more knowledge than she’d walked in with. She now knew about the candidates on the ballot in the November election, how good a dad Robert Downey, Jr. really was, and that the real trick to ensuring little Austin hit the toilet bowl when he peed was to drop a few Froot Loops in to encourage target practice.
It was fun and funny and she couldn’t think of anywhere else she’d rather be.
But it was the arrival of Emily Weston that sealed the evening.
Feisty and fierce, with a bright-blue rheumy gaze and a shock of spiky white hair, she’d captured Harlow’s heart immediately. Even if her loud proclamation had nearly silenced the entire bar.
“So you’re the one who’s caught Fender’s eye and has the whole neighborhood talking?”
The temptation to seek help was strong, but after a quick glance at Fender’s panicked face across the table, she decided to give Emily a fair go of it. If it went poorly, she’d chalk it up later to misplaced margarita courage.
“I’m not sure Fender is a man who can be caught.”
“Any man can be caught. Just takes the right combination of sex, allure, and mystery.”
Harlow heard Daphne’s hard gasp but held her ground. “I’m not sure I agree with the order.”
Her bright, mischievous smile never fading, Emily leaned in closer and spoke louder, ensuring the table could keep up with their conversation. “You don’t believe men think about sex first?”
Harlow notched up her voice, deliberately ignoring Fender’s attempts to catch her eye. “I think we all think about sex first. Sex is primal. Easy. Which is why I’d put allure first.”
“Why’s that?”
“I prefer men with a bit more imagination.”
Emily slapped the table hard enough to have the thick slush of her just-arrived margarita slosh toward the rim. “I like your sass.”
“Then I’m glad you’re sitting next to me.” Harlow patted the old, gnarled hand, more than a little surprised when she got a tight squeeze in response.
Even more surprised when Emily leaned in and whispered for her ears only, “He’s a good man. He’s got honor and imagination.”
And even more surprised still when words slipped from her lips, spoken instinctively, before the thought had even fully taken root. “I know.”
* * *
Harlow was still reveling in the glow of the evening—and the third margarita Daphne had insisted on and she’d done little to protest—a few hours later.
“That was fun.”
“You were a hit.” Fender walked beside her, granting her request to get a bit of air and time to walk off some of the fuzzier edges of the green nectar while she waited for an Uber.
Brooklyn hummed around them, even as the sounds from the End Zone faded into the background. The distant throb of traffic was there if you listened hard enough, but so was the subtle buzz of the August locusts from the bushes that surrounded the small row homes they passed as they walked. It was a funny juxtaposition—and proof that nature found a way, no matter how much concrete humanity attempted to put it its path.
“I enjoyed meeting everyone. You’re incredibly lucky to have them all in your life.”
“I know.”
She turned to him, unable to hold back the smile. Abstractly, she worried it might be sloppy, but then she decided to worry about that tomorrow. “You do know, don’t you?”
He came to a stop at the crosswalk, lightly taking her elbow to steady her. She shifted course on him and tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow. He faltered slightly, missing a step, before covering her hand with his own. “I like to think so. I know what it is to have no one. So once you’re in with me, you’re in.”
Whatever pleasant haze had been distilled by the margaritas faded, her focus going laser sharp. His statement was revealing.
Honest.
And with that revelation, she c
ouldn’t resist the question that had nagged her all evening. “Am I in?”
The wash of light from the street lamp set off the planes and angles of his face in harsh relief. The effect was startling, bringing to life what she’d already innately understood. He was a man with a considerable amount of light and dark. It didn’t take a genius to figure out his background held pain and challenge, yet his present was full and supportive. He had people in his life whom he obviously loved and who loved him. A thriving business. A strong future.
“Beyond my better judgment, I’m starting to think so.”
Despite the margaritas, she had a surprising amount of clarity as they stood there under the streetlights. And while she would have liked nothing more than to see if she could get him to kiss her again, something whispered to her to take the high road and get out while she still held the advantage.
His next words reinforced the impulse. “What did Mrs. W. say to you?”
“You didn’t hear every word?”
Fender smiled. “I caught most of it. It’s the quiet stuff at the end that made me wonder.”
“Well, you’ll just have to wonder. I can’t break the secrets of the sisterhood.”
She leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his lips before walking to the car waiting at the corner, determined to have the last word. He moved to keep up, grabbing the door handle just before she did.
But it was the hard kiss, full of promise and passion that he planted on her before handing her into the car, that had her seeing stars.
His grin was broad and cocky when he pulled back, his arm planted on the car door. She saw the outline of his biceps and still felt the lingering effects of his kiss, and could only thank God for the beauty of a strong and capable man in his prime.
Point Blackstone.
It was long minutes later, the bright lights of Manhattan welcoming her as her car drove over the Brooklyn Bridge, that she had to admit Emily Weston had nailed Fender to a T.
The man had honor and imagination. And, damn it all, he’d managed to have the last word, even without saying a thing.
Chapter Seven
“Reservation for four. Under Reynolds.” Harlow gave the directions to the bored woman behind the hostess desk and fought the urge to run in the opposite direction. Her mother had already chewed her ear off the entire cab ride to brunch, and her brother’s urgent texts had reached near-epic proportions.