I laugh, nodding. “Just a little.”
She takes it down a notch.
“Just right,” I say, packing up my things. Checking the time on my phone, I see I’ve got ten minutes before I’m supposed to meet Ace. “Good luck with Brad tonight. Remember what we talked about. If you get too nervous, just fake it ‘til you make it.”
Helena strides my way, stepping into sexy stilettos that lengthen her legs even more. Moving toward me, she wraps her arms around me, and I breathe in her sultry sandalwood perfume.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Gathering my things, I head toward some place called Gilberto’s, and as my heart beats wildly in my chest for some reason unknown, I realize I might have to take my own advice tonight.
Chapter 10
Ace
My knuckles rap against a chipped wooden table in the back room of my buddy’s bar. Clear glass rests atop a myriad of beer bottle caps in every color and brand imaginable. Aidy should be here any minute, but I went straight here from the pharmacy, wanting to grab a drink before she made her appearance.
“Need anything?” Gilberto pops his head into the private back room.
I glance down at my beer, my second for the night, and look back at him. “I’m good.”
“All right. I’ll send her back when I see her.” Gil disappears, and I check my phone. She should be here any minute, and I’m torn between feeling her out to see if she’s truly an obsessed fan or coming right out and accusing her of stalking me.
I’ve had stalkers in the past.
I’ve had women mail me their panties or offer me hundreds of thousands of dollars for my sperm. I’ve had women, whom I’d never slept with, accuse me of fathering their children and attempting to pursue court-ordered paternity tests. The worst was when a deranged fan broke into my apartment during a series of away games. She lived at my place for days at a time, each time I was gone, using my soap and shampoo, wearing my clothes, sleeping in my bed. It wasn’t until I came home earlier than expected that I finally caught her. I’ll never forget the sick knot I had in the pit of my stomach when one of my neighbors told me my girlfriend was upstairs and that he never knew I had a thing for girls like that.
“That” meaning completely off-her-rocker insane.
That one did some time for stalking, and ever since, I’ve been particularly weary of my most loyal female fans.
Minutes pass, and I sense a new energy enter the room. Glancing up, I spot Aidy in the doorway, looking exactly like she did a half hour ago. Her blonde hair is wavy and bushy, parted on the side and tucked behind one ear. A loose tank top strap hangs off her shoulder and she takes the seat across from me.
She’s not sitting next to me.
That’s a good sign.
Resting her makeup case on the seat beside her, she folds her hands on the table and stares straight ahead. It’s like I’m in the principal’s office.
“So?” she asks. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Chuffing, I slip my fingers down the slick exterior of my beer stein and point my gaze in her direction.
“Really?” I ask. “We’re going to start out like that?”
“Why? Did you want to buy me a drink first?” she asks. “No offense, but I’m not exactly in the habit of accepting drinks from crazy strangers.”
My jaw slacks, and I’m more amused than offended. “I’d hardly call us strangers at this point. This is what, five times in three days now?”
“You’re keeping track.” Her blue eyes brighten in the dim space we share, and she fights a smile. “And you’re counting Monday, with the journal.”
“So you admit it was you.”
“I never denied it,” her stare holds mine, refusing to let go, “if you want to get technical.”
“Excuse me.” Gil stands in the doorway, looking at Aidy. “May I get you something to drink?”
Her tongue gently grazes her lower lip, and she tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her left ear. “Yes, please. Tito’s and cranberry.”
“You’ve got it.” Gil shuffles away, and Aidy smirks, hiding her smile behind a sheet of golden hair.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just find all of this hard to believe. I chase you away from my apartment two days ago, and now I’m running into you everywhere I go. There are almost two million people in this borough. This just doesn’t happen.”
Her hand splays across her chest, and for some insane reason I steal a glimpse at her ring finger, which is free from any sort of obnoxious metal and diamond bling.
“You don’t think I’m freaking out too?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” I peer down my nose at her. “You seem awfully calm about all of this.”
Her mouth pulls up in one corner. “I’m pretty calm about most things, but you wouldn’t know that because we’re still strangers, you see. If and when I freak out, I don’t do it in front of my stalkers. I feel like they’d enjoy it too much.”
“Jesus. How many stalkers have you had?”
“Just one. Summer after high school graduation.” She shrugs.
Gil swings by, dropping a cardboard coaster in front of her and placing a cocktail glass on top of it.
“Thank you,” she says to him with the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen. When her eyes snap back to mine, her smile fades. “What about you? Do you ever get stalkers or do you prefer to do the stalking?”
Smirking, I drag my hand across my mouth. Her cherry lips part just enough to welcome in a small sip of her drink, and she doesn’t so much as flinch when it goes down, which says a lot because Gilberto’s is notorious for strong drinks.
Gripping the glass with the tips of her fingers, she returns it to the coaster and tilts her head.
“I feel like I’ve been here almost ten minutes now and we’ve accomplished absolutely nothing,” she says, checking the dainty gold watch on her left wrist. “We can either sit here and continue to pretend we’re not gawking at each other from across the table, or we can–”
“I am not gawking.” My brows furrow and I sit back in my seat. “I don’t gawk.”
“Fine. Ogling.”
“I don’t ogle either.”
“Checking out,” she says. “Do you check people out?”
“Who says I’m checking you out? Maybe I’m trying to figure you out,” I say.
“Figure me out?” She releases a belly laugh and covers her mouth with her hand. “That’s cute. Now you’re trying to pick me up.”
“What? No.” I frown. This is not going well. Somewhere along the line this train derailed, and I’m not sure it’ll ever get back on track.
She takes another sip, glancing through the doorway as the bar begins to fill with regulars. “All right. Whatever you say. You must look at everyone that way.”
“What way?”
Turning back to face me, she lifts her brows and points at me. “All intense and brooding. Like you’re thinking really, really hard. And every so often your stare lingers here,” she points to the hint of cleavage rising from her top, “or here” she drags her fingertips across her lips, “or here.” Aidy traces her bare shoulder, pulling the strap up. “You’re bold, Ace. And you’re lucky I’m slightly flattered, as messed up as that is.”
“I apologize.” Clearing my throat, I straighten my shoulders. “Had no idea I was . . . looking at you like that.”
She sits back, eyes squinting like she’s trying to gauge the authenticity of my apology.
“I didn’t bring you here to hit on you,” I say.
Her arms fold. “I know. You brought me here to accuse me of following you, which is the staunch polar opposite of hitting on me, and I believe we established that about ten minutes ago.”
Aidy’s gaze falls to my jaw, drops to my shoulder, and then traces the outline of my biceps before settling on my folded hands.
“So you’re a pitcher?” she asks.
“Was,” I say. “Was a pitcher.”
“I don
’t watch sports.” She swats her hand before reaching for her glass. Lifting it to her full lips, she takes a small sip. Her drink remains mostly full, and I have to give her credit for that. Nothing about Aidy is insecure or nervous, and if the circumstances were different . . .
“You don’t watch any sports?” I ask.
She juts her lips forward and shakes her head. “Went to a Yankees game once. It was okay. The beer and hotdogs were good.”
Chuckling, I take another swig of my beer and find a rare hint of a half-smile fixed to my face as I look at her. Fortunately, the beard hides most of it. I’ve never met a woman as simultaneously endearing and sexy and unapologetically genuine as Aidy. She’s not trying to impress me. She’s not pounding drink after drink. Hell, she’s not even trying to seduce me despite the fact that the blouse she’s wearing doesn’t seem to want to stay put.
I think it’s safe to say Aidy Kincaid is officially not a stalker.
I exhale, nonchalantly watching her from across the table as she gazes at the throng of patrons outside the door. Everything about her is smooth and confident, from the way she moves to the way she breathes.
My blood warms, and a sleepy feeling settles in. It’s going to be an early morning tomorrow with a seven o’clock call time. Something tells me I could sit here all night shooting the shit with this spitfire paradox, but I can’t show up tomorrow morning with beer on my breath and bags under my eyes.
“Anyway.” I slap my hand on the table before pushing to stand up.
“Oh.” Aidy glances up, her blue eyes round and curious. “So we’re done here? I take it you’re confident I’m no longer a threat to your personal safety?”
I lift a brow. “I believe so, yes. How about you? You feeling good about this?”
She slinks a small yellow purse across her body and hoists her makeup case onto the table, exhaling. “Yeah. I think so.”
We move toward the doorway, and for a moment I consider offering to help her carry her makeup case, but the last thing I need is some genius with a smartphone snapping a picture of me carrying makeup through a bar. Knowing my luck, a picture like that would go viral in under twenty-four hours. Besides, I don’t think Aidy would accept my help anyway.
The moment we step outside, we’re wrapped in a blanket of cool evening air. Aidy stands a couple feet away from me, but the first thing I notice is the way the top of her head fits neatly beneath my chin.
“I just want you to know,” she says, pulling in a long breath, “everything this week, it truly was coincidence. Honest to God. At least on my end.”
I shove my hands in my pockets.
We stand, eyes locked, bodies aligned, for what feels like an endless minute.
“Oh, shoot.” She lightly drags her foot across the pavement, making a scuffing noise. “I forgot to pay for my drink.”
I wave her off. “My buddy owns this place. The drinks were free.”
She wears a concerned expression. “Are you sure? I can run back in and pay . . .”
“Yeah, no. You’re good.”
Aidy exhales, her shoulders rising and falling. “And before I go, I want you to know that journal I found? I really did find it on your doorstep. I read most of it, and then I felt guilty because it was so personal and it didn’t belong to me, so that’s why I was trying to return it.”
I shake my head, shrugging. “People leave things on my doorstep all the time.”
She licks her full lips, her head tilting as she stares up at me. The moonlight illuminates her blonde hair and makes her blue eyes shimmer. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever see her again after tonight.
“Anyway, it was very interesting meeting you this week, Ace. If I never see you again, I hope . . . everything . . . works out for you.” she says, her hand gripping the strap of her purse as her lips pull into a sleepy smile. As she turns to leave, she winks, as if to say we’re good now, and I stand, hands in my pocket, watching as she disappears past a group of well-dressed Upper East siders.
There’s a damp density in the air tonight, like it’s going to rain soon. The leaves on a nearby maple tree rustle, and I turn to head home. Alone. Wondering what would’ve happened had we stayed a while longer.
Maybe nothing.
Guess I’ll never know.
Chapter 11
Aidy
“Do you think you’ll ever see him again?” Wren pours two cups of steaming hot water and unwraps a couple of chamomile tea bags. I’ve just finished filling her in on the Helena situation and wasted no time rambling on about running into Ace at the pharmacy and meeting up with him after.
Plunking myself into a kitchen chair, I slump over, resting my chin in my hands.
“Considering the week I’m having, I’m willing to bet anything could happen,” I say.
“You’ve had quite the night.” My sister takes the seat across from me and slides a teacup my way.
I nod, blowing cool air across the top of my steeping tea. It skims the hot liquid, leaving a pattern of ripples, and a puff of steam rises.
Wren rests her chin in her hand. “Still think the writings are his?”
I nod. “I honestly don’t know anymore.”
“Theory. If the notebook was his, and it was filled with all those personal writings, wouldn’t he really, really, really want it back? What would make him deny, deny, deny?”
Shrugging, I suggest, “Pride? Maybe he was too embarrassed to claim it? There’s some very explicit entries in there. Like graphic, detailed rendezvous. I wouldn’t claim something like that in front of a complete stranger who’s read it all.”
“So he’s this public figure, but he’s perfectly okay with this secret journal of his being in the hands of some random woman?”
I smirk. “Hey, if he wants it back, he has my number. I’m not going to do anything with this book. He’s got nothing to worry about.”
“Right, but does he know that?”
Shaking my head, I say, “Probably not, but he’s more than welcome to ask if he’s really worried about it.”
Wren sips her tea, staring blankly over my shoulder. “Think you’ll hear from him again?”
“Doubtful.” I trace the tip of my pinky finger along the rim of my cup. “We both said our piece. It’s not like we made plans to meet up sometime.”
“You look sad.”
Glancing up at Wren, I shake my head. “I’m not sad at all. Why would I be sad?”
“I’m not saying you are sad, I’m saying you look sad.”
Rising from the table, I take my cup to the sink and rinse it. “I guess I wanted closure.”
“Closure?” Wren coughs, laughing. “Closure from what?”
Looking down into the shiny, stainless sink, I tuck my chin against my chest. “I felt such a connection with those writings. I was so vested in the love story of those two strangers. I wanted to know what happened because the journal had no ending.”
“Then you should’ve brought up the journal more. Asked some questions. You had his full attention and you squandered the opportunity in favor of flirting,” Wren says.
“I wasn’t flirting,” I say. “I was trying to prove to him that I wasn’t some demented, obsessed stalker fan. And as soon as I accomplished that, it was too late to flip the conversation around and wind up exactly where we started . . . with him thinking I’m a lunatic.”
Wren lifts herself up from the table, shuffling across the kitchen in a pair of ratty bunny slippers she’s had since college.
“Well, then, sister,” she says, slipping her arm around my shoulder. “Guess you’re going to have to settle for never knowing.”
Exhaling, I nod. I know Wren’s right. I need to let this go. I need to accept the fact that I’m never going to have answers, and that ultimately, it’s none of my business.
If only it were that simple.
Saying goodnight to my sister, I take my phone from my purse and head into my room to wash up for bed. Clicking on the bedside lamp, I grab th
e notebook from the tabletop and roll to my back, skimming through as if some giant glaring clue is going to pop out at me.
Flipping to the back jacket, I catch a glimpse of a tiny white slip of paper tucked away behind the cover. I’m not sure how I’d never spotted it until now, maybe it was hidden too well, but a quick tug and it slips right out.
It appears to be a note folded six times, and upon closer inspection, the handwriting is distinctly feminine.
Dearest,
What happened last night was amazing and incredible. Never in my life has a man’s love brought me to my knees and made me question all the truths my heart claimed to know. I cried in the library after you left. I cried for us. I cried for him. I cried because ultimately, my heart knows that this is going to get complicated and that none of us can come out of this unscathed.
I love you. So much. But I also love him. So much.
Even on our worst days, my bond with him is endless and shatterproof. And on my worst days, my love for you is a permanent, tangled mess of a knot.
Dearest, the thing is that one of you has my heart and the other owns my soul. I love and need you both in ways no one could ever comprehend.
I’m a selfish woman. I know that. I won’t pretend to be worthy of your love. Or his. There are times I wish one of you would realize I’m not half the woman you think I am. And there are times I imagine you moving on. But the mere thought of either of you looking at another woman the way you look at me blinds me with envy.
You’re a fool for loving me, baby.
And I’m wicked for allowing it.
Where do we go from here?
Yours forever,
K.
Chapter 12
Ace
I haven’t looked at her photo in almost a year.
Standing before my hall closet, I flick the light on and glance up at the brown shoebox on the top shelf.
It’s like our past lives in that box. Or at least the memories of us do. Sometimes I struggle with the reality that what we had is over and done, never to return, despite the fact that it felt it would last forever.
Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover) Page 31