by Mindy Klasky
But that’s not the way he imagined Shygirl6. He thought of her with dark hair, cut short. He pictured her slim neck, just waiting to be kissed. She was shorter than he was; the top of her head just came to her chin. She had blue eyes, dark blue, like—
Shit. His picture of Shygirl6 looked exactly like Jamie. He swore at himself and waited for her to type back an answer. The surest way to screw up this thing with Shygirl6 was to try turning her into something she wasn’t.
“Meet at the bar?” she typed. “I’ll be the girl holding You Can’t Go Home Again.”
Thomas Wolfe’s classic about small town life in North Carolina. He’d read it for a junior seminar, and he’d fallen for the eloquent prose. He immediately pictured Shygirl6 in a cropped T-shirt, black panties showing off the long line of her legs. He imagined his palms sliding up under that shirt, smoothing over her ribs until he cupped her—
Goddammit, that wasn’t Shygirl6. It was Jamie again. Jamie, who had once interrupted his writing a paper about Wolfe. He swore under his breath, but his words were cut short as his phone triple-buzzed again.
“Oops,” she typed. “Gotta run. Daughter’s out of bed for the third time! See you tomorrow!”
Bed. He immediately pictured Shygirl6 sprawled across a tangle of sheets. This time, he focused on the long lines of her legs, the arch of her back. He wouldn’t even try to picture her face, wouldn’t distract himself with the one woman in the world she’d never be.
“Go,” he typed. “Sleep well.”
But she’d already signed off of TrueLove. He stared at his screen until it faded to black.
CHAPTER 6
Jamie looked at Robert in her bathroom mirror. “I don’t know,” she said. “I want to look like myself.”
“You will look like yourself,” her assistant said, brandishing a tray of foundation. “Only better. When have I ever let you down?”
She shook her head but turned to face him head-on. “All right. Work your magic.”
Robert laughed and reached for a brush. “I’ve never seen you like this. It’s like you’ve never been out on a date before.”
“I’ve been on plenty of dates. It’s just been a while since I cared whether they went well or not.”
“Why’s this one different?” He tilted his head to one side, eyeing the various shades of makeup on his tray. With a tight nod, he finally made his selection, dabbing it onto the side of his hand and mixing it with a slightly darker hue. As he brushed the resulting color on her face, Jamie tried to articulate her explanation.
“I like him,” she said. “At least what I know about him from online. He’s smart. And funny. He gives me good advice without being judgmental. He thought about Olivia, about whether I could get a babysitter, even though he’s never met her.”
Robert finished with the base, quickly whisking a sponge over her cheeks to blend in the color. “Where is Olivia?”
“Ashley picked her up from school. They spent the afternoon baking cookies, and they’re going to watch Frozen after dinner. Ashley’s keeping her for the night.”
“Then you are planning on a special night with Lover Boy.”
“RoadWarrior,” Jamie corrected, even though she could hear how prim and proper her voice sounded. She watched Robert choose a delicate shade of blush, saw the way he streaked a slightly darker color high on her cheeks. “Oh! I’ve never had cheekbones before!”
“You’ve never had me before,” Robert pointed out. “Now let’s do your eyes…”
Fifteen minutes later, Jamie stared at the results in her mirror. Robert had been true to his word—she didn’t look made up at all. In fact, she looked better than she had in years—more relaxed. And when she smiled, a hell of a lot more confident.
“You’re amazing,” she said.
“Steven says that every night.” Robert grinned as he shooed her out of the bathroom. “Now, what are you wearing?”
Jamie gestured toward the clothes she’d laid out on the bed—tailored slacks, a white broadcloth shirt, a structured tweed jacket.
Robert laughed. “I thought you were going on a date!”
“What’s wrong with those clothes?”
“Nothing, if you’re interviewing for a job at an accounting firm! Come on, Jamie. Show him you’re fun. You’re sexy.” He threw open her closet door and started shoving clothes from one end of the rack to the other. “Too boring. Too formal. Too…what the hell is this?”
“It’s a suit, you heathen. Classic black skirt and matching blazer. I wear it with pumps.”
“For a funeral, maybe.” He reached the last hanger on the bar. “Here,” he said. “Start with these.”
She stared at the black leather pants. “I haven’t worn them since I left New York.”
“No time like the present.” He pulled out a belt, a triplet of skinny steel chains. “Here you go.” Before she could protest, he pounced on a crimson silk T-shirt. “And here.”
“I wear that under things. It’s too tight on its own.”
“Come on,” Robert said. “Let the girls have some fun.”
“This is a date, Robert. Not an audition for the Raleigh version of Girls Gone Wild.”
“I’m working with your best assets, Jamie. Trust me.” He winked. “I’ll wait for you in the living room.”
She stuck her tongue out at the bedroom door as he clicked it closed. This was ridiculous. Robert had chosen clothes she might wear clubbing, not an outfit for a North Carolina steakhouse. The last time she’d worn stuff like this…
She closed her eyes. The last time she’d worn stuff like this, she’d felt like a successful photographer. She’d stayed out till three in the morning, shooting Pre-Owned Heart, right before they started their national tour. She’d taken the best portraits of her life.
She slipped out of her bulky bathrobe. Robert hadn’t selected panties or a bra—even he hadn’t been that brazen. Without allowing herself to think about her choices, she reached to the very back of the dresser drawer. The garments she took out were more lace than anything else, scraps of fabric that barely hinted at covering her skin.
But they felt good when she slipped them on. She came alive as the fabric whispered against her; her flesh tingled beneath them. She actually caught her breath as she pulled on the pants, as the soft leather whispered against her thighs.
It had been a long time since she’d dressed like a woman. Too long.
She tugged on the T-shirt, shrugging twice to make the shoulder seams sit properly. The belt was next. Slipping it through the leather loops gave her a solid boost of confidence as she fixed the tricky clasp. Without hesitating, she turned to her jewelry box and dug to the very bottom for the leather-and-steel choker she’d bought specifically for her nights in the darkest music clubs. She fastened it with the easy familiarity of habit. Then it was second nature to run her fingers through her hair, to ruffle away any semblance of staid tradition.
She barely glanced at herself in the mirror above the dresser. She knew how she looked. She was happy. Strong. Confident. She was the woman who’d built the career she wanted, the life she wanted, going into music clubs and making art with her camera.
It had been six long months since she’d dressed this way. Six long months since she’d allowed herself to think like a sensual woman, like a powerful woman.
She opened the door to the living room. Robert was sitting back on the couch, his legs stretched in front of him like a man who had run a marathon and was only now beginning to recover. When she paused in the doorway, he whistled once, long and low.
“Love Machine doesn’t stand a chance,” he said.
“RoadWarrior.”
“Whatever. Go get him. And you just might want to phone Ashley to see if she can keep Olivia for the entire weekend.”
~~~
Nick stood on the front porch at Artie’s, shifting a bouquet of deep purple orchids from hand to hand. He’d swung by the florist on his way to the restaurant—it had seemed like a good
idea at the time. Now, though, he wondered if he’d gone overboard. Would she be frightened off by flowers? Was he expecting too much?
He was being an idiot. This was a date. Just a normal, everyday date. He’d gone on hundreds of them.
But he really liked Shygirl6.
What was he? Sixteen years old? Yeah, he liked Shygirl6. They made a perfect couple online. If they weren’t able to talk to each other in reality, if the conversation dropped like a killer curveball, if they turned out not to be compatible in person… Well, better to find out now instead of a month, two months, three months down the road.
He wiped his hands on the front of his khakis. His clothes were another sign he was regressing to high school—he’d gotten dressed three times, trading in the slacks from his charcoal suit for faded jeans before he’d settled on something middle-of-the-road. He’d gone for a plain white dress shirt, figuring it was practically invisible, didn’t even count as a choice. The cuffs were open, folded back one neat flip.
Jesus. He really was acting like a teenager. Next, he’d be finding a mirror to make sure his long-gone zit cream wasn’t showing.
He glanced at his watch. Two minutes till. He didn’t want to get there first. Didn’t want to sit at the bar and watch the door like an anxious puppy.
And he was spared by that same door opening, by a familiar couple stepping onto the porch. “DJ!” he exclaimed, as the pitcher came out of the restaurant. “Samantha! How are you!” Christ, he sounded like the most desperate man in the world.
The Rockets’ star southpaw shook his hand in automatic greeting. “Hey, Nick. Meeting up with the guys? Everyone’s in the back room.”
“Nope,” Nick said, his heart pounding. “I’m meeting someone at the bar.”
“Someone special, I take it?” Samantha smiled as she asked the question, her friendly eyes taking in the flowers. He felt himself blushing. Fucking shoot him now.
“It’s sort of a first date,” he mumbled.
“Who’s the lucky lady?” Samantha was definitely amused. Easy for her. She and DJ had weathered a storm of publicity when they first got together. A peaceful dinner at Artie’s must seem laughably tame to the former beauty queen.
“I—” How the hell was he supposed to answer that? He didn’t even know Shygirl6’s real name. He should have asked her yesterday, should have made sure he knew at least that one crucial piece of information when they confirmed their plans. “It’s complicated,” he said.
DJ gave him a strange look. “How complicated can it be?”
“It’s a blind date thing. We…” Nick stared at the flowers again. “We met online.”
DJ started laughing.
“Hey!” Nick protested. “We can’t all meet beauty queens after interviews on national TV!”
Now Samantha was laughing too.
“It sounds like you need a wingman,” DJ said. “At least someone to see what you’re up against.”
“DJ!” Samantha said, punching his biceps. “That poor woman doesn’t need anyone else getting involved.”
“What do you say, Nick? Want me to take a quick recon and report back?”
Nick ignored the exasperated look on Samantha’s face. “Yeah,” he said. “That would be great. We’re meeting at the bar.”
“Good idea,” DJ said. “That way, you’re only stuck having drinks, if nothing pans out.”
“DJ!” Samantha said again.
“Come on,” he said. “Like you never set up a date for drinks or coffee when you weren’t sure you wanted to commit to a couple of hours with a guy?”
She shook her head, but she was smiling. DJ brushed a kiss against her cheek before he turned back to the restaurant. “One recon mission, coming up.” He disappeared inside Artie’s.
Nick looked at Samantha. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
She glanced at the flowers. “No,” she said, and her voice was suddenly a lot more serious than he expected. “I think you really want to like this woman. And for her to like you.”
Before he could answer, DJ came back out. “Sorry, man. I’m no use to you at all. There are three couples in there. The only woman sitting alone is that photographer, the one who’s doing the calendar for the team. And it doesn’t look like she’s waiting for you or anyone else. She’s just hanging out, reading a book.”
Photographer. Reading a book.
Nick’s stomach plummeted to his toes. Jamie was sitting at the bar in Artie’s. He was willing to bet next year’s salary that she was reading You Can’t Go Home Again. Shygirl6 was Jamie Martin.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
“I guess she isn’t here yet,” he managed to say. And then he churned out a few more polite things, joked about blind dates, about how the girl of his dreams might be standing him up. He smiled and waved as the pitcher and his fiancée finally headed to the parking lot.
What the hell was he going to do?
He could just leave. Go back to his car, take out his phone, shut down his TrueLove account, and pretend like the whole thing had never happened.
But how long would Jamie sit at the bar? How long would she wait for RoadWarrior to show up?
She’d told him about an office colleague wanting access to her work. She’d been talking about him. About his wanting time with Olivia. And he’d told her to trust her instincts. RoadWarrior had built a case for Nick Durban, without ever knowing the truth. Jamie had taken his encouragement and run the bases, built a safe place for him to see Olivia.
Christ, after Wednesday night, after the things she’d typed to him… The things she’d described, the things she’d done, telling him how he made her feel… It was one thing to share fantasies with a stranger. It was another to realize you were talking to someone you’d known practically forever.
Jamie had never told him any of those things in the years that they’d dated. He’d never been able to spark that sort of response in her. But she’d had seven years of growing up without him. Seven years of experimenting—in her music clubs, in every other part of her life. The Jamie Martin of today didn’t need him. Didn’t want him.
The thought of seeing cool rejection in her eyes made his gut turn.
He couldn’t go in. But he couldn’t leave her at the bar all alone either. Swearing, he tossed the flowers off the far edge of the porch. Like a soldier marching to a battlefield, he squared his shoulders, palmed the door latch, and forced himself to walk into Artie’s.
~~~
Jamie sneaked a glance at her phone. She’d left it on the bar, on the offhand chance that RoadWarrior tried to reach her through TrueLove.
It was ten minutes after seven. Well, lots of people ran late. It wasn’t RoadWarrior’s fault that she’d arrived almost ten minutes early. It wasn’t his fault that she’d downed her first glass of Malbec like it was grape juice. At least she was nursing the second one.
So far, all her eager glances toward the door had led to nothing. Just a couple of friendly nods with Rockets baseball players. She’d shot a couple of them already, and she had the rest on her schedule for the coming week.
If she’d known how many of the guys hung out at Artie’s, she would have suggested a different place to meet RoadWarrior. The last thing she wanted was to meet her blind date with Rockets players hanging around. With one Rockets player in particular, with Nick hanging around.
And there he was. Summoned like a demon, just from her thinking his name.
The subdued lighting in the bar kindled the copper of his hair. In the past week, he’d gone from scruff to an actual beard—the off season obviously meant his razor was shoved to a back shelf. His green eyes seemed black as he panned across the room, obviously looking for a teammate.
She schooled her features to a cool smile as he caught her gaze. He nodded once, just a lift of his chin, and then he raised his eyebrows, as if to ask if he could keep her company. She looked away, but he didn’t take the hint. Instead, he strode across the room and took the stool next to hers
.
“I’m saving that for someone,” she said, reaching out a protective hand.
He sat down despite her protest. She saw him take in her clothes. His Adam’s apple bobbed visibly as he skimmed past the crimson T-shirt, as he took in the chains around her waist, the leather stretched taut across her thighs. As if to escape, he glanced at the book she’d set on the bar, close to her glass of wine. “You Can’t Go Home Again,” he said. “I thought you read that junior year.”
“I’m re-reading it now.” She winced as she said that. She already knew the next thing he was going to say.
“You’ve never re-read a book in your life. What makes that one special?”
“You don’t get to vote on what I read, Nick. Now if you’ll please leave. I’m waiting for someone.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll go as soon as she gets here.” He leaned closer, and this time it took him a heartbeat longer to drag his gaze off her chest. “Or he gets here.”
“He,” she confirmed. “Not that it makes any difference to you.” She couldn’t help but glance at her phone, couldn’t keep from checking the time. Quarter after. RoadWarrior was standing her up. A band of panic tightened around her gut.
Nick raised a hand and got the attention of the bartender. “Glenlivet,” he said. “Neat.” He gave her a classic Nick grin. “I’ll just keep you company until he gets here.”
She grimaced, barely staying civil enough to touch the rim of her glass to his once he was served. “I really wish you wouldn’t, Nick.”
“Come on, Jamie. Don’t be like that.” He took a sip of the Scotch, his eyes never leaving her. She knew that look. She’d known that look for four years of college, from the first night they’d worked that damned economics problem set together. She wished she’d never taken Econ 101.
“I’m not being like anything,” she said. “The rest of the team is in one of those rooms over there.” She nodded toward the back of the restaurant. “I’ve seen a bunch of them come in. You should go and join them, and let me meet my friend.”