Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  “Then get the fuck out and let me get back to all the work I’m behind on.”

  “I came here to apologize.”

  I pause in aimlessly stacking papers together. “You got nothing to be sorry for, man.”

  “I do. I treated you like shit when all this stuff with Sophie went down, and I shouldn’t have.”

  “It was a dramatic reveal. Sides were taken. I get it.”

  “Nobody gave a thought as to how you were feeling.”

  “Feelings?” I start tossing papers instead of sorting them. “I ain’t got time for emotions.”

  “So, you’re still not thinking about how this is all gonna go down once the baby’s born?”

  Baby. I still have yet to think of it that way, and Locke isn’t doing me any favors. “Whatever’s going on, it’s between me and Sophie. I’d really appreciate if you and Carter could respect that.”

  “That’s fair. But I want you to know I’m here. And whatever’s going through your mind, chances are I’ve already thought it or been through it. You’re not alone, Ash.”

  “I know that,” I say, more sharply than I intended. “And I don’t feel alone. I want to do the right thing, which turns out, is a bit more fluid than I thought it’d be. You guys have to give me the space to figure it out. Even if I screw up.”

  “I’m your friend. I’ll always be your friend.”

  “Dude, if our friendship was gonna end, it would’ve been long before this,” I say, trying for a joke.

  “You got that right.”

  I gesture to my desk. “If you really don’t mind, I have a ton of catching up to do.”

  “Yeah.” Locke turns to leave. “Hey, great opening by the way. Your food was bangin’ as usual.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “And bringing Sophie here.” Locke pauses at the doorway. “That was a good move on your part. You’re not screwing up.”

  I exhale, my grip on my files relaxing. “I appreciate it.”

  “We’ll catch up soon.”

  “Yeah.”

  Locke shuts the door, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, I’m left alone. No employees, no friends, no airline staff, no Sophie.

  Wrong.

  My thoughts remain, and they rage.

  My childhood mixes with my present, transposes onto the future, and I’m picturing my faceless child at the opposite side of the desk, judging me before it’s even born.

  I’m no good to you, I say to it. I’m no one to look up to.

  I’m no father.

  A shattering noise breaks my focus, and my vision clears, noting the shards of my favorite mug cascading across the floor.

  No one comes to inspect what the noise was, since I’m the only person occupying this floor. The restaurant bustles beneath my feet, the early dinner crowd in full swing, and no staff member of mine has the time to investigate their boss’s temper tantrum.

  It’s for the best, because I don’t want anyone to know the depths of my turmoil, the cracking fissures of weakness breaking through my exterior.

  I’m an asshole. I’m a player. I enjoy both monikers being uttered from women’s lips, sometimes whispered seductively, other times screamed furiously.

  I’m helping Sophie through a tough time. I have no further obligations. She’s made that clear.

  If it were my own father in this situation, he would’ve sent Sophie a substantial check in the mail, wiped his hands together, and called it a done deal, regardless of what she decided to do with the cash. He would’ve paid child support until the kid turned eighteen and been content as a faceless, nameless Daddy Warbucks the child would never meet.

  Hell, he might have a few of those already.

  I turn on my computer, preparing to lose myself in the dull aspects of restaurant ownership, but the war of memories and resentment won’t allow it.

  I don’t want to be a father, but I also don’t want to be my father.

  And at this moment, I have no idea where I fall.

  11

  Sophie

  Visiting Ash’s place for dinner on occasion is one thing.

  Living here, being his house guest, is one giant other dimension.

  It’s been a week and a half since I “moved in,” my single, rag-tag suitcase trailing behind me on crooked wheels, and I’ve barely seen him. Granted, he’s got a restaurant empire to build, but it’d be nice if I could have the chance to repay his kindness by … cooking him dinner? Cleaning his apartment? Although, the square footage is massively intimidating, and it would probably take me a day and a half just to mop the floors.

  He has people for every chore possible. Cleaners come in once a week and make this place squeak with non-toxic brands. An adjustment, I’m thinking, that has to do with me.

  The fridge and pantry are constantly stocked with daily fresh deliveries, from a UPS guy named Robert, a widower with three teenaged kids who has the help of their grandma, living in a small brownstone in Astoria.

  I know him better than this penthouse’s owner.

  Ash sends me daily texts, the gist of which is, need anything? I always respond that I’m fine. Somehow, he knows better, and the next day I get a delivery of clementines, flown in directly from Florida.

  And every morning, a smoothie is delivered, and I can’t help but look forward to what color it will be this time. It’s like having a piece of the rainbow given to me each day, if the ingredients of making a rainbow contains ginger or mint.

  His driver, Charlie, is on call for both Ash and me. Ash’s text, the morning after I arrived, beeped the instruction that wherever I needed to go, at whatever time I wished, Charlie would be ready. The only exception would be if Ash needed Charlie for business, which Ash has yet to request.

  If Ash has come home at any point, I don’t hear it. Yet, there has to be a point that he arrives, for how would he know what I’m eating?

  I picture Ash, well past midnight, taking quiet inventory of his kitchen, pencil and notepad in hand, checking off pregnancy craving boxes. Did Sophie eat all the pickles? Check. Does she need more peanut butter? Check. How’s the freshness on these imported Florida clementines?

  With all of these tiny things taken into account, Ash is the perfect guy. He brought me back to New York. I get to see Carter whenever I need, and it’s been constant. Well—as constant as it can be, seeming how Carter is still getting used to the idea that I accepted Ash’s invitation to stay here. Lily comes over and gives me terrifying crash courses in how to keep a toddler from hurting themselves. Astor has made a few visits, sometimes with Carter and sometimes without, and is always willing to listen to me vent my insecurities and fears over this whole debacle.

  The only problem is Ash. He’s a ghost. He’s not here. Ever.

  This, more than anything, irks. Ash made no promises when he showed up on my Florida doorstep. He went out of his way to assure me that I wouldn’t be uncomfortable staying at his place, that I’d have everything I needed, and to rest easy, knowing my friends are nearby.

  He’s done everything right. Gone above and beyond anything I could’ve predicted, considering how this conception came to be.

  So why do I feel like a princess trapped in the castle’s tower?

  It’s unfamiliar—all of it. I’m living in an environment that’s a completely different tax bracket from what I grew up with. I don’t like to take advantage of people—even rich ones—so I keep my presence at a minimum in Ash’s place. I don’t use up all the shower products. I hang my used towels and pack up my toiletries after every use. I use his (surprisingly comfy) oversized couch as my bed. His remains perfectly made and pristine, with not even a butt indent where a man would sit and put on his socks.

  I haven’t unpacked my suitcase.

  Standing in front of the hall mirror, I turn to the side, hands on my belly.

  I’m not showing yet. According to my app, the fetus is about two inches, the size of a lime. If I poke my stomach, whoever’s taking up residence in there
should squirm in response, though I can’t feel it yet. I do it now, picturing an incredibly tiny, somewhat-human looking creature, doing a little shimmy.

  The doorbell rings, and my hands fall from my stomach. I glance over at the elevator entrance, since Ash has the whole floor to himself, wondering what kind of delivery Ash has planned today.

  The security panel to the right of the industrial, wrought-iron elevator that was probably built in the 1940s makes me more nervous than a plane, and I press the speaker button. It took me about three days to figure this futuristic electronic doohickey out.

  “Yes?” I ask.

  A cultured woman’s voice answers. “Who is this?”

  Curious, I hit the button for the video, so I can see who’s wanting to be let in. In surprising clarity, it shows an older woman with a classic updo, not a hair out of place, and a thin mouth that would frown even when it doesn’t.

  “Who is this?” I reply.

  She looks directly at the camera, and despite the screen being smaller than a smartphone’s, I gasp and take a step back. Anyone who looks down at a lens like that has more confidence in their pinky finger’s hang-nail than I do in my entire soul.

  “This is Dame Eleanor Whittaker. Now, I ask again, to whom am I speaking to at my son’s residence?”

  “Shit balls.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Fuck. My finger’s still pressing down on the speaker button. “Um, I mean, come on in.”

  Chin up, Ash’s mom stares forward and waits for me to buzz her through.

  I do, then spin and run back to the mirror. What else am I supposed to do but let her in? I can’t say no and lock her out. Can I? No. This is Ash’s home, not mine. I can’t refuse his mother’s entry.

  What does she want? Ash barely mentioned his parents, and when he did, it was with such a shut up look on his face that I never asked for a follow-up.

  There’s not a whole lot of time. I’m in a striped cotton Old Navy maternity dress I bought on sale and is a few sizes too big for my belly. My curly hair is down, half-dry from my morning shower, and I’m not wearing any make-up. My feet are bare and un-pedicured.

  Basically, I look bland, and every part of me does not want to look bland in front of Dame Eleanor Whittaker.

  I’m half an exhale in before I choke, my eyes widening at my reflection.

  Does she know?

  The elevator creaks its ascent, and there’s nothing more I can do.

  Well, I’m sure as hell about to find out.

  The elevator is such an antique that one has to manually open the secondary wrought-iron doors to this apartment once the actual elevator doors open. I rush over to assist, unlocking the clasp and heaving them open just as Eleanor’s black designer pump steps over the threshold.

  She doesn’t even look at me as she walks past. Her purse is clutched against her torso, her movements stiff and her back ramrod straight. But her eyes scan everything.

  “This is my first time here, you know,” she says to the space in front of her.

  I can only assume she’s talking to me. “Oh. Well, welcome.”

  Because I don’t want to stand by the elevators like a bell boy anymore, I head to the kitchen. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “A Bombay and tonic. With lime.”

  Shoot. Okay. Since I never had cause to, I have no idea where Ash’s bar is.

  It takes a few cupboards and a couple of peers into his random glass cabinets, but I find his liquor stash to the right of his sub-zero fridge, right above his wine cooler.

  I bartended during my travels, in order to keep paying for my trek through Europe, so I know to look for a blue bottle, and find it in the back, dusty and unopened.

  Ash isn’t a gin drinker. One other thing I can check off the What Do I Know About Asher Whittaker list.

  Yet, he owns a full bottle of his mother’s preferred gin.

  I crack open the lid and go about pouring throughout Eleanor’s silence. Her back remains to me, and she hasn’t put down her purse. I have no idea what to say as a conversation starter, so I go extra fancy and give her a pretty lime curl as a garnish.

  “Here you are,” I say, and slide it to the other side of the marble island, where she stands.

  Eleanor turns and says to me over her shoulder, “You never told me your name.”

  “I’m Sophie.”

  “Sophie.” It’s like she’s toying with my name on her tongue. “Is it short for anything?”

  “No. Just Sophie. Sometimes people call me Soph.”

  “Mm.” She accepts the frosted glass but continues to scan Ash’s apartment as she tilts it to her lips. “I always loved the name Sophia.”

  “Me, too,” I say, and try on a smile, but it feels false. I doubt this woman would be entertained by the tidbit that while I was in Spain, I called myself Sophia just to try it on. “I guess my parents didn’t.”

  As I round the kitchen island, I take the time to study her, in her pastel blue Chanel skirt-suit, accented by large pearl earrings. She is the quintessential rich, older woman, and her son looks nothing like her.

  Eleanor is small in stature, and thin. Ash towers over the both of us. Where his eyes are like the dark blue of the Arctic, hers are a lighter, sharper azure. Her cheekbones are high, like his, but on him they jut out with predatory beauty. On her, they’re angled like the separated halves of a broken heart.

  Oh, and she has no tattoos.

  “Tell me, do you live here with my son?”

  Those eyes of hers track me better than Ash’s. “No. Not really. I’m just visiting.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you looking for him? Because he’s not usually here during the day. He’s at—”

  “His restaurant. I know.”

  “Would you … do you plan on waiting for him here? He doesn’t tend to come home very often. You might be better off, um…” I drift off under her study, and I’m wishing I at least had pockets to shove my fidgeting hands into. “Apron is in Flatiron. I could give you directions.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m not staying long. I’m visiting, as well.”

  It was the most information she offered about herself, but with her tone, it didn’t seem honest or forthcoming.

  “Where are you visiting from?” I ask.

  “England,” Eleanor clips out, then takes another sip. “I’m only here for a small time. My husband has brief business in the city. I was hoping to see my son on this trip.”

  I bite my lower lip and resist gnawing on it. “I could give him a message?”

  Ha. I say that like I see him often, which I don’t. But maybe I’d have more success texting him than she would, considering I doubt Eleanor texts, and Ash doesn’t answer phone calls.

  “I’d like him to join us for dinner tomorrow night. We’re only here for the next two days or so.”

  “Sure.” I look around, appearing as though I’m trying to find my phone, when really, I want to plan an escape route.

  Eleanor sets her half-empty drink on the kitchen island. “You may come as well, Sophie, since you seem to be so familiar with my son.”

  Insult? Half-insult? Or is it just the way she talks, like everyone below a certain pay grade is beneath her? I don’t know, but I’m inclined to think the latter.

  “I’ll … let him know,” I say, and am relieved to find that Eleanor’s making her way back to the elevator.

  “Please do. We’re staying at the Waldorf.”

  I nod, like I know where it is and I’m not picturing the set of Home Alone 2. Or was that The Plaza Hotel?

  “It was a pleasure, Sophie.”

  I follow her to the elevator. “It was very nice to meet you, Mrs. Whittaker.”

  “Please, call me Dame.”

  “Right. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I don’t expect you to know the proper titles of the elite.”

  Oh, boy. I can’t wait for her to leave.

  “One last thing,�
� Eleanor—no, Dame Eleanor—says as she steps into the elevator. “Next time, you should set out the coasters when you offer someone a drink. Wouldn’t want to ruin that beautiful marble. I know how much my son covets his kitchen.”

  “I’ll make sure to do that.”

  Short of ushering her the fuck out, I wait patiently for the doors to slide shut.

  “Goodbye, Sophie.”

  “Goodbye, Dame Eleanor.”

  I wait for the creaky departure before I literally fall onto my knees and let out the biggest, most relieved sigh.

  Holy crikey Jesus.

  Now that was a terrifying woman.

  And she’s given me an itch, one I desperately want to scratch.

  I need to get the hell out of this tower.

  12

  Ash

  My ass hurts.

  When buying a futon for my office, I went for economical. It’s a small space up there, and while I’d have more than a few all-nighters, I didn’t want a too-comfortable sleeping area, since whenever I walk into that office, it should be to get shit done, not to rest.

  At the time, I should’ve maybe pondered that if a situation ever came into fruition that I’d be spending more than ten nights straight on that very futon, I should probably invest in something larger than twin-sized.

  Well. Hindsight.

  “Boss?”

  I pause in cricking my neck to the right, dropping my hand as I spin around in Apron’s kitchen, and answer my front-of-house manager. “Yeah, Pedro?”

  “We’re overbooked tonight.”

  He comes over with his tablet so I can peer with him at the recorded bookings.

  “Good,” I say.

  Pedro startles. “But what if we can’t seat those with reservations?”

  “Supply and demand.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Customers will see how crowded the place is, how quick the drinks are flowing at the bar, and they won’t want to leave.”

  “But … what about customer service?”

  I laugh. “I’m known for terrific food. Not for customer pandering.”

  “I don’t know, Boss.”

  “It’s why Apron has been named one of the top new restaurants to visit by New York Magazine. Not because every customer is treated like family—”