I shrug. "Necessity is the mother of invention, and all that."
"What's the plan for the rest of the day?"
Craig and I only see each other once every few years, and it's become standard that when we do, we spend as much time together as possible. He brought Deanna and the kids to L.A. once to see Disneyland, and I cleared my schedule except for one photo shoot I couldn't get out of. Now he's made his Sunday available to me.
"I'm thinking we ought to take the kids to the mall and have some funnel cake and maybe go toy shopping," I suggest.
He shakes his head and chuckles. "Dude. If I eat any more fried dough, I'm not going to make it to fifty. And if you do nothing but buy the kids shit, they're going to be terrors for the next month."
I sigh. He's right. It's my knee-jerk reaction, a way to convince myself I'm doing right by the people I love. I developed the habit when I was twenty-five and started earning more money than anyone I knew ever had. It wasn't even that much, but it was a lot more than middle class, and that's all I'd ever known. The catch was, I had to work twenty-four-seven to earn it, so I began buying shit for people I cared about, instead of giving them something far more valuable—my time. I did it to Christine, I did it to Sara, and to my parents. And now it's become a habit. A very bad one.
"You're right. Sorry. How about we drive them to Smithfield and see the little zoo. You told me you guys don't get over there that much."
"Really? You want to spend the day with my kids?" he asks, skepticism written large on his face.
"Really," I reassure him. "If I don't give them some memories, they'll stop calling me Uncle Ross, and that would break my damn heart."
Just like Sara stopped calling me Dad two years ago, I think sadly.
"All right." He pushes away his empty plate and stifles a belch. Deanna's influence is all over that one. "But you have to put on a baseball cap and some sunglasses. Nothing I hate more than being chased through a zoo by adoring twenty-something women wearing wet t-shirts and short shorts."
A burst of laughter rolls out of me, and for one brief moment, I'm eighteen again, laughing with my best friend in the world, no cares, no mistakes, just pure joy.
10
Carly
I dab at my lipstick and gaze at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is cooperating nicely, and I managed to cover the circles under my eyes pretty well. The wrinkles at the corners are hopeless, but my skin is relatively smooth, and as I stand, I think the red wrap-around dress fits nicely. Working in real estate, I have a dressier wardrobe than the average middle-aged mom of a teen, so things to wear out to dinner are never a problem.
I'm realistic. There are Hollywood housewives with a lot more time and money to spend looking great. I'm not an actress or a model, but I also know that compared to a lot of women my age, I'm holding up well. Not sporting thirty extra pounds, things only sagging the normal amount. I mean, yes, I have stretch marks, and I'm fifteen pounds heavier than I was before Quinn, but I've kept some control of it all.
All that, coupled with the fact that he gave me so many orgasms last night I lost count, means I'm not worried about whether Ross finds me attractive. He could be anywhere with anyone tonight, and he chose to take me to dinner. My self-esteem is healthy enough to accept that he finds me appealing and leave it at that.
However, I'm still nervous, and following my policy of nothing but absolute honesty with myself, I have to admit it's because I'm afraid I'm going to want to see him again.
Ross was one of those guys in high school that everyone liked. Not the jerk-off football quarterback who bullied and fucked his way to popularity. Ross was just an all-around likable guy. A solid soccer player but not the star, a prankster who never went so far as to hurt anyone. An easy to talk to nice-looking kid who treated girls like human beings instead of walking vaginas.
High school Ross was likable in every way, and exceptional in one—his musical talent. That combination seems to have worked well for him all these years. He's not only an increasingly successful musician, but he's also respected. By fans, by the press, by the industry. And yes. I may have read up on him a time or two over the years, including today, while I was waiting for the laundry to dry.
If Ross were just some celebrity, I wouldn't be the least bit concerned. I'd be in this for the sex and the fun memory. But that's not who Ross is. He's the eighteen-year-old boy who was likable. He's the man who I share a common history with—places, people, events. And he's the guy I gave my virginity to. My first.
The danger of all that is, I'll want more. More than one great night in bed, more than a dinner. But we're completely incompatible, our lives like two roads that intersect for a split second then diverge again in opposite directions. I can't want more with Ross Macalester. And that's what's making me nervous about tonight.
But as I'm thinking about how I shouldn't have agreed to this, the doorbell rings. Good lord, he's even on time. What the hell kind of rockstar is on time for a dinner date? I release a breath I've apparently been holding, and smooth the front of my dress.
"No backing out now," I mumble before I turn and head to the foyer.
"Wow," he says as he stands on my front porch and runs his gaze up and down my body. "You look...incredible." He grins, then, and my heart hammers harder.
"And you look like you're going to stand out like a high-watt bulb in the middle of a restaurant," I answer as I grab my purse from the front table and close the door behind me.
He's wearing a pair of narrow cut dark slacks with black ankle boots, and a snowy white dress shirt. He's paired it with a deep red tie that has black music notes scattered across it, more heavily at the bottom than at the top. And over the whole ensemble is the black leather jacket he wore the night before, sort of upscale biker, the leather buttery soft.
He's already put a hand at the small of my back, leading me toward the driveway, where a Mercedes hatchback of some sort waits. It, too, is black, and I wonder if he ran out and bought it this afternoon so it would match his outfit.
"I've taken care of that," he tells me as we reach the car and he opens my door for me. I try to hold back the swoon that a man would open my car door. I don’t think that's happened since senior prom, when he did it for me the last time.
After he shuts my door and climbs in the driver's seat, he leans over and looks me square in the eyes. "Trust me? No one's going to interrupt our dinner with requests for autographs. I promise."
My breath is caught in my throat. He's so close, and there's a heat in his gaze that sets off an answering spark inside me. Warning lights go off in my head, and I clear my throat to try and dispel this magic he weaves around me. I have to stay clear-headed and strong, because this is going absolutely nowhere. Not even to bed again. Quinn will be home at eight thirty and I need to be home by ten to get ready for work tomorrow and make sure he has everything set for his school week.
Single mom. Middle-aged. Grove City, Illinois. Never forget, a voice inside my head chants.
"I trust you," I answer honestly. "At least, about that," I amend.
He pulls back and chuckles. "Smart woman." He starts the car and maneuvers it out of my driveway. "But then, that's always been one of my favorite things about you."
My heart races a little faster, and I gaze out the window, trying to remember all the way to the restaurant that we're just friends, this is just one dinner, and I don't want more from Ross Macalester.
Ross does know how to throw a private dinner. He paid the owner of our oldest downtown Italian restaurant to close down one of the rooms. We enter at the back, coming in from the alley and weaving our way through the kitchen and service hallway until we enter the quiet room lit by candles, and sit in a cozy corner booth. It's round so we can scoot closer together, not quite side by side, but within touching distance. I know immediately that this is a bad idea, but I go with it anyway, because it's Ross, and this is most likely the last time I'll ever see him.
After ordering fried cal
amari for an appetizer—we both love it—and our entrees, we settle in with a good bottle of merlot and play more catch up.
"So, Quinn plays soccer?" he asks, pouring me my second glass.
"He does. Wing. This is his second year on varsity, and he's scored twice this season."
"Nice job. He sounds like a really good kid."
I nod. "He is. And I don't say that as a compliment to myself. You can only do so much as a parent. I mostly just got lucky." Then I do what parents do, and pull my phone out of my purse, showing Ross some recent pictures of Quinn—soccer games, National Honor Society induction, homecoming last fall.
"He has your eyes," he tells me, smiling at the photos. "He's a good-looking kid."
"What about Sara?" I ask. "Does she look like you?"
He reaches for his pocket and pulls out his own phone. "I hear different things. You tell me."
I think I'm surprised that a rockstar would carry pictures of his daughter on his phone, but then I remind myself that this is Ross, so I'm not actually surprised at all.
He holds the screen up for me to look, and there is a teenage girl with long auburn hair and blue eyes, standing in the midst of other girls her age. She's got that coltish look girls that age do, all legs and arms and the start of cleavage. I can see she's going to be a beauty, and I can't help but wonder what her mother looks like.
"She has your hair, and your nose," I tell him. "But the eyes must be her mom's."
He nods. "Yeah, Christine has blue eyes."
"There's something about her smile that really resembles you, too. Definitely no doubt she's yours," I add.
He chuckles. "Probably her attitude, as well. She got a good dose of rebel rocker, I'm afraid."
"Teens are never easy, and I'm sure it's extra hard when you're on the road so much."
He sighs, and there are volumes in that exhale. It makes my heart pinch a touch, because from the things he mentioned last night, his relationship with Sara isn't good, and that weighs on him.
"I wish it were that simple," he admits. "But this is more than just teen angst." He looks uncomfortable as he rubs the back of his neck and his gaze turns distant. "I haven't been a good father. I threw money at her instead of time and attention. She's smart—way too smart for me—and she caught on early that material shit doesn't equate to love." Then, he gives me a heartbreaking glance. "I do love her. So much it hurts, you know?"
I nod. Because yes. Anyone who's ever been a parent knows that pain. That ache that starts even before they're born, and never goes away. It's bittersweet and terrifying.
"But I've been so selfish over the years," he continues. "I always put the career and the fans and the parties ahead of her. And now I think it might be too late."
My brow furrows at this. I'm a mother, and one of the first rules of Mom club is never give up. Never.
"It's not too late," I tell him firmly. "You are the one and only father she'll ever have, and she needs you at fourteen just as much as she did at four. It's in different ways, but it's there, all the same." I put my hand over his where it rests on the table. "I know two things in this world—parenting and real estate. Trust me when I say, you cannot give up on building a relationship with her."
Our waiter returns with food, and there's silence for a few moments while we get set up, but then Ross's voice is quiet and serious when he says, "Thanks for that. For the encouragement. Her mom just keeps saying I need to spend more time with her, and I agree, but it's also going to take more than time alone."
He's right, and I sympathize. Teenage girls are complicated enough to begin with. Even a dad who has a great relationship with one might struggle to connect with her when she's fourteen.
We're midway through the entrees when Ross's phone chimes in his pocket. He apologizes and reaches for it to silence it, when I see his brow furrow.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"It's Sara's mom," he tells me. "I'm supposed to fly out there tomorrow, so it might be a change in plans. Do you mind?"
"Of course not," I reassure him. "Do whatever you need."
He smiles quickly and steps out of the booth, walking to a far corner of the room, where he calls her back.
I watch the set of his shoulders, the tenseness, and the way he bows his head. The Ross I spent last night with was supremely confident. Not at all arrogant, just sure of who he is, what he's doing from moment to moment. But I can see the change that happens when he talks about Sara. How lost he gets when it involves her. And I can see by his body language as he talks to her mother that this is the one thing in his life Ross hasn't conquered.
He runs a hand through his hair in agitation, then disconnects the call and returns to our table, his face full of worry.
"Well," he says, sitting down and replacing his napkin on his lap. "I wish I could package up all your advice and take it with me to L.A."
"What's happened?" I ask, setting down my fork. Seeing him upset does something to my appetite, and suddenly the ravioli doesn't look as appetizing as it did five minutes ago.
"There was a fire at Sara's school today."
I gasp in horror.
"No one was hurt," he's quick to add, putting a hand over mine on the table for just a moment. "But it's closed for the next month until they can assess the damage and either clean it up, or set up temporary buildings on campus."
"Oh no, poor kids. And poor parents. Any of them with jobs have a big problem now."
He grimaces. "Christine works for one of the big record labels in marketing. She doesn't have to—I give her more than enough money to live a very nice life—but she enjoys it and never wanted to be dependent on someone else."
I grudgingly admit to myself that she sounds like someone I would like.
"Will you be keeping track of Sara while she's working, then?" I ask.
"Sounds like she could use my help," he says. "I've got the month off from work, anyway. But I already know what's going to happen. Sara's going to make sure she spends every second with friends. She'll schedule up so many things, the only time I'll see her is when she's asleep or walking out the door."
He gives me a tight smile. "But I'll do what you said and keep trying. Just wish I could import an experienced ally, like you." He chuckles.
And that's when it happens. The six craziest words ever spoken in the English language leave my lips. "Why don't you bring her here?"
We both stare at one another in shock. I didn't just say that. Did I? What the hell was I thinking? I quickly try to redirect. "Or, I mean, your parents' place in Florida, or go on a vacation, just the two of you, or something?"
He continues to stare at me, expression thoughtful, as if he's trying to process it all.
"Craig and Deanna are here," he says, almost as if he's talking to himself more than me.
I've run out of ways to dig myself in deeper, so I make the wise decision to just shut up.
"We could do all the things I did as a kid her age."
I smile weakly. I'm not impulsive. I have no idea where that idea came from. No, not true. It came from that place down deep inside that wishes I could have more time with Ross. And that place needs to shut the hell up, because it's not going to lead to anything but heartache.
He gazes at me earnestly before turning toward me and taking my hands in his.
"Would you actually consider helping me?"
I'm struck speechless for a moment. "I...um..."
He soldiers on. "You obviously have it together when it comes to kids. I need a mentor or something. Someone who can give me solid advice, and maybe be a friend to Sara, too. My parents just give in to whatever she wants. They hardly ever see her, so when they do, it's like she's four and they're Disneyland. They won't be helpful."
I nod because I can see that. I'm sure it's been hard on them all these years, with Ross's lifestyle and a granddaughter clear across the country.
"But Sara knows Craig and Deanna a bit, and if you'd help out, too, she'd have a little bit of
a community that cares. Then there's all my history here in Grove City, maybe she'd learn to see me as more than the famous sperm donor."
I can't help but raise an eyebrow at that description. He shrugs as if to say, it's a valid label.
Internally, a voice is shouting at me to stop, stop, stop. But it's not louder than all the other voices shouting various things right now, including a couple that keep saying, "take his clothes off!" So, I ignore most of them and answer him.
"I will, on one condition."
"Anything," he answers quickly.
"This is about Sara. No more sleepovers or anything like that. For one thing, it won't help with Sara if she thinks you dragged her here so you could spend time with a woman."
He nods, his brow furrowed.
"And for another, neither of us needs the distraction. You have a fourteen-year-old to win over, I have a life to run. We're partnering up to help you and Sara. Not for a repeat of last night."
Then, I wait for his answer.
11
Ross
I'm sitting in a romantic restaurant, gazing into the eyes of the most beautiful woman I've ever known, and she's telling me I'm not allowed to touch her ever again. Normally, this would be grounds for some major maneuvering on my part. Surely there's a way to convince her a month of nights together isn't such a bad idea?
But in this case, she's right. No matter how much other parts of me are in disagreement, my brain knows she's right.
I give her a wry smile. "It pains me to say it, but of course, you're right."
Her answering smile is sympathetic. "We had a good night—”
"We had an incredible night," I correct.
She puts her head back and laughs, and when she does, everything inside me goes fizzy and light.
"But you'll accept those terms?" she asks finally.
"Accept and agree."
Encore: A Standalone Rockstar Novel Page 6