Promise Me Forever (Top Shelf Romance)
Page 23
Reid.
He’s your boss.
Reid.
Your future could depend on doing well at his paper.
Reid.
And just like that, I was under water, stifling the flames.
“Hungry?” Nate asked as I caught myself staring at his profile.
“Starving,” I said as my stomach rolled.
“What are you in the mood for?”
“Food.”
He chuckled. “That’s helpful. I’ve got a place.”
My phone buzzed.
Lexi: Where are you?
Having a late dinner with the boss.
Lexi: Really? K. See you at home.
Nate looked over at me while I typed.
“My roommate, Lexi. She’s just wondering where I am.”
“I didn’t ask. But did you tell her you were staring at your boss?” he asked with a straight face as he glanced over at me.
“Wow, what an ego,” I said with an eye roll. “I wasn’t staring at you.”
We pulled up to a Greek hole-in-the-wall with an Open All Nite sign. He put the truck in park and turned to me. “Don’t throw those fucking signals at me, Stella, or you’re going to find yourself on the right side of my bed.”
“Why the right?”
“Because I sleep on the left,” he said as he leaned in. “And you’ll sleep on the right. Every man needs a right girl.”
“Nate—”
“I don’t play games. I don’t have time for them. I’ve wanted you since the minute you walked that beautiful ass into my paper and I’ve made that clear.”
The truck had no air. None. I looked him over, his intensity never wavering.
“The next time you look at me like that, I’m going to make good on at least five of the scenarios I have going on in my head.”
“So, it’s a sex thing.”
“No, it’s a Stella thing.” He leveled me with his stare. The timbre of his voice filled with pure temptation. “I want to split a paper with you over breakfast. I want to find out what your favorite movie is. I want to know everything about you, and despite my best efforts, you’ve given me less than shit. I want you in a million different ways, but when you look at me like that, all I can think of is one.”
My throat went dry as I let my eyes trail down to his clenched fists. “I got hurt.”
“I know. Let’s eat.”
Chapter Thirty
Everlasting Friend: Blue October
Nate sat in the booth, his back to the window, his arm along the back of the booth as the waitress took our order—two gyros and a basket of fries.
“So, what happened?” Reid had asked the same question.
He forgot about me.
I damn near laughed at the irony, and Nate furrowed his brows.
“Sorry, if you only knew how much of a coincidence that question is—was. And I don’t want to talk about it. Ever.”
He nodded.
“And my favorite movie . . . It’s a tie between Pulp Fiction and Xanadu.”
“Xanadu,” he said on a whisper before he gave me wide eyes. “That piece of shit? The eighties movie?”
“Hey! Olivia Newton-John is one of my idols. Olivia Newton-John in an off the shoulder dress with knee socks on roller skates makes her a goddess! Don’t hate on Xanadu.”
“That movie is older than you are!”
“It has the best soundtrack, ever!”
“LAME,” Nate said with a chuckle.
“Well,” I shrugged, “what can I say? I have an old soul.”
“Lame soul.”
“But you know the movie,” I pointed out, sipping my Dr. Pepper.
“I have an older sister and was forced to watch that shit,” he said, pulling on his beer.
“I may never forgive you if you say it’s shit again.”
He rubbed his bottom lip, drawing my attention to it before I darted my eyes away.
“There are roller skates in your apartment. I’m willing to bet my paper on it.”
I shrugged. “Halloween costume.”
“And not a single person knew who you were!”
“The parents did!” I defended. “Well, a few of the moms.”
“A Hispanic girl with long black hair?”
“Latina. And every dark girl wants to know what it’s like to be a light girl at some point in their life.”
“Oh, Stella—” he chuckled as our food was set before us “—you are something special.”
“Act accordingly,” I warned.
“Oh, I’m trying,” he said as he gripped his sandwich and took a bite. “Shit, that’s good,” he mouthed around a mouthful. “Eat.”
“Yes, boss.” I took a bite and moaned in surprise. “That’s delicious.”
“God, so good. Ma’am—” Nate pointed to his sandwich, grabbing the attention of our Nate-thirsty waitress “—I’ll have another.”
“Two?” I asked, eyeing the sandwich he had left.
“Always ask for more of a good thing, Stella. Never know when you’ll have it again.”
“Pfft,” I said, taking a sip of my Dr. Pepper. “Is that your life advice?”
“No, I’ve got better.”
“You going to get all preachy on me every time we’re together?” I wrinkled my nose. “Play big brother?”
“Hell no,” he said with warning. “That’s twisted considering I’m wondering what you look like with your panties on my floor.” He tore off another bite of his sandwich, that discussion tabled as I tore off a piece of pita bread and popped it into my mouth.
Nate chuckled.
“What?”
But I already knew the answer.
Xanadu.
One quick bite turned into a long, exchanged conversation. Nate told me about his sister Nikki who, like my sister, was also five years older than him, but married with four children. She lived in Georgetown, a town outside of Austin, along with his parents, who, according to Nate, were wealthy Republicans, God-fearing Christians, and had little tolerance for bullshit. The Butlers were family-focused and had been married for over thirty years, much like my parents. Nate had played basketball in high school and had gotten close to getting drafted his first year of college. He was a graduate of UT and majored in journalism as well but remained in Austin to be close to his family. He was, in essence, a family man, but had no intentions of getting a family of his own anytime soon. His focus was his paper.
“What made you want to write?” I asked, my posture mirroring his.
“You may think it’s bullshit,” he said with a shrug. “It’s totally sentimental.”
“Try me,” I said, sinking into the booth, comfortably tired with a full belly. Rain streaked outside the window behind Nate as we sipped lukewarm coffee. Our table long-forgotten by our overly attentive waitress, who gave up on getting Nate’s attention an hour after we finished our sandwiches.
“9/11. More so, one of the casualty stories.”
It was the last answer I was expecting.
He ran a hand through his thick hair and put his forearms on the table, his suit jacket slung behind him. “So, I’m reading this article by some random. I don’t even remember his name, which is a shame because I would love to thank him one day. I’m in the back seat of my parents’ car after my second knee surgery. I still hadn’t declared a major because I was sure I would play for the Mavericks.” He gave me an eye roll. “And I’m reading this story about this man who’s trying to convey to his hysterical wife how much he loves her before his death. He’s trapped in the second tower. And she’s recounting the story to this reporter, who writes her emotion so vividly, I felt it. The story itself was incredible. They were from the same hometown and moved to the same city and met in Iceland of all fucking places. They both missed their first flight, which would have had them sitting side-by-side. They found that out after they started dating. With them, it was just one miraculous coincidence after another that brought them together. They were married for
sixteen years.” He stared past me as if he knew them personally before he shook his head. “It did something to me I can’t explain, Stella. Fate brought them together and one horrible act of prejudice ended them.”
“That’s . . . wow.”
“I cried like a baby,” Nate said, owning it. “I told everyone that story. Everyone. For days, I just told and retold that story to as many people who would listen. My friends thought I’d gone nuts, and in a way, I had. I had to tell the story of Keira and David.”
“And a writer was born,” I added.
“I wish I could find that article,” he said, traying our empty plates. “I owe David a visit.”
“That’s kind of amazing,” I said, eyeing Nate. “The whole thing.”
“I thought so. Enough to spend the rest of my life making sure others get to read stories like that.”
“So, human interest is your jam?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely, and there’s a new story out there every day just as miraculous, uplifting, heartbreaking, or compelling. I got addicted then and eventually to all aspects of reporting.”
“And Speak was born.”
“Yeah,” he said, with a glow I could only describe as wistful. In that moment, he looked a little younger than his years, and for a second, I saw that version of him holding that paper, letting his emotions get the best of him.
“9/11 changed a lot of lives. And that’s not bullshit, that’s a great story in itself, Nate. David’s death changed the course of your life.”
“Yeah, it did.”
“Were you always an avid reader?’
“Always, but there was a catch. I’m dyslexic. I never thought in a million years I could have a future as a writer. I put everything I had into basketball.”
My jaw dropped.
“My mother caught it early. She read to me every night when I was little. When it got to the point it would take me hours to get through a thirty-minute book, she was the one to bring it to my teacher’s attention.” He sighed. “Ms. Mary Zeigler, I loved that woman. I swear I fell in love for the first time when I was six. She broke my heart when she married Mr. Potter.” He deadpanned, “Mary Potter.”
I threw my head back and laughed.
“I went through it, phonics, vocabulary workshops, all of it. I took out my frustration on the ball. And my parents, namely my mother, made me read every single day. They had a fresh paper in most rooms of the house for me every morning, in the back seat of their car before every practice. I preferred shorter reads than books I couldn’t get involved in and had to leave idle.”
I was stunned . . . and impressed.
“Can’t put a book down?”
“Hell no. I read them cover to cover in one day. No other way to do it. Addicted to the high of reading and dyslexic. Ain’t that a bitch?” He chuckled. “But when I was young, I got truly captured by the stories when she read to me. They spoke to me in tidal waves, the imagery, I couldn’t get enough.”
“So, it worked. I mean, obviously it worked,” I said, shaking my head.
“No cure. But all that extra help paid off tenfold. And at Speak, I have twice the workload of any other editor in chief. I have to listen to the submitted articles audibly while I read through, but it’s worth it for me. And then, when I finish with critiques, I have someone check my work. Turns out I’m the most dispensable employee at my own paper.”
“Jesus, Nate.”
“Worth it, Stella,” he said, pushing off any underlying pity he saw in my eyes as a nuisance, in addition to the admiration.
In his Tahoe, I sat in my seat, staring at Nate with fresh but exhausted eyes.
“You’re staring again.”
“I was just thinking about a book I want to loan you.”
“Do you now?” he said, intrigued.
“Yep,” I yawned. “It’s my favorite. You know some speculate John Lennon was dyslexic. A lot of brilliant people are.”
“You flatter me,” he said dryly.
“The compliment was genuine. And you did spring for dinner.”
“Would have done it months ago, if you’d given me ten damn minutes.”
“I was on a mission. I wanted this job.”
“I know, and I’ll stop giving you shit about it. I know what it meant to you. How compelled you are to tell those stories. It’s one of the things we have in common. Just don’t ever ask me to watch a movie with you.”
“Har, har,” I said as our smiles stretched wide.
When we pulled up to my apartment, I looked for and found Lexi’s car gone. She was most likely at Ben’s place. They’d been spending all their time together, the invitations for me to join them coming few and far between. As much as I hated to admit it, it was too hard being around them, and the rest of the Sergeants, less the Sergeant I still dreamed about.
“Where did you go?” Nate whispered across the cabin of his SUV.
“Nowhere. Come on, my roommate isn’t home.”
“Lexi?” he asked, hopping out of his truck.
“Yeah, I don’t see her much. We’ve been best friends since junior high. I was following some douche between classes, tripped, fell, and ended up with my little pleated skirt with the big white bow around my waist. She was there to pick me up off the floor.” And history was repeating itself.
The rumble of Nate’s laugh echoed at my back. I hesitated as he stood behind me at the door. It was too late to un-invite him, and I didn’t want to overthink it. Aside from the hand full of lingering stares between us, the night had been easy. I loved easy. Once the door was open, he rushed past me.
“Which one is yours?”
“What?” I asked with my hand still on the light switch. “Where are you going?”
Realization dawned, and my face flamed when he found my room and made a beeline for my closet. “Oh, well, these are just magical.”
I paused at my bedroom door as he held my solid white roller skates in his hands.
“You are an ass,” I said, walking toward the small bookcase I had next to my bed. I plucked Fight Club from the shelf and walked his way.
“Where’s the dress, Stella?” he said, sifting through my racks of T-shirts.
“I don’t have one.” I had three.
“Put these on and I’ll give you a raise.”
“Really?”
“No,” he said with a chuckle as he re-shelved my skates. “What’s this? A real record player? Is this closet a time warp?”
“It was my father’s,” I said as he clicked it on and gently put the needle to the record—Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”. My parents had come down the past weekend with the last of my things from my room, including my father’s old turntable—my prized possession, which sat on a solid oak stand in my large closet next to my other prized possession, my collection of Converse.
“These are your favorite,” he stated, grabbing my ruby red, canvas high tops with black laces and “Drive” lyrics written all over them.
“How could you tell?”
“Least worn. The rest are worn.”
“I’ve had them since high school.”
“So, that’s when the little habit started?”
I bit my lips to hide my smile. A true reporter to the bone, Nate left no stone unturned as he carefully picked through my life, pictures, and cards. I slapped his hand when he grabbed my high school journal and he gave me a panty-melting smile. “Anything good in here?”
I shrugged. “Teenage thoughts. I think there’s a passage where I got felt up for the first time.” Nate cradled it in his arms and eyed the book in my hand. “I’ll take this one instead.”
“The hell you will,” I said, mortified. “No.”
“It was worth a shot,” he said, placing it back on the wire rack he’d taken it from.
It was surreal that this beautiful man was in my closet at three in the morning making the space seem so small. I grabbed my Madame Alexander doll my mother brought for me and felt the tug of her absence.
After a lecture from my father about the importance of communication and a good slap on the forehead from my mother, we spent a day in Austin together. I showed them around campus before they went to visit Paige. My mother was furious we still weren’t speaking, but I had stood my ground. In the end, I was left with a reluctant goodbye group hug from them both.
“Softball,” he said as he grabbed my tiny brass and marble trophy.
“Yeah,” I nodded as Nate invaded my space, like he was anxious to get to the bottom of things, of me. Satisfied, Nate leaned against the frame of my closet, his arms crossed. The air around us shifted as I held his book in one hand, my doll in the other. Hungry eyes trailed over my face, down my body and then back up.
Michael Jackson sang about Billie Jean. “Good song.”
Swallowing, I replaced the doll and started to straighten the mess he made. “I love this record so much. My dad taught me how to dance to it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and with total abandon. He just let us go spastic, Paige and me. Gah, I was such a moro—”
I caught myself staring at Nate, who stood stoically, waiting for what I said next, and in his eyes nothing was more important than hearing my story. He was exploring and I was the destination. There were no mixed signals, nothing to second guess. It was refreshing.
“What?” he asked, his arm propped on the frame. His jacket long gone and the sleeves of his once crisp shirt rolled up to his forearms.
“Aren’t you tired?”
“Yes, now tell me.”
“I got all dramatic and I—” I shook my head. “You see, we had this mantle over our fireplace—”
“I think I know where this is headed,” he said, a rumble in his chest. “Clumsy kid, weren’t you?”
I nodded. “It was his deceased mother’s clock, my grandmother who I’d never met. She died before I was born. Anyway, the mantle wasn’t exactly attached to the brick. And I used it as an anchor to do a dramatic dip, I went all Flashdance and—”
“You went backward with the whole thing,” Nate chuckled.