by Gina Ardito
“Football?”
“Uh-huh.”
Whenever Bertie wanted to talk about something serious without referring to the actual people involved, in her case it was usually about her mother, he’d fall back on talking football. He claimed couching something in football terms made it easier for him to remain objective. Thus, his need to remain objective when talking with Jordan could only mean one thing: they talked about her.
She leaned her chair back and feigned boredom, folding her arms over her chest and staring out the window again. Meanwhile, her pulse thundered behind her eardrums, and her lungs stuttered on the whole inhale-exhale routine. “What pressing football matter did he need to discuss with you?”
“He was reliving one of his past mistakes. Wanted my advice on how I would’ve handled the situation.”
Outside her window, and many stories down, a ferry slipped across the silver surface of the water. She focused her attention on the grace and calmness of the simple white line left in the boat’s wake until her breathing and heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm. “Uh-huh. And how would you have handled it?”
“I told him I would’ve gone with a fumblerooski.”
“A fumblerooski...”
The ferry glided on while she pondered what exactly he was trying to not tell her. Of course, she knew the play. She just had no idea how it referred to her and Jordan.
“Ask. Him. To. Lunch.” When she didn’t immediately react, Bertie balled up a blank sheet of paper and tossed it at her head.
She whirled then. “Hey!”
“What are you waiting for? Pick up the phone.”
She picked up the phone.
CAM WAS ALREADY SEATED at a table when Jordan rolled inside The Blue Comet. Even among the thick crowd, he could still zero in on her whereabouts, as if they shared some voodoo radar. Her plum-colored blouse brought a tinge of honey to the razor-thinned ends of her hair where it brushed her collar, and a warm glow suffused her complexion. She took a delicate sip from a glass of white wine while her gaze stayed fixed on one of the televisions in the bar area, turned to, of course, a sports channel.
A wave of nostalgia washed over him as he stared at the brass-and-mahogany décor, the cozy saddle leather booths, and the horseshoe-shaped bar. The restaurant had been a favorite of theirs when they’d dated all those years ago, and entering now was like hurtling back in time.
With the maître d’s attention focused on finding a suitable booth for the foursome ahead of him, Jordan allowed himself a minute or two to indulge in the past before he’d have to confront the present.
Cam kept her hair longer in those days, way past her shoulders, in gentle waves of spun gold that tickled his chest or caught the wind and tickled his nose. He, of course, wasn’t sentenced to live in this cursed chair yet, and his standing height gave him a few inches over her, lending him the appearance of wielding the power in their relationship. Funny how he’d thought that so important in his youth, the whole mien of being in charge—especially with a dynamo like Cam.
Because, no matter his height, a person couldn’t be in Cam’s orbit and not realize she was a force of nature. Being tall didn’t mean squat when you faced off against the whirlwind that made up the woman he once loved, a woman who could be frostier than February one minute, hotter than August the next. She was the hope of New Year’s Eve, the love of Valentine’s Day, the whimsy of St. Patrick’s, the fireworks of the Fourth of July, the bounty of Thanksgiving, and the joy of Christmas. She was, in essence, the personification of every month of the calendar, all rolled up into one fantastic woman.
He’d thought she’d stay by his side forever, but he’d lost her to...
God knew what.
A football trade? Hard to imagine the love they once shared could be destroyed over something so petty.
“Mr. Fawcett?” The stern-faced maître d’s prompt jerked him back to the present. “Ms. Delgado is waiting for you. I’ll show you to her table.”
Jordan waved off the man’s stiff manner. “No need. I see her. Thanks.” He maneuvered his chair around the waiting area, noting the other tables he passed seemed squished together more than should be comfortable.
The thought struck him and gave him pause. Cam had obviously asked the staff to give him more space, so as not to embarrass him in front of the lunchtime crowd while his wheels caught on furnishings as he made his way to the table—not their usual booth, which was another example of how she’d considered his weakness when planning this meeting. Probably because the last time they met, he’d reminded her of the challenges of maneuvering a chair in a crowded place.
He didn’t know whether to be pleased at her insight or resentful that he needed that kind of insight. This, she could do: order furniture arranged to give him more room to move in a crowded restaurant. No doubt, she assumed the public would see and quietly remark to each other what a kind, thoughtful woman Cam Delgado was. But when the spotlight disappeared, and no one watched, the kind, thoughtful woman had left him floundering with no support whatsoever. He swallowed the sour memories and transformed the ensuing grimace into an uncomfortable smile.
“Hey, Cam,” he greeted her with forced cheer. “It’s been ages since I’ve been here. The old place still looks the same.”
She started to slip out of her chair, but stopped halfway, as if realizing the bad optics of standing over him and having to stoop to meet his level. Resettling in her seat, she waited for him to situate himself opposite her and then extended her hand. “Jordan. Thanks so much for meeting me here today.”
He wrapped his fingers around hers in a no-strings-attached clasp. “Happy to.” He had no idea why she’d asked him to lunch, but he sensed it couldn’t be good news. She must have decided against buying the Loughlin site after all. This was the kiss-off meeting, he could sense it in the air.
How would this turnabout affect him? Susan had been dancing in her office for days now. He doubted she’d take the news well.
So much for any possible fumblerooski to save this game.
Their waitress approached the table and asked if he wanted a drink. His first instinct was to order a scotch, but he quickly reconsidered and went with an iced tea instead. After she left, he pushed the menu to the side and leveled a steady gaze on Cam. “Now, that the drinks are out of the way, why don’t you tell me why I’m here?”
She shook out her napkin and placed it on her lap. “Well...”
She wiggled in her seat, as if trying to get comfortable, which didn’t bode well for what she was about to say. He steeled himself in his chair, his hands gripping the arm rests with white-knuckled strength.
“Normally, I’d just have Marty or Rose call you,” she continued, “but I think I owe you more than a faceless conversation with one of the foundation’s legal representatives. This news should come from me directly.”
Here it comes, the gentle rejection...
He decided to head her off before she could dive into whatever speech she’d rehearsed to let him down easy.
“No problem. If you’re not interested—”
“We want to buy the Loughlin site,” she said at the same time.
On a series of rapid blinks, he relaxed. When he spoke again, his tone came out hushed and roughened with renewed hope. “I’m sorry. Did you just say you want to buy the place?”
She laughed. “Of course. You don’t think I’d call you all the way down here just to say no, do you?”
“I’ll be honest,” he replied. “I wasn’t sure what to think.”
“Then I suppose this is a happy surprise for you.” She tilted her wineglass toward him before taking another sip. “Would you like me to signal the waitress to come back so you can order something stronger to celebrate with?”
Well, that came out a little too condescending to Jordan’s ears. Curling his lip, he waved away her offer. “I’m capable of flagging a person’s attention when necessary on my own, thanks. But since I don’t have the luxury of a private car and d
river to chauffer me around Manhattan, I’ll stick to the tea.”
Her expression turned icy, and she set the glass down on the table with too much force, creating a thunk between them. “That was uncalled for.”
“Why? It’s the truth.”
A truth she’d always hated to recognize. Because Cam wasn’t just football royalty. Way before her dad had earned his first million with product endorsements, Cam’s mother had come from a long line of New York society royalty.
“Why do you always have to throw my money in my face?” she demanded.
“Why do people climb Mount Everest? Because it’s there, Cam.”
Rumor said her great-great grandfather had invested in one or two of Cornelius Vanderbilt’s ventures back in the nineteenth century, and the ensuing generations had managed to live off the interest from those investments ever since. Of course, each family member was also expected to increase the wealth with profits of their own, and not a single one of them had dared to disappoint.
Laurel Delgado Wallace Kiernan Moffit Ellison owned a string of designer jewelry stores and a major league baseball franchise (a not-too-subtle slap to Duke and Bertie, no doubt). Ironically, her never-ending cycle of marriage, divorce, marriage, divorce didn’t come from some need to constantly marry up. Her individual net worth exceeded that of all of her husbands combined—and the tightest prenups made sure her money stayed her money. No, Laurel never married for cash or clout. She married for love—every single time. Unfortunately, she tended to fall out of love as quickly as she fell in. And when she fell out of love, the former object of her affections became a target for her disgust.
Before being allowed to take over the running of the Delgado Foundation, Cam had had to prove herself. Like her mother, she earned her first million while still a freshman in college. In Cam’s case, she’d invested in green energy technology and financially backed a scientist who’d developed a hinge used in wind turbines around the world.
Unlike her mother, Cam didn’t believe in love and romance and happily ever after. Too many stepfathers in too few years, followed by heated arguments and flaming departures, had permanently soured her on the idea of becoming a part of any semblance of a couple.
The bitterness returned, ready to overwhelm him, and he couldn’t hold back the caustic words burning his tongue. “You try to pretend you’re just like the rest of us, but you’re not and you never were. Your money’s this enormous wall that keeps you closed in, closed up, closed off. Occasionally, you’ll let a peon like me into your world, but not forever. Never forever.”
For a while, like some smitten teenager with his first crush, Jordan had thought the two of them stood a chance of making their relationship work—especially if he could have convinced her to move to Texas. Away from the drama her mother routinely inflicted, out of sight of the press, starting over somewhere new as a relative unknown, she could have lived the kind of life she always claimed she wanted.
Turned out, her whispered wishes to run away with him, give up the relentless spotlight, and focus on just the two of them had all been a lie. A sham she created to make him feel better about his unpolished, unmoneyed background.
Across from him now, her complexion paled, and all the celebratory air deflated from their surroundings. “As I recall,” she retorted through gritted teeth, “you left me. I’m not the one who couldn’t wait to sign a contract and move two thousand miles away.”
Before he could respond, the waitress reappeared at his side with a tall glass of iced tea and a big smile. “All set to order?”
Jordan rolled back from the table. “On second thought, I can’t stay,” he replied. “Cam, I’ll have our legal team send the contracts to your legal team. It would probably be for the best if you and I let them iron out the details without us.”
Her lips tightened into a thin line. She took another sip of her wine and nodded. “I think you’re right.”
At her agreement, he turned and made his way back to the restaurant’s main doors without another word. Next time they met, he should probably be armored for battle.
Chapter 7
Jordan was still fuming about Cam on Wednesday night when he and a group of friends met to watch the Yankees game at Marcus’s apartment.
Marcus’s wife, Theresa, greeted him at the door. She was tall and regal, dressed in a yolk-yellow jumpsuit that made her skin glow. A hammered gold neckpiece circled her throat and matching squares the size of dominoes decorated her earlobes. Theresa Haines was every inch a strong, Black woman with an ocean-sized heart and a laugh that could make you dance to its music.
He offered her the six-pack on his lap and, taking the cans, she bent to gather him close and give him a kiss on the cheek. Instantly, he was enveloped in the scent of gardenias.
“How are you, Jordie?”
Theresa was the only person in the world he allowed to use that juvenile nickname. “I’m good, Reese.”
One ridiculous nickname deserved another.
“You sure? You seem a bit tense to me.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Like you’re carrying an awful lot of weight around here.”
Luckily, she didn’t wait to hear a denial. He’d hate to lie to her.
Releasing him, she pushed the door open wider with her hip then stepped back to give him room. “Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?” She held up the six-pack. “One of these, maybe?”
He shook his head. “Those are for you. Hard berry ciders. The ones we had at the vineyard out east last month.”
“You found them?” Theresa looked at the cans, then shimmied on her toes. “Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. Please don’t tell me you drove all the way out there again just to make me smile in the middle of the week.”
“You’d be worth it, but no. Believe it or not, I found them in the supermarket near my place last week. Grabbed ‘em and kept them chilled in my fridge until tonight.”
She grabbed his hand, gave it a tight squeeze. “Well, thank you for thinking of me. That’s why you’re my favorite of all of Marcus’s friends. The rest of those cretins drink the beer I go out to buy, eat the food I make, spill chips all over my floor, and then thank him for his hospitality. Like I’m just the maid or something.”
“I’m sorry.” He followed her as she sailed into the white-and-steel kitchen to the right of the front door.
“Hmmph! You don’t have to apologize. You’re not responsible for anybody but yourself.” While sliding the six-pack into the stainless refrigerator, she asked again, “So, what can I get you to drink?”
“For now, I’ll just take a water, thanks.”
“You got it.” She pulled out a bottle of water and shut the fridge door, leaning against it with her arms folded over her chest.
A loud exultation of “Yeah!” erupted from the living room area, and Jordan’s head swerved in that direction.
“Here.” She waited ‘til he faced her again, then tossed the bottle at him. “Go on. Go hang out with your friends. I’ll be fine by myself.”
He would’ve offered to stay with her a little longer, but he was out of small talk topics. Not that she noticed. The minute he turned his back, he heard the distinctive sound of a pop top cracking open.
Yeah, she’ll be fine.
He rolled his way into the living room, this area decorated in muted grays and purples, to join the cluster of men yelling at the television mounted on one wall.
“Hey, Jordan’s here!” Marcus, the tallest of the group, announced.
Three of the five other men turned to give him a quick nod, the other two remaining engrossed in the game.
Jordan raised his hand in greeting while settling into a spot off to one side of the matching club chairs, where he could see the television clearly but not be in the way of the revelries. Past experience had taught him, after a few beers, these guys got clumsy. At last week’s get-together at Don’s place, Raymond had turned suddenly to grab a mozzarella stick, caught his size 12EEE foot in one of Jordan’s wheels and sprawled
into his lap, to the guffaws of all. Luckily, the beer bottle Ray held was empty, or Jordan would’ve wound up soaked and sticky, as well as embarrassed.
Marcus left the men standing around the screen and took the club chair beside him, one eye still on the game. “Hey. Glad you could make it.” He perched on the cushion’s edge, hands clasped, with fingers interlaced, balanced between his spread thighs. “How’d it go with Cameron yesterday?”
“It went fine.”
His frustration must have shown on his face because Marcus muttered an expletive his sweet wife would never tolerate, if she’d been within earshot. Leaning forward, he whispered, “What the hell happened?”
“She asked me to lunch to tell me the foundation plans to buy the site. It all started out fine, and her news put me in a good mood, you know? But then she started rehashing our old history, who did what to whom and in what order. I wasn’t in the mood, and I let her know it.” He skipped the personal details of their conversation and glossed over his abrupt departure with a simple, “I didn’t stick around after that.”
“So you just walked out?”
With one eyebrow arched, Jordan gestured to himself seated in his chair. “Not exactly.”
“Dude.” Marcus shook his head. “You know what I mean. Was that smart? To leave her hanging like that? In public? I can’t imagine she appreciated being dumped in the middle of a crowded restaurant. You couldn’t just keep your mouth shut and let her vent for a few minutes? I mean, how does your temper tantrum yesterday affect the sale going forward?”
“A. There was no temper tantrum. I didn’t make any kind of scene. I guarantee anybody watching would just assume I had to leave in a hurry but not because I was mad. B. It doesn’t affect the deal at all. Before I left, we agreed to let the lawyers handle all the details until the closing.”
“And then...?”
“And then we’ll face each other across her big glossy board table in her conference room, but there’ll be a dozen other people there with us. I’m sure we can remain civil in a crowd.”