9
Cal
I pacedin front of JM Curley, the tavern I'd suggested a block from Boston Common. I was early—really, really early—and that free time was growing my doubts like a petri dish loaded with listeria.
Would Stella like this place? She liked burgers, I knew that much, but what if this wasn't her style? Not everyone was up for Russian dressing running down to your elbows or a fistful of slaw under the bun. What the hell was I thinking? Oh, fuck. This was a bad idea.
Was this too late? She'd agreed to meeting me at nine thirty, but she was also a fan of first thing in the morning walks. Maybe she was an early to bed, early to rise kind of girl. If that was the case, I was ruining her day. Her night. Whatever. All of the above. Everything. Why stop with knocking her down on the trail when I could rip her whole damn day from stem to stern?
Was I clinically insane? Was this entire day nothing more than a series of delusions predicated on the undeniable truth that I hadn't had a woman in a long, long time?
Was I overdressed? I'd spent half an hour contemplating my usual day-end uniform of scrubs, running shoes, and a Massachusetts General Hospital fleece jacket, and decided that would not do. The suit I wore when I arrived at the hospital this morning was my only other option. It was appropriate for the day's cases but seemed woefully out of place on a casual date. Despite the excess of time, it hadn't occurred to me to stop at home and agonize over my clothing choices there. At least, not until I'd arrived here and a return trip was out of the question.
And what if this wasn't a casual date? If that was the case, I had no hope of selecting the right attire. What did I know about dating and its clothing protocols? Clearly, nothing.
Would she come? This was all rather quick and unusual, and given twelve hours to contemplate, it was possible—if not probable—she was rethinking. Stella didn't strike me as a woman of whimsy, regardless of whether she was rocking some lime green Asics.
But then again she seemed playfully pragmatic: she maintained a fiercely disciplined morning routine but also insisted on taking semi-random dudes out for coffee.
What if shedidcome? How could I sit across a table from her without succumbing to the desire to touch her? I wanted to know absolutely everything about her and I wanted to feel her.
It was shameful.
The more I thought about it, the greater the shame. A decent, respectful man didn't look at a woman and hear the slap of bare skin in his head. He didn't imagine the sounds she'd make when pinned beneath him, her body soft and welcoming and needy. He didn't dream up filthy things to whisper into her ears. He definitely didn't take himself in hand under the shower's spray and pretend the warm, wet heat was her mouth.
Turning on my heel to pace back toward the tavern, I shoved my hands into my pockets to prevent another glance at my watch or phone. When she'd agreed to dinner with me, I was too dumbstruck to ask for her number. I couldn't text or call her to confirm the time or place or whether she'd given any thought to that marriage proposal because I hadn't stopped thinking about it.
But then I heard it—her. I swiveled in the direction of her voice. She walked toward me in a short green trench coat, belted at the waist, with earbuds tethered to the mobile phone in her hand. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, and I couldn't remember ever seeing it that way before. She was moving her hands while she spoke, and it had the effect of rippling through her entire body.
I loved it. So much it hurt.
"I know we haven't been working together long, but I'm going to be straight with you. My advice: don't show up at Icon or Guilt or Storyville tonight. The last thing you need is to be photographed in a bottle service booth with all the chickies hanging on you and a magnum of Dom in your hand. That isn't painting a remorseful picture and you can bet your balls the judge and the team's owners will hear about it."
Stella came to a stop in front of me, close enough for me to hook my fingers in that belt and tug her to me. It was a move I never would've attempted before today. It wouldn't have occurred to me to physically drag a woman into my space but here I was, not sorry about it in the least.
She inclined her head toward the phone and gave a nod-shrug combo that suggested she'd be finished quickly.
"Listen, I know you've been off the field since last October and you're itching to get back. Unfortunately, you're only eight or nine games into a suspension that won't end until summer's here to stay. If that's what you want and this string of stunts isn't a ploy at getting out of the game, you need to get comfortable with your home gym and Netflix, my friend," she said.
Greedy, impatient feelings started filling my chest. I'd waited all day for her, and now I wanted her to myself. It was rude and wrong and entirely unnecessary but the pressure to wrap her up in my arms and tell everyone she belonged to me was oppressive.
"Netflix is actually pretty great," she continued. "I'm especially fond of several original series, and I need someone new to talk them over with. Does it even count as binging a series if you don't analyze it to death with someone? I don't think so."
Marry me, Stella.
She paused, nodding, and met my eyes as if she'd heard my thoughts. Her lips curled into a smile that fired up those sweet dimples, and I reached for her again.
Closer, pretty girl. Closer.
Her shiny yellow ballet flats carried her forward, and she pressed a finger to my lips while she finished her conversation. There was a tremendous quantity of restraint involved in preventing me from sucking on that finger. I couldn't explain why I'd want to suck anyone's finger, but some fuzzy, prehensile portion of my brain gave zero fucks about all the microbacteria thriving on the average fingertip and simply wanted to taste her.
"Okay, that's fine," she said, her shoulder lifting. She was right here, my hand still gripping her belt and her scent filling my lungs. "I don't care whether you watch Netflix, Hulu, HBO GO, or PBS fucking Kids, McKendrick. Irrelevant. Keep your ass out of the clubs, your dick in your pants, your hands to your everlovin' self, and let me and your agent work on convincing the owners that you've learned your lesson and deserve to come back from this suspension. Otherwise, you need to learn how to enjoy retirement."
Oh, I knew all about Lucian McKendrick. Any New England sports fan knew about the relief pitcher's penchant for drunk groping, drunk driving, drunk strip teases, drunk Red Line riding, drunk pissing on walls and fire hydrants and people. He was awaiting sentencing for his most recent debauched behaviors, and though I barely had time to skim the national headlines, I'd heard that McKendrick was bollicky bare-ass in the Back Bay last night.
"That's wonderful. That's a great idea. When we're done, hand over your phone to one of your new personal assistants. Tell them to lock it up for the night. Veda and I know how to track you down and there's nothing you need on social media, my friend. It's all trash and rage. You don't need that in your life."
The guy was a handful, an overgrown and overpaid toddler, and Stella was charming him right into submission.
