I couldn't stopmyself from looking around the room, staring at the athletes and industry professionals as if I'd be able to identify who owned a no-attachments spot in Stella's life from sight alone. And if they didn't belong to her current cadre, had they in the past? Were they hoping to belong in the future?
Stella and I shared several evenings each week but not all. Work commitments claimed some evenings but I was left wondering about the others. I rarely saw Stella on Sunday. Did she spend that night with any of these men? Tuesdays were also tricky. Was she with someone then?
I shot another glance at the crowd, careful to assess everyone without making direct eye contact. But then I noticed a man approaching on my left. He was average height and on the slim side, the way young guys seemed to be these days. As if their goal weight was a size medium t-shirt and they enjoyed pairing skinny jeans with a jacket layered over a sweater over a shirt. In the springtime.
He ran a hand over the crown of his head, down to the short ponytail that corralled his thick, dark hair. He walked straight toward me as an unpleasant idea hit—what if Stella had told the other men about me? And why wouldn't she? She'd told me about them, opaquely. It was only logical. I couldn't imagine why she wouldn't.
And what if he was one of them?
He stopped at my side, close enough to communicate his intention to strike up a conversation. Or a pissing contest. Hell, I'd win that. This kid looked scrappy but he was just that—a child. What he offered in stamina, I made up for in style.
"Hey," he said, holding out a hand. "Flinn Martin. Stella's media coordinator."
I took his hand, pumped it vigorously as I worked on holding back a relieved sigh. "Cal Hartshorn," I said, eventually releasing the man's hand. "I've heard a lot about you."
"Now that's scary," he said, staring at something over my shoulder. He beckoned in that direction and I shifted, following his gaze toward a strawberry blonde with two martini glasses in hand. "What is she doing? I told her I'd get my own damn drink."
He didn't wait for me to weigh in on the matter, instead bypassing me entirely and plucking a glass from her grip. They exchanged words—and eyerolls and head shakes—on their way back to me.
"Cal Hartshorn," Flinn started.
"You're the stalker," she continued.
Groaning, Flinn hung his head. "May I introduce Tatum Altschul."
I nodded, extending my hand as Tatum shifted the drink to her other hand. "Nice to meet you both," I said. Even with the stalker barb, I was thrilled to assign this man to the staff column and eliminate him from the bedfellows column.
"What do you think of all this?" Tatum asked, tilting her glossy bob toward the models and athletes.
"It's really—"
"Don't answer that," Flinn interrupted. "No one cares. It's all the things and no one cares. We want to know how it's going with Stella."
I'd heard he was direct but this was heat-seeking. "Good. Great. Everything is"—I scanned the crowd again, my gaze cooling at the sight of her hand settling on a man's forearm—"really good."
Flinn followed my stare. He chuckled, saying, "Don't worry about Robertson. There's an extra bicep in his skull but no brain. Not an ounce. He needs a little handholding from time to time but that's it. That's where it ends. Bruh might even be a virgin."
"You would know," Tatum muttered.
He cleared his throat, spared her a sour glimpse. "Save it for later, Tate."
She hid her annoyed glare behind her drink. Then she asked, "What do you want to know? We're here, we're greased up on the good vodka, and we spend more time with Stella than anyone else.Anyoneelse."
This was a trap. It was an IED hidden in roadkill. Flinn and Tatum—through their special blend of hate-love—shared a knowing grin. Definitely a trap.
"That's a generous offer," I replied. "But I'm not lacking for information, thank you."
"Because of the stalking," Tatum offered. "I can see how that would be ripe for content."
I shook my head, smiling. "I come by it honestly."
Flinn caught me watching the crowd again, saying, "None of them. She doesn't bring anyone she's seeing to work events." He lifted his glass in salute. "Save for yourself."
Stella chose that moment to catch my eye from across the room. She spoke a few words to the group surrounding her before smiling, full dimples, and heading toward me.
And she was beautiful. Just too damn beautiful for words. Her coral-red dress fit like a sunburn and her hair spilled over her shoulders in long, loose waves. As if that wasn't enough, she looked bright and fresh—and happy.
Even better, she didn't bring men to work events. She'd said as much previously but hearing it confirmed by Flinn nailed the truth all the way to the front door.
