"Mmhmm." I bobbed my head. Pushing at a different seam, I said, "My assistants liked you."
"Did I pass their tests?" he asked.
Yes. Flying colors. They liked you so much they staged a small coup.
When I didn't respond, Cal tugged on the hem of my t-shirt. "What did they say?"
I removed his hand from my shirt, laced my fingers through his. "We didn't get a chance to discuss you in depth." That was true. We discussed everyone else on my calendar. "But you made quite the impression on them."
"Is that typical?" he asked. "Making an impression?"
I heard the question he wasn't asking.How did I fare against the others?
"Hard to say," I replied with a shrug. "I've never introduced anyone to them before."
"Not even…" His voice trailed off. He wasn't going to say it. He wasn't going to come out and acknowledge the existence of the other men in my life.
"Nope." I glanced up at him. "Not even."
Another truth. I didn't mix work and sex. I didn't hook up with men from the sports world and I didn't bring my calendar boys to professional events. Not even playoff games when tickets were worth my body weight in gold. I didn't blur those lines.
Not until now.
"Good," he replied, giving my hand a squeeze. "Good."
"Hey," I started, "it looks like the Bruins will go to the Stanley Cup this year. My firm usually gets a couple tickets. If they make it, will you go with me? I mean, I'm not sure if you like hockey or—"
Another squeeze cut off my words. "I'll be there, Stella."
I blewthrough emails and texts while the car service headed northwest, toward McKendrick's estate. I'd spent the past four hours of this Friday night at his elbow, clearing my throat when his language grew colorful or his commentary veered into inappropriate territories. The children's health and athletics foundation fundraiser at a craft brewery outside the city should've been an easy appearance but my client was in rare form.
I'd expected him to do the basics—meet and greet with big-dollar donors beforehand, red carpet and rope line, and then a bit of schmoozing and a quick exit. He came through on the meet and greet and the red carpet but seemed determined to shut the event down, lasting three hours longer than I'd anticipated. Everyone who wanted a wild Lucian McKendrick story got one plus another for the road.
The only upside was the complete lack of black eyes and busted lips.
"You're in a mood tonight," McKendrick remarked. He rested his arm on the window ledge, leaned his head against his hand. "That's a real mood you're rockin'."
"It might surprise you to hear this, Lucian, but I have moods just about every day," I replied. "If I'm lucky, several moods. It's one of my many gifts and talents."
"It's not a gift today, lady."
This, from the man who wasn't allowed within ten feet of a bottle of Hennessy.
I shifted, stared at him. "You're suggesting my temperament is an issue?"
"I don't know what the issue is," McKendrick said, drumming his fingers on his knee. "But you gotta fix that shit. That's what you do, lady. You fix what's broke and you do it with a fuckin' smile. You know why? Because when you smile, everyone else smiles too. Smile more, honeycakes. Does a body good."
I couldn't decide what to handle first—the uneven, unsettled state I'd found myself in this week or the fact McKendrick picked up on it. There was also the matter of my smiles and their impact on him. "Is that—are you complimenting me?"
"Oh my god," he groaned to the window. "Is it wrong for me to want something nice to look at?"
On principle alone, I worked a scowl the remainder of the ride to McKendrick's estate. And the ride back into the city too. I held on to that scowl and not simply because my client demanded a smile. I felt scowly. Uneven, unsettled, and scowly. As if I couldn't find a comfortable position no matter how many times I shifted.
This was unusual for me. I didn't get lost in my feelings too often. There were reasons for that. I had routines, I had structures, I had those ducks marching in line. No need for deep, contemplative moods when my life was ordered and my calendar color-coded. And this was why I'd kept it that way—I didn't want to devote a minute of my day to wondering how a guy felt about me and whether he was being completely truthful when I asked about our relationship.
All of this time and energy wasted on thinking about another person's thoughts, and for what? I asked Cal if he was all right with our—whatever this was. What else could I do? If he wasn't going to come out and demand something different, why should I spend my week struggling through the uncertainty of our connection?
I shouldn't. That was the bottom line. I shouldn't spend any time on this. I needed to go home, start a load of laundry and write a grocery list, and fall asleep with the sports highlights.
