Something in my face must give me away because his sea-green eyes, greener than my own, regard me with concern. “Uh…he doesn’t look like someone you ought to tangle with, Jord.”
“I like living dangerously.” The rush of challenge raises the fine hairs on the back of my neck. Stiles has yet to look over or even appear to notice me. He’s facing forward, nursing a beer, his eyes lifted to the TV screen mounted above the mirror and rows of liquor bottles behind the bar.
“I’m a safer bet,” Cam points out.
“Safe is too easy,” I say, planning my pursuit. “Hold my usual order. I’ll just have a beer for now.”
He pulls an ale for me while my gaze remains on Stiles. He seems so still, and yet there’s this energy as if he’s emitting sonic waves. Soundless. Invisible. They vibrate across the room and seep beneath my skin, bouncing frenetically through my body. Unlike him, I can’t remain still. This surge of energy won’t let me. I may never be still again.
“You’re really into him.” Cam tosses back his bangs, sounding a little put out, his ego probably bruised. He’s used to commanding the attention of women, but he can tell by my body language that he’s not the man I’m interested in. That man is busy sitting still, not even noticing me while he zings off silent killer vibes that make my palms itch and my pulse beat way too fast.
“Jord?” Cam recaptures my attention and slides the beer across with another warning. “Be careful. Seriously. He’s not sending out boyfriend signals.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not looking for a boyfriend.” I grin and slip away from his needless concern with a finger wave.
I can handle men. I taught myself how.
I’d grown up a tomboy and an athlete. I played competitive soccer and field hockey, drawn to both because they’re fast-paced and aggressive. I used to wonder if my unisex name had pushed me in that direction. Had I been a Stefanie or a Lily, would I have preferred chasing butterflies over digging up worms, dolls over trucks, dancing in a tutu over getting a ball into a net? I’ll never know. As Jordyn—even with a “y” that my mom claimed gave it a female distinction—I’m what most would call a guy’s gal. My knowledge of sports stats is extensive. I can cuss and make crude jokes with the best of them. Plop me down in front of any sporting event with a beer and a mustard-topped hot dog, and I’m all set.
That affected how boys saw me in high school and into college—as one of them. The girl you took to a game or hung out with. The girl you screwed in the basement or on the twin-size bed in a dorm room, but wouldn’t actually date or bring home to Mom.
I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was twenty-three and met Theodore Price. Tall, dark, and bordering on dorky. We met through the master’s program at Illinois Tech and shared a deep respect for neoclassical architecture. He wasn’t into sports. I wasn’t his buddy. For the first time, I was someone’s girlfriend.
Our relationship flowed seamlessly, and to my surprise, for a dork, Theodore was crazy about sex. He liked that I was wild in bed, and I liked that he told me I was pretty and sexy. I thought he could bethe one.I let him move some of his things into my apartment and introduced him to my family.
I thought…hoped he’d reciprocate. But every time he went home to Missouri, he never asked me to join him. I’d never even spoken to his mother on the phone. Finally, after six months, with a holiday coming up, I decided to broach the subject in a serious way. I told him how I felt—I didn’t use the L word, but it was implied. He said I was the best thing that ever happened to him, then spread my legs apart. The sex had been great, but I wanted more. I wanted to know that he saw a future with me. I wanted to finally be that girl the guy brought home to Mom.
The next morning, while Theodore was in the shower, his phone vibrated. He always had it with him, but this time, he’d forgotten. When I heard a message ping, I ignored my conscience. Some doubt or insecurity compelled me to roll over and retrieve it from under his pillow. The message that popped on the screen dizzied me.
Sadie: Hi Teddy Bear. Guess you’re busy. Only a week to go. I can’t wait until you’re home. I miss you so much. For Easter, your mother is going to teach me how to make her potatoes au gratin. That way I’ll have it down to a science by the time we’re married.
Istopped reading there. I didn’t know which disgusted me more, that a grown man allowed himself to be called Teddy Bear or that he was a goddamn liar and a cheat. I didn’t wait for him to finish his shower. I charged into the bathroom and ripped back the curtain, waving the phone in my hand.
“I got a message for you, Teddy Bear!” Then I proceeded to cuss him out with all the vitriol I felt.
Other than the shock of a crazed naked woman foaming at the mouth, he was rather blasé about getting caught. No denials or apologies.
I felt stupid and gullible. I’d been so sure that he cared about me, even loved me. How did I miss it? Confused, I calmed down enough to ask why. And I wish I hadn’t.
“You’re smart, Jord, fun and uninhibited. We have a love of architecture in common, and I really like you. The sex is off the hook, the best I’ve ever had. But to be honest, you’re just not girlfriend or wife material.”
Furious and insulted, I was reminded of that adage about a tiger in the bedroom and a lady in the parlor. I was the good-fuck tiger while the lady was back in Missouri, learning to make potatoes au gratin.
I didn’t cry. Theodore wasn’t worth my tears. Instead, I tossed his clothes out the window and his ass out of my apartment. Looking back, my heart wasn’t broken—slightly dented, maybe. I was angry that he’d wasted my time, embarrassed that I’d been used. But I moved on.
Smarter, wiser, I control the reins. That doesn’t make me jaded about relationships or love. I grew up with happily married parents that still act like newlyweds. My older brother proposed to his now-wife after knowing her a mere seven weeks, and they’re still gaga three years later.
I can admit to momentary bouts of wishing the romance gene hadn’t passed me by. But then I’m reminded that I like having the bed to myself, hogging the remote, and answering to nobody but myself. At thirty-one, I’m a successful architect who was just named to the list of Chicago’s Rising Stars Under 40. I own a triplex that I’ve converted into rental apartments. I’m not rich, but I’m financially solid. I have a great family, great friends, and a great career.
I don’t have the time or inclination for emotional attachments. I like sex, and I like my independence—period.
No promises. No expectations. No one gets hurt.
The kind of arrangement I think a practical man like Stiles would appreciate.
Locked and loaded, I finger-comb the textured bangs of my short auburn hair and strut forward as if I’m wearing my most bolstering push-up bra, rather than shin guards and cleats.
At six-one and supremely muscular, his broad chest and shoulders test the cotton threads of his army-green T-shirt. Whereas Eduardo—my friend-with-benefits—would be instantly identified as a model, you’d never make that assumption with Stiles. No way would you see a man like him walking down a runway in Calvin Klein or gracing the pages of GQ in a slim-cut Gucci suit. He’s too rugged, too big, too badass. The kind of man that should be featured inRidermagazine, wearing leather and biker boots while straddling that huge piece of metal out back.
