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“Glad that’s settled. Now––what’s good here? I’m starvin’.”
Chapter Eight
Stella
“Fore,” my friend yells as she swings her club. In the middle of an indoor driving range I should clarify. Simulator golf ranges––the latest rage in Manhattan. In their defense, the gourmet comfort food and craft beer are nothing to sneeze at.
Yesterday’s lunch with Dane proved to be an eye opening experience. Every time I think he’s going to do something to really put me off, he manages to surprise me––in a good way.
Again, he half-nelsoned me to the mat with his honesty. When he admitted that I made him crazy, I knew it was over for me. It hit me in a rare soft spot. Unfortunately, I have first hand knowledge that nothing good comes from having a soft spot for a good-looking, smooth-talking man.
As soon as I got home I began researching his charity work. True to his word the Dane Wylder Charitable Foundation has been hosting a summer camp for inner city at-risk boys for the past seven years called Man Up. And that’s only some of the work it does.
They’ve raised scholarship money. Donated computers. Currently they’re renovating a rec center located in one of Brooklyn’s poorest neighborhoods. He’s done more for kids than I’ve ever done; my donations pale by comparison.
With every article I read singing his praises, I shrank in my seat on the couch until I was hiding under the pillows.
As badly as I want to tell him that this won’t work––for all intents and purposes we’re oil and water, neutral colors to bright neons––I can’t bring myself to do it. He’s earned the chance.
And if I was being completely honest, something about him is endearing. Even his teasing is harmless. I spent most of lunch wrestling down a grin. And I believe him when he says he won’t shirk his responsibilities. The foundation…football. Both require commitment, effort, and time. He’s proven he can do it. Maybe he’s not such a risky choice after all.
“Tell me again why I had to meet you here?” I ask, exhaustion making me snippy. “And on a school night no less.” It’s already nine. Also known as past my bedtime.
“Because you’re my friend, that’s why. You’re contractually obligated. And because I’m researching my next novel. A time travel golf romance.”
“And what does that have to do with you futzing around on a golf course simulator?”
She stops mid-swing and leans on her club. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re human,” she says, head shaking in disappointment. “Look around you––hot guys galore.”
The place is packed with young professionals. She beams at someone beyond my shoulder. I don’t have to look to know it’s one of those hot guys.
“What about Colton?”
“Colton is on death row.” She resumes her stance, testing out her putting swing.
“What crime did he commit?”
“He’s getting clingy.”
“How clingy?” I’m compelled to ask because in the past Delia dumped a guy who felt it necessary to have a few dinners and a conversation before getting naked.
She believes gay men and women are for conversation, straight men are for sport. Her words not mine.
“He threw a bitch fit when I told him I don’t do sleepovers.”
“The nerve of him.”
“Did you forget what he did to me when we first started dating?”
And then I recall…Colton was a bad boy, jerking Delia around, canceling dates last minute and showing up on TMZ with a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader or some such person when he said he wasn’t seeing anyone else. The hazards of dating a major league baseball player I guess.
“I tried to be nice to him, I really did, but he wasn’t having it. So now that I have the five-inch heel of my Chanel thigh-high boot shoved up his ass he thinks he’s in love.” Shrugging, she adds, “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”
“I do hate the game. That’s why I don’t play. Changing topic. I think I found him.” Delia’s head snaps up and the golf ball goes flying to her left. It almost hits the group next to us.
“Sorry,” we both yell.
“Tell me everything,” she demands, attention captivated. “Gay?”
“No,” I groan, still sore about that development. “They didn’t want me.”
“Bummer.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So?”
“He’s a friend of Ethan’s. His name is Dane Wylder, he’s a––”
Her brown eyes narrow suspiciously. “A porn star?” she interrupts.
“What? No, he’s not a porn star.”
“That name is very familiar. Are you sure he’s not a porn star?”
“I’m positive he’s not a porn star. He’s a retired football player.”
And then it dawns on me…
“Oh God, do you think you might’ve slept with him?” I screech in a panic. “Is that why he sounds familiar?”
I’d have to start my search all over again. I could never look at him again without picturing him in a compromising position with Delia.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d remember him if I slept with him. You know I keep track of that stuff on my phone. I would’ve rated and shelved him and look––” Pulling out her cell from the back pocket of her skinny jeans, she taps away on the screen and holds it up for my perusal. “See, it’s in alphabetical order. He’s not there.”
Heaving a sigh of relief, I slump down on a bar stool and take a big gulp of my fancy craft beer.
“Thank God for your organizational skills.”
“Still––your kid will sound like a baby porn star. Imagine what the other kids at school will do to him.” My glare has no effect on her. She starts practicing her putt again. Not for long it seems. Straightening, expression super pensive, she adds, “And if you ever married him your name would be, Star Wylder. Very porny.”
“There’s a greater chance of me becoming an actual porn star.”
“Just sayin’. So, you think he’s the one?”
As she’s asking, the answer comes to me loud and clear. My mind whispering yes, while my lips say, “We’ll see.”
It’s only Tuesday and already one of the worst weeks of my life. I was late making a decision on a stock and my hesitation cost the hedge fund a boatload of money. I’ve never had an issue making decisions, but lately my head hasn’t been in the game the way it should be.
On the way home I made a single stop, to purchase a bottle of wine. And now as I sit on the couch, absently staring out my window with glass filled to the brim in hand, it occurs to me that once again I have no food in the house. On cue, my stomach rumbles.
My phone dings with an incoming text.
Dane: Come over?
In the whopping three days since my lunch date, my lunch companion has texted me five times. That’s five texts asking if I’d made a decision…in three days. I can only imagine what he was like as a kid. “Are we there yet?” must’ve been playing on a loop.
Me: No.
The man is relentless. While on the contrary I can’t seem to pull the trigger on anything lately.
Dane: Then let me up.
You can imagine the confusion this evokes.
Me: What do mean let you up. Where are you?
Dane: Downstairs.
I’m frozen, glass inches from my mouth and fingers hovering over the keyboard of my cell phone.
Dane: Don’t think too hard, Stella. Let me up.
If I thought there was any way to make him go away quietly, I would. However, I’ve learned that it’s almost impossible to get this guy to do anything he doesn’t want to do. With a tired sigh, I type––
Me: You’ve got fifteen minutes and only fifteen.
Dane: Deal. :)
He smiles way too much––even in texts.
Minutes later my doorbell chimes. I peer through the view hole and see throat. A moment later, he stoops and I see a broad white grin.
With a none-too-pleased look on m
y face, I open the door and find him standing there in sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. Any hope I had that he stopped by on his way to a date fizzles.
“Hittin’ the booze already, huh?” he says eyeballing my glass. “I’ll take one too, thanks.”
He walks past me without waiting for an invitation. “Come on in. Make yourself at home,” I drawl while he looks around. “Shoes off.”
After toeing off his sneakers, he moves through my apartment inspecting everything as if he were casing the joint. Then he makes a right into the kitchen. I hear the opening and closing of my kitchen cabinets.
“Nice place.” His voice carries from my living room. I follow it there.
“Thanks,” I practically grunt.
“Aside from the fact that this is very obviously where fun comes to die.” He places the glass on the coffee table and throws himself down on my couch, legs spread apart, hands locked behind his head. “I think your couch just dented my ass. Most uncomfortable couch I’ve ever sat on.”
