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Empty. Cold.
But there’s one thing that turns my insides sizzling hot. And that’s the view of Garrett’s broad, gorgeous body standing in my living room. I love the way he looks here, surrounded by my things—that could become our things. I can see us living here together—I can see it so clearly, I practically taste it on my tongue.
Actually making that a reality on the other hand . . . that’s more complicated.
Garrett knows Lakeside in and out and over the last few months, I’ve rediscovered it with him. But now’s my chance to show him my city. I bring him to the Fountain Theater, with its giant crystal chandelier, old polished leather seats, and grand red-curtained stage. We hold hands and throw a penny, making a wish, in the magnificent white marble fountain out front that gave the theater its name. I introduce him to my coworkers, the actors and the crew—even Mr. Dorsey comes out of his office to shake Garrett’s hand.
And to tell me they can’t wait to have me back.
I bring Garrett to Sambuca’s, my favorite Italian bistro, downtown and Grindstone Bakery that makes the most orgasmic croissants. We spend all day Saturday in La Jolla—shopping in the boutiques, visiting the gardens, walking along the coast. I show him my dream apartment building that still has vacancies waiting for me, and we spend an hour watching my seals sun themselves on the jetty.
On Sunday, Bruce and Cher get married in an intimate ceremony, in the Japanese Friendship Garden near Balboa Park. Though I’ve been an absentee best friend, Cher still has me as her maid of honor. I wear a backless silver dress, and Garrett’s eyes burn for me as I walk down the aisle and stand at the altar. I cry when Bruce and Cher say their vows and kiss—they’re two of the best people I know. I love them and am so happy they have each other.
The reception is held on a rooftop terrace of the Andaz, in the Gaslamp Quarter. White Chinese lanterns illuminate every table, and glass-enclosed, water lily candles fill the rectangular pool in the center of the terrace. The bright, bursting stars in the midnight sky are our ceiling and the sound of the ocean fills the air. Garrett and I drink and laugh—the last song of the night is “Remember When” by Alan Jackson, and Garrett holds me so close while we rock softly to the music—and I tear up a little then too. What can I say . . . I’m a crier. And love is beautiful.
Garrett is quiet on the ride back to my apartment. I don’t turn on the lamp when we walk inside. He loosens his tie, and leans against the window sill, looking out—the city lights glowing on his handsome face and turning the color of his eyes to dark brandy.
“What do you think of San Diego?” I ask him.
But there’s so much more in the simple question than just those words.
What I really mean is, could you live here? Would you be happy here? Could you, would you give up the whole amazing life you’ve built, to come be here with me?
How can I ask him that? To give up his kids, and probably coaching and the things he loves so much? The things that make him who he is?
I can’t.
I would never. Just like he won’t ask me to stay in Lakeside.
We’re stuck.
“I like it,” Garrett says. “It’s a beautiful city.”
He turns and walks up to stand before me, sweeping my hair gently off my cheek. “It’s even more beautiful with you in it, Callie.”
My blood turns to liquid sugar, and I melt at the sweetness of his words.
I take a breath and push away any sad thoughts. Because we still have time. Garrett and I can still pretend for a little bit longer that we can have everything. Have each other and still keep the lives on opposite sides of the country that we love.
In the meantime . . . sex. We can focus on sex. Making love and filthy, fabulous fucking.
Sex with Garrett makes everything better.
I wrap my finger around his tie—reeling him in towards me.
“You know what’s super awesome about this apartment?”
His mouth nudges into his sexy grin.
“What’s that?”
“The shower—it has a great shower. Specifically, the floor of the shower . . . it’s super comfy to kneel on.”
I slide my palm to his crotch and stroke his big, thickening cock through his soft, black dress pants. And I run my tongue up his neck slowly, licking over his stubble to his jaw—so he has no doubt what I’m thinking about doing to him.
“Want me to show you?”
“Yes, please,” he practically squeaks. I’ve never heard Garrett squeak—it’s hot.
Then he grabs me, caveman style, and throws me over his shoulder, smacking my ass as he carries me down the hall to the bathroom.
