Even if it’s only for tonight.
I’VE BEEN GIVEN the brush-off before; this isn’t the first time. No, that particular honor goes to Ewelina Rutyna. She was a foreign exchange student I met in high school. I remember her walking into class on the first day of the school year, all long tan limbs, dark wavy hair and a European accent. She was Polish, if I remember correctly. Her voice was so sultry she made everything that poured from her lips sound insanely sexual to my sixteen-year-old ears. There was something mysterious and exotic about her, and damn did she know it.
By lunchtime, I’d decided I was in love. Her new girl status, and the fact that she had the body of a Playboy model only increased my lust. There were plenty of beautiful girls in my year group, but that was just it—they all looked like girls. They dressed in tight preppy sweaters and little plaid skirts. Ewelina looked like a woman. She rocked ripped jeans, spiked heels and a tank top so tight it looked like it was painted on. Even my teachers had a hard time looking at her face and not her chest. I’d always been popular so I didn’t have a problem finding a girl when I wanted one, and hell did I want her. By the end of the day, I’d fed her enough lines and stroked her ego sufficiently for her to agree to go out with me.
We spent a week of intense groping in the halls and racking up an inordinate amount of PDA’s to declare us the hottest couple in school. But it was short-lived. While my desire for her was building, I’d inadvertently lost some of my cockiness and appeal. She didn’t want a meek and bashful, bumbling idiot who was blinded by her sensuality. She wanted the arrogant, confident, self-assured guy that I’d presented to her the first day we’d spoken. I’d grabbed my lunch and saved her a seat at my table the fateful day she’d blown me out. Luke Atkins, the varsity quarterback, had been standing with her in line, way too close for my comfort. She walked over to my table and announced that we were done. I got the whole It’s not you it’s me speech in broken English, with half of the school there to bear witness. It turned out Luke Atkins was her next conquest. I felt sorry for him; he had no clue what he was getting himself in to.
Ewelina didn’t break my heart; we were only sixteen, and I’d fall in and out of lust at the drop of a hat. But she put a bolder-sized dent in my pride. One that hurt enough for me to make sure I was the one handing out the brush-offs in the future. I’ve issued so many that I can see the signs from a mile away when one is about to be delivered. I’ve always gotten in first to save face. My ability to read people is what makes me a good lawyer. I thought I was pretty hot at it, but complacency is a bitch. Just when you think you have something nailed, things become unstuck. I thought I’d read Robyn’s signals correctly. I thought our date ran as smoothly as it possibly could have. And I thought she liked me more than you would expect to like a friend. I’d assumed it was only her insecurities over her very recent ex-boyfriend holding her back.
Now I’m thinking I was wrong.
And I hate being wrong.
There’s been no response to the two texts I’ve sent her. It’s been just over a week, and the radio silence is killing me. I’m all for playing it cool, but Christ, any cooler and I’ll freeze. I’m tempted to show up at her apartment, but that reeks of desperation and I’m not that guy. I’m looking down at her number in my cell as I drink my coffee, the one I bought hoping today would be the day I accidently bumped into her again. Andrew’s on to me, I can see it in the smirk he gives me when he hands me my change each morning. People around the office have started to notice my daily Starbucks runs, too. Sophie actually asked me to pick her up a latte yesterday. We’ve somehow come full circle, and it’s me bringing her coffee now. I need to restore the balance; it’s throwing me off my game. I’m of two minds; I don’t k now whether or not to delete Robyn’s number. My thumb’s hovering over her name in indecision. Before I can think better of my actions, I’ve pressed call and brought the phone to my ear.
If she doesn’t answer, I’ll delete her number and put her behind me…maybe.
The call connects almost instantly, and I’m not expecting it. I have a mouth full of coffee when her voice fills my ears, and I smile, dribbling the contents down my chin like a toddler with no concept of how to conduct himself in a public place.
“Hey Cole, how are you?” she answers and I frantically wipe the coffee from my chin, swallow the remains hastily and burn my esophagus in the process.
“Hi, Robyn…I wasn’t expecting you to answer,” I admit.
Smooth.
“Oh, um…well, here I am. You called, I responded, that’s normally how a phone call works.”
She’s a smart ass, but it makes me like her more, not less.
“Yeah, I understand the concept, only I’d sent you a couple of messages earlier in the week with no response.”
“I know, sorry about that. I’ve been busy and hadn’t loaded any call time to my cell. I keep forgetting. I was meaning to call you back but work has been pretty full on, and it slipped my mind.”
“No need to apologize, I was wanting to thank you for a nice evening last week and hoping I could convince you to come for a drink with me later today? If you have no plans, that is.”
She takes a minute to respond, and I’m holding my breath in anticipation.
“I’m working from seven if you want to meet earlier, around five-ish. I guess that could work.”
I have back-to-back meetings ‘til six.
“Sure, sounds like a plan.”
“Okay great. Where would you like to meet?” she asks, sounding bright and happy. I love that sound.
“I thought we could have drinks in Central Park at The Loeb Boathouse, off East 72nd. I’ll pick you up?”
“Oh, no, you don’t need to do that. Besides, I won’t be at home; I’ll just meet you there.”
Her breathing sounds a little flustered, but she’s actually agreed without too much persuasion, so I’m not about to question her. “Excellent, I’m looking forward to it.”
I end the call and shoot a look over to Andrew. If his back wasn’t turned he might have noticed the huge-ass smirk I just threw his way. I scroll my contacts and look for Sophie’s number. I need her to clear my schedule for the rest of the day.
I HAVEN’T GONE back to my apartment in almost a week. I’m not even sure what I’ll find when I do. Callum has assured me that Mr. Carter isn’t still there, a rotting corpse on my living room floor, waiting to be discovered by poor old Mrs. Heckles. He’d gone back to my apartment after I’d fallen asleep, the night everything kicked off. When I’d asked him why, he answered, “To make sure he won’t be causing you any more problems.” I’m not sure what that was even supposed to mean, and I don’t dare ask for clarification. Apparently when Cal had arrived back at my place, Mr. Carter had already gone. The only evidence of the whole horrific ordeal was my blood-soaked rug, which he’d cleaned up as best he could. The thought of Cal cleaning my apartment is more than a little strange; I’m not quite sure what to make of it.