Master Debater

5. Willa

Dammit. I had no one to blame but myself, although distraction hadn’t been my only goal. Thanks to my ex prattling on and on about sports cars, I’d developed a distaste for them. Mostly because they led to arguments about money.

While I’d done my best to fight it, Nate’s car was luxurious and exhilarating, and I hadn’t been lying about the way the seats cocooned my body.

Then there was the way Nate’s hand gripped the gear shifter. He maneuvered with such ease, I’d started daydreaming about other stick-like objects he might be able to grip and maneuver so aptly.

Thanks, starving libido. Then again, even if I’d managed to slake my ever-burgeoning lust, the fat silver watchband on his wrist that flashed under the streetlights and the prominent veins in his hands would’ve compelled me to fixate on his long fingers.

His black suit provided a peek of a dark gray shirt and black silk tie, and my fingers twitched with the impulse to undo the buttons of the jacket and take a better look. I shouldn’t have asked about a girlfriend, but he made that joke—or comment, as I didn’t think he was kidding—and I’d had to know.

I’d hoped it would help my thoughts stay on the right track, but now his single status flashed through my mind like a neon sign. Honestly, regardless of his answer, whenever I was around Nate, my thoughts tended to veer down the filthiest path possible.

If he was half as good with his hands as I imagined he would be… I crossed my legs and exhaled a shallow breath.

“Willa?” God, the way Nate said my name, all deep and demanding, caused my insides to unravel. I pressed my thighs together that much tighter, struggling to remember that mere hours ago, I’d cursed men in general.

I reached up and twisted the end of my ponytail around my finger. “Right. My job. I recently took a position at the Berklee College of Music. I’ll be teaching Composition and Theory, but I guess I’m more nervous than I wanted to admit. I so don’t feel ready for a pop quiz.”

“And I look like a pop quiz kind of guy?” Nate threaded his car into the narrow needle of a spot behind our duplex. The duplex, I mean. Whatever. Where we lived.

What he looked like was the type of lawyer you’d only see in movies, because in reality, they were Hollywood heartthrobs playing a role. Also like a guy who only dated supermodels. In theory, I should be able to easily shrug that off with a quick thought about how he was out of my league, and probably shallow as hell. The possibility of him being as smart as he was sexy was harder to swallow. Why did some people get it all, while other people—like me—end up with scraps?

You don’t have the metabolism to eat that, Will, Eric often said before he helped himself to seconds, because he did have the metabolism. He was one of those people who had to work to bulk up. When he’d bemoan how hard it was for him to put on weight, I’d wanted to pull out the tiniest violin in the world to play—right before I shoved it up his ass.

Our phone call today left me wishing I’d followed through. Yes, my bitterness was showing, but ugh. I’d lost count of how many times over the past couple of years he’d uttered the phrase “you let yourself go” to me.

Don’t think about the asshole. Focus on the question so you don’t have a meltdown in front of the guy you’ve already biffed twice in front of. “I’m a little paranoid about telling people, because while I know the material, I’m rusty. Several of the professors I’ll be working with have worked on albums, or they’ve played or had their songs played at one of the many music venues in town. And recently too. It’s been ages since I stood in front of any kind of audience—unless you count my kitty. I don’t, as he has permanent judgy face. I’ve told him countless times I don’t appreciate it, but it remains unchanged.”

“Judgy face.” Amusement coated Nate’s repetition of the phrase. “I’m going to use that next time in court. ‘Your Honor, I don’t appreciate the judgy face.’”

I laughed, my anxiety over my job lighter than it’d been in days. “I’m sure His or Her Honor would love that.” I exhaled, debating how much to share. “I can’t stop reminiscing about the day I stood on the stage of the performance center and received my master’s degree. It’d been a dream of mine since junior high, and I was so sure that moment was the start of something amazing.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Like you said, plans change.” Minding the exterior of the building, I opened the passenger door. “Anyway, thanks for the ride.” I slipped out, determined to grab my groceries and go, but there wasn’t enough room from this side of the car.

By the time I circled around to snag the bags, Nate was already on it. He balanced the three of them far easier than I’d done, the soggy one, notwithstanding.

“Oh, I can carry them,” I said, stretching out my arms to take the load.

“Afraid I can’t allow that, since I’ve seen what happens when you do.” His wink softened the statement, but I still gave an exaggerated sigh, so he didn’t go getting too smug about it.

Together, we walked around front, and I quickly unlocked the door to my place. Then I gestured for him to put the groceries in the same place he’d set my broken dishes the night we met.

Van Gogh ran out of the back room, eyed Nate, and then retreated, his cowardice overtaking his desire to beg for more food. “It’s okay, kitty. It’s just our neighbor.”

“‘Just,’” Nate said with a snort, and I glanced over my shoulder at him.

“Sorry. Did you want an official title?”

“Careful what you offer, because I’ll take you up on it.”

A giggle spilled free, one that sounded far too much like I enjoyed his flirting. Which, okay, I did, if that was what this was. I suspected it was more about his charming personality than me.

“Can you snag one of those cans of cat food?” I asked Nate, who obliged, and I managed to coax out Van Gogh with the sound of the opening top. My kitty didn’t bother glancing up as I introduced the two of them, too busy with his food.

You eat as much as you want, I silently conveyed as I ran my hand over his cat fur.

I hated that Eric’s words were still in my head, messing with the progress I’d made over the last few days. He called to sort out business matters, suddenly flipping the script on what we’d already agreed to. When I haughtily told him I was mostly moved in and walking to the store for groceries, he snorted and said, “Let me guess. You’re on some new eating plan too. Wonder how long that’ll last.”

Since he coached high school baseball for Sugar Creek in the springtime, I’d told myself for too long that the only way he knew to motivate was to break people down. He’d yell and insult, and the teenage boys would push themselves harder and become more determined to prove him wrong. Clearly the method didn’t work on me, and with some distance, I realized how toxic his words were to my self-esteem.

It didn’t help that the super skinny temp we hired to fill in for me while I was helping my mom heal from her hip surgery became my replacement in the bedroom too.

“You don’t get to control the level of worth I feel anymore,” I muttered, teeth clenched.

“What was that?” Nate asked, and I’d been so lost in my thoughts I nearly jumped.

“Just talking to myself.”

“But why, when I’m right here and willing to listen. You still haven’t come clean about why your day was so rough. I get the feeling it’s more than worry over your new job.”

Man, this guy was too good at reading body language, something he undoubtedly picked up for his line of work. I straightened, my thighs burning after being crouched next to Van Gogh for so long, and hugged my arms around my middle. As nice as his offer was, I was unwilling to go there. It’d expose my vulnerabilities, and more, I didn’t want to call focus to my body; didn’t want his pity; or for him to even know I was in the middle of a divorce that was drifting into ugly territory.

Not yet anyway, even if that meant keeping him at bay.

Way to be delusional, Willa. He’s simply being neighborly, not trying to sail into your port.

Nate strode closer and curled his large hands around my shoulders. “No pressure. But I’m here if you decide you want to talk about it.” Time slowed to a crawl, his hulking presence leaving me no choice but to take in his stature. His broad shoulders. The prevalent Adam’s apple, the dark whiskers that emphasized his strong jawline, and then up, up, up to meet the steady gaze of his espresso-colored eyes.

“No? Then we’ll move on to the next subject. Since I’m the one who made you spill your wine before forcing you to throw away the bottle?—”

“Technically, you threw it away.”

His demeanor changed, his lips pursing and two grooves forming between his thick eyebrows. He lifted one of his hands to the side of my throat, his thumb pressing against the pulse point in my neck that began pumping faster and faster. “People don’t usually cross-examine me. That’s my job.”

I attempted to swallow. And failed. If he were a stranger on the street, I’d be afraid to even consider crossing him. Perhaps it was the slight lift at the right corner of his mouth, or the challenging gleam in his eye that said he was rather enjoying this game where I tried to resist him. Nathan Fox only scared me in one way, and it had to do more with me, and how quickly I could fall if I let him in.

“Come over, and I’ll open a bottle of wine.”

“That wasn’t a question,” I said, proud the words didn’t come out with the same shakiness of my breath.

“You’re right. It wasn’t.” His callused fingertips ran down my throat, to my collarbone, and my breath lodged in my throat. Then he lowered his arm, laced his fingers through mine, and tugged me toward the door. On our way out, he sidestepped to grab the wine-stained box of cookies.

I kept waiting for my body to respond the way I told it to. For common sense to kick in and my heels to dig in.

But as we went from one door to the other, the words on the tip of my tongue died as quickly as my momentary resolve.