The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

46. A Little Magic

46

A LITTLE MAGIC

Rafe

Priyam is a careful, detailed man, and the paperwork for Bespoke feels endless.

I might as well put a cot in my attorney’s Covent Garden office and camp out for days. But details are critical, so I once again read the documents Anne slides in front of me.

“Just a few more pages,” she says and moves to stand by the window overlooking the river below.

It’s a lovely view, but I’d rather it be the Golden Gate Bridge. Lately, I’ve been missing San Francisco. Lately, as in, since I left New York and Gunnar a little more than a week ago.

It feels like forever.

The deal still isn’t closed and won’t be for another few weeks.

But I read, sign, then thank my ace attorney.

“We can send the rest of the papers digitally, you know,” Anne offers.

It’s a thoughtful reminder that I don’t have to be here in person.

“I’ll think on it,” I say.

As I leave, I do just that.

I’ve met with Priyam, toured his facilities in London, and visited the factories nearby, since he’s locally based. I’ve met with the banks. All in all, I’ve spent a month in this city working all day and most of the night.

Do I need to be here? Or am I hanging on in my hometown for other reasons?

I exit the building and head past the Savoy, making my way to meet Christine for a beer. The air is chilly, and I tighten the scarf around my neck. It’s mid-November now. Baseball season is over. London is gray, and the river is quieter than usual. Fewer boats, fewer people. As I walk along the River Thames, I check my email. I must stay focused on work and on the deal. If I spend too much time staring at boats, I’ll keep asking myself questions about where I should be and if I’m supposed to return to San Francisco.

The first email I click on is from Matthew. The subject line says, “You’ll love these.”

He’s sent me shots from the You Do You shoot in Central America. I brace myself for an onslaught of feelings as I open the images.

Bloody hell.

I am not prepared. I stop in front of a Thai restaurant to catch my breath. There’s a shot of Gunnar on the beach, clear blue waters behind him, looking smoldering and entirely too far away from me.

What am I doing?

I scroll to the next one, a shot of him in a luxurious bathroom, shaving while wearing just a pair of the red devil briefs. My throat goes dry as my gaze roams over the picture.

But I’m both aroused and sad. My heart aches as memories taunt me.

Showering in my bathroom that night. Brushing our teeth together before bed. Getting breakfast together the next morning.

Dammit. I didn’t get enough of him at all during our brief time together.

I wanted thirty days. I got one terrific night.

I chose only one night.

Should I have chosen thirty instead? The question gnaws at me.

I click on another shot. Gunnar lounges at a table on a balcony, drinking a coffee, wearing reading glasses, perusing a book. He wears only basic white briefs that are snug and tight.

That image is just exquisite.

The ache in my heart intensifies.

I want the mornings too. I want the thirty days and thirty nights that I stupidly denied myself.

Putting my mobile away, I cross the street, needing distance from the pang the photos bring, but then I do a double take when I spot a poster of Lucas at a bus stop. It’s an advert for his fragrance.

I scan it clinically. A few months ago, the image might have smacked me square in the solar plexus, radiating through me painfully.

But this time I feel nothing—not even the ghost of the past hurt. Now I just see him as somebody from long ago.

He’s not the one who can hurt me anymore.

I’m the one who’s hurting me.

I am the architect of my misery.

I pick up the pace, suddenly more impatient to see Christine. I have too many questions to handle myself. Is Anne right? Should I go back to San Francisco? If I came to London to get away, has my self-imposed exile run its course?

Well, I do live in San Francisco, and I was always going to return. But I’ve avoided it. I suppose I’ve stayed here to avoid Gunnar—to avoid my own response to him.

My own obsession.

When I reach the pub, I quickly find Christine at the bar. I kiss her cheek, then I blurt out, “I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of fear holding me back. I think I need to make a change. A big change.”

Her lips crook up into a grin. “Rafe, what are you saying?”

I gird myself to dig down deep. “When I return to San Francisco, I need to figure out something, don’t I?”

She rolls her eyes and laughs. “Figure out something ? Your big decision is to decide something?”

I sit up straighter, slightly chastened. “Yes. With Gunnar,” I say, in case it’s not clear.

“I knew you were talking about Gunnar.”

“Well? Do you think I should figure something out?” I ask again.

She levels at me the most serious look she’s ever given. “Rafe, why don’t you aim a little higher than figuring something out ?”

She’s right. Figuring something out isn’t enough.

As she hails the bartender to order me a drink, I click over to Gunnar’s social media. I don’t want one night with him. I don’t want thirty nights with him.

I want all the days and nights. I want more than an obsession.

When I reach the feed’s most recent photo, I smile, and it feels like it comes from deep within me. Gunnar stands in front of the ocean, wearing board shorts and a smile. One arm is draped around his sister, the other around his mother, and her arm links around Charlie.

The picture of Gunnar enjoying his family makes me the happiest I’ve been in a long, long time.

I think I’ve just figured out more than something. I’ve figured out everything .

Now I have to work out how to get it.

When Gunnar wanted to find me after the dance club, he threw out a lure on social media, posting an image of himself in Rafe Rodman briefs and an invitation to come and get him. He posted a thirst trap to get my attention. He has it now, along with all of my heart.

I click on his post and hit reply, writing: This makes me want to get into the bathing suit business.

Seconds later, there’s a response.

Well, what’s stopping you?

That’s an excellent question. “What the fuck is stopping me?” I ask myself aloud.

Christine smiles as she asks, “Is that what you’ve decided to figure out?”

I don’t have to. The only thing in the way of my heart is— me . I’m what’s stopping me.

“I am a daft idiot. I thought I was obsessed with him . But the only thing I’m obsessed with is work.”

Christine lifts her glass in a toast. “By George, I think he’s got it!”

I’ve had a good rationale for pouring myself into my business, but work doesn’t look at me the way Gunnar does. Work doesn’t make my heart thunder. Work doesn’t make me happy . It’s fulfilling, but I have wildly intelligent people like Matthew and Theresa on my team. People who can keep things humming. Who will help me with anything if I only ask.

I can say the same about my best friend, and I turn to her and ask for the help I need. “Would you come back to my hotel to help me with something?”

“Of course I will. That’s why I’m here.”

I pay the bill, and we take off. At the hotel, we head straight for Theresa’s suite, and I rap on the door.

When she sees us, she sweeps open the door with an invitation. “Come in.”

“Can you handle the rest of our business here?” I ask. “Closing the Bespoke deal? Managing the paperwork, the attorneys, the bankers? You can get in touch with me for my signature digitally.”

“It’s like we’re living in the twenty-first century,” Christine remarks, and Theresa laughs, ganging up on me.

“Laugh if you want,” I say. I know I’m tragically unhip, that e-signatures aren’t sorcery.

But for me, deviating from business requires a little magic.