Chapter 2
Paul
After the race, Paul waited beside Tony’s wheelchair-accessible van, which was parked in the handicapped section near the starting line. He’d left his friend talking with some vets near the fountain at the square and had headed on over to the van on his own. Now he smiled as he stared up into the clear blue sky and felt the wind across his face.
Man. What a morning. The whole thing had been surreal—rescuing Jessica like that. Her arms around his neck as he rushed her to the tent, holding her. What a babe, too. The feel of her body in his arms, the nearness of her. He couldn’t help but notice her gorgeous blue eyes and her smooth complexion. He’d never felt so, well, useful. Right place, right time.
“Fun race, huh?” Tony said in a gruff voice as he wheeled up to Paul. He had curly black hair, a thick neck, and muscular arms. He was built like a bullet. They’d been weightlifting buds in high school. And even after two tours in Afghanistan, Tony had a positive attitude that just wouldn’t quit. Paul admired that.
“Absolutely. Didn’t think I’d rescue someone, though. She was really cute.”
Paul had told Tony the story earlier as soon as they’d met back up at the end of the race.
“You should have gotten her number,” Tony said with a smile.
“Well . . . I was kind of preoccupied making sure she was alive.”
“Yeah. That’s important too, I guess.” Tony laughed as he pushed himself up higher in his chair.
Paul wiped a hand across his furrowed brow. “So, you sure you’re okay for Thanksgiving?” Paul worried about his friend at times. Tony was vulnerable and a bit lonely; after all, being wheelchair bound was not the easiest. He wondered sometimes if Tony was too proud to ask for help.
“I’m good. Joe and Brad are coming over, and—”
A gorgeous woman with long, auburn hair, a curvy figure, and a wisp of perfume in the mix walked past them, a Labrador on a leash at her side. The Lab sniffed first at Paul, then Tony, before being pulled away by its owner.
“Come on, Bogey,” she said.
Bogey barked as if he wanted to hang out. But she tugged again, and they were on their way after she gave Paul and Tony a flirty smile. But rather than smiling back, Paul couldn’t help but frown.
The woman reminded him of Eva—his last close call. She looked so much like her. Damn. Three long years now. And her kid, Ethan. He’d been eight years old when they’d split up. Ethan. They had been close. Played ball together, even went horseback riding a time or two. He showed Ethan how to lift weights.
But when it came to Eva, he just hadn’t loved her, at least not enough to go all the way and marry her. She’d grown too reliant on him, too clingy and needy, and he couldn’t handle it. Leaving had hurt Eva badly and Paul had felt guilty, for sure. But the worse part was abandoning Ethan. The kid had looked up to him, needed him in that special way that a boy needed an adult male in his life. When Paul had gone, he was sure it had crushed the young boy.
About a year after they broke up, Eva had wound up marrying Max Rodwell—The Maximizer, as he was known around town among body builders. Built like a refrigerator, a perfect picture of health. Paul was glad Eva had found someone else. The Maximizer specialized in spin and was a very popular trainer, a great guy, really.
But then there was the other, bigger problem.
“Hey. What about those Titans, huh?” Tony asked, breaking into Paul’s reverie. “That Michael Ozworth’s leading the NFL in QB sacks. Is that amazing or what?”
“I know. They can’t stop winning. It’s incredible. Maybe I should try out for the Titans,” Paul joked. “What do you think?”
“What would you play?” Tony asked, smirking at him.
“Tight end?”
“Turn around,” Tony said.
Paul swung around and showed Tony his rear. “Nah. Not tight enough. Sorry.”
They both laughed, then Tony started prattling on about the Memphis Grizzlies’ turnover percentages. The guy knew as much about sports as a Vegas oddsmaker.
Tony moved himself from the wheelchair to the van. His muscular arms came in handy. When Tony was in the driver’s seat, Paul folded up the wheelchair and placed it in the back.
“Anyway,” Tony gave Paul a wink as he started the engine, “it was fun. Third place. Imagine that. Next year, I might even win this thing.”
Tony had raced in the wheelchair division. There had been some amazing wheelchair athletes competing.
“You just might,” Paul said. “You never know. Maybe I’ll grease your wheels next year too. That could help.”
Tony smiled. “That’s what I told Angela last night. Grease my wheels, baby.” Laughing, Tony reached for something on his passenger seat and held up a free drink coupon at the Frothy Monkey, a popular coffee shop not far away. “Hey. You want this?”
“Sure,” Paul said.
“Take it. I gave up coffee,” Tony said.
“Really? When?”
“About a week ago. It was making me too jittery.”
Paul took the coupon. “I could use a cup about now.”
“Are you going to be at your studio tomorrow?” Tony asked.
“Yep. I have four clients set up.”
“Okay, cool. I might come by.”
Paul watched Tony drive away, using his hands to operate the accelerator and breaks, and then headed to his own car, which was in a parking lot across from the square. Just as he crossed Main Street, he noticed the Frothy Monkey sign half a block away. Free drink? Why not?
The bells chimed on the creaky wooden door, announcing his entrance. The sweet and heady aroma of coffee immediately wafted through his nostrils. Coffee drinkers sitting in comfy chairs were either staring at their phones or talking to friends. Paul smiled at the twelve ceramic monkeys with coffee cups in their hands that were lined up on a shelf in one corner.
The long line was made up of mostly Trotters, some still wearing their costumes, like the guy behind him wearing a gobbler turkey hat. He was mouthing the words to “We Can’t Be Friends” by Ariana Grande which was coming over the speakers.
Paul had about four hours before his Thanksgiving dinner—three weightlifting friends were coming over, all bachelors, exercise fiends to the max, who also loved to cook. Too bad his place was so stark. But it was his year to host, and he wasn’t getting out of it. His condo was filled with old, used, broken-down furniture, a kitchen table that wobbled badly and looked like it was from the turn of the last century, plus a couch that even a dumpster would turn its nose up at. Everything needed an upgrade, the walls, the floor, the lighting.
Paul told himself he was going for the man-cave look, but who was he fooling? He just kept putting the whole thing off. He didn’t know where to start. Just last week, a trainer from another studio had harassed him about his ancient couch in the den. “Get rid of that thing, would you?” he’d said. “It needs to be shot and put out of its misery.”
Oh, well. He’d pop the turkey into the oven as soon as he got home, do some push-ups and planks and . . .
“Can I take your order, please?” the barista asked the customer ahead of him in a loud voice. The customer was short and squat like a snowman, and the back of his T-shirt said, “Grass isn’t always for mowing.”
Paul couldn’t help but overhear him. “I’ll have a large, half-caff, double-cupped, no sleeve, salted caramel mocha latte with two pumps of vanilla, half whole milk, half low fat, and light whipped cream, extra caramel drizzle, vanilla bean powder, with a little bit of ice, well stirred.”
Paul stifled an eye roll. What was this world coming to?
“Sure thing,” the barista said, taking it all in with the precision of a technician calibrating specialized equipment. The order hadn’t even fazed him.
Paul recalled how his grandfather, Pops, who’d raised him after his father and mother had died and trained him in weightlifting as a teen, had once told him that back in his day, coffee was coffee, and you didn’t think much about it. He said you poured it hot, maybe added a little cream and sugar, and then knocked it back before going about your business. A simpler time, for sure.
Now Pops and Gran, deep into their eighties and living in Tampa, were at the point where they needed to move out of their worn-down house in Seminole Heights and into assisted living. But they were sticking to their guns, and that worried Paul a lot. The cost of repairing their old house was eating them up. What would happen if there was an emergency?
Paul placed his order, a large black coffee, gave the barista his coupon, then stepped away to stand by the pickup counter. He turned around and glanced at the line of people still waiting to order. The line was getting longer. Then he blinked just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Standing in line, studying her phone, was the woman from the Trot. Jessica, the one he’d rescued.
When she looked up, their eyes met, and an unavoidable grin rose on his face. He hadn’t thought he’d ever see her again, and yet there she was. A flash of excitement mixed with a dollop of awkwardness ran through him. He thought about the comment she’d made when she’d first opened her eyes on the pavement. Something about him wearing too many clothes? What was that about?
He checked his emails as he waited for his order. It was taking a while, and he was surprised. Since it was just coffee with nothing in it, they usually gave him the cup right at the counter. Oh, well. He turned to watch Jessica as she placed her order. Her long blonde hair draped down around her shoulders in waves. Beautiful complexion. His eyes lingered on her shapely curves. Really, very fine. Paul recalled how she’d felt in his arms, and how a warm sensation had flowed through him when he swooped her up and held her.
Now she moved to the pickup counter, where they stood with four other people, waiting for their drinks. She wasn’t more than three feet away from him.
He sidled up to her and turned on his best smile. “Hi.”
“We meet again,” she said, her eyes landing on his face, then darting about like butterflies. “How are you since, like, a half hour ago?”
Seeing her caused an electric thrill to run through his body. “Great, as far as I know. More importantly—” he leaned forward—“how are you ?”
“So far, so good, I guess.” She shrugged, then moved some hair away from her face.
He grinned at her, feeling half-past happy. “That’s good to hear.”
His order still hadn’t come out and she got hers first—a large frappé. He’d give them some more time before asking about his coffee, though. He didn’t want to be a pest. He was perfectly happy to wait.
“So you’re all better then?” he asked.
“Far as I can tell,” Jessica said, a tone of relief in her voice. She swallowed some of her drink. “Really. And thanks again for helping me out. You were a godsend.”
She put a hand on his arm for just a second before removing it. Her lingering touch sent pulsations throughout his body. Paul swallowed hard . Don’t go jumping all over her like some lonely dog.
He finally got his order. There’d been a mix-up of some sort. Such was life, right? He took a sip and tasted the coffee. It was delicious. Lots of body. Yes. Standing close to him, she took off the lid of her whipped frappé and sprinkled cinnamon on top from a shaker nearby. When she tried to put the lid back on it didn’t quite fit. She pushed down hard, pushed again, and then the next thing he knew—poof! Whipped cream shot up and splattered his face.
Paul thrust his head back, blinking. A sticky mess.
“Whoa,” he said. He set his coffee down on a table nearby.
“Oh, no.” Jessica gasped, putting a hand on his chest, then bit her lower lip. “Here, let me get this off you.”
She took a napkin from a nearby dispenser and wiped the cream off his face, caressing his chin in the process.
“I am so sorry!” she said, blushing crimson.
“Well,” Paul said after she’d cleaned him up, “I didn’t buy you a coffee, but evidently this one’s on me.” He waved a nonchalant hand in the air. “Don’t even worry about it. I actually have coffee splatter insurance. Bought it at the door. I’m cool.”
Her eyes glowed. “I come from a long line of coffee splatterers myself.”
“Oh, really,” he played along.
Jessica nodded vigorously. “My grandmother was amazing. She had this flick-of-the-wrist thing. Won competitions and everything. You should have seen her work.”
“Oh, yeah. That was her on ESPN. Right before the NCAA playoffs.”
She reached over and wiped another dab of cream from his chin. “There. I missed a spot.” Her soft touch made his stomach flip-flop and turn fluid. She blushed. “I am such a klutz. First you carry me away to the medical tent, then I spill coffee on you, all in the space of one morning.”
“Life works in mysterious ways,” Paul said, smiling. A moment of awkward silence ensued as if their conversation flow had run off a cliff. Paul looked away and down. A tall, gawky man pushed past them to get his drink, all arms and elbows. They moved away from the counter.
“So.” Jessica sipped her frappé.
“So,” he said, sipping his black coffee.
And then they both asked the same question at the same time, as if cued by a director in a movie: “Do you live around here?”
They chuckled together.
“You go first.”
“No, I insist. You go,” Jessica said, pointing at him.
They stood next to a window and a nearby array of milks in dispensers—oat, almond, cow’s, soy—warm morning sunlight angling on their faces.
“I live in downtown Nashville,” he said. “In a condo. You?”
“I have a bungalow in East Nashville, near Five Points.”
“Ah, the hipster side of town,” Paul said.
“Coffee shops, sushi bars, and farm-to-table restaurants on every corner.”
“Cool. Do you work in one of those?” He leaned forward, drinking her in, the geography of her face, the straight nose, her beautiful blue eyes. There were flecks of green in them, he realized. Sea-green flecks.
“I’m in interior design.” She sipped her drink and spoke proudly. “I own Chandler Interiors.”
“Oh, wow. Really. That’s great. Honestly, I could use some interior design myself. My condo’s basically done up in what I would refer to as ‘Goodwill eclectic’.”
Her laughter was melodic, so pleasing to hear. “Now that’s a good way to put it. I’ll have to remember that. Goodwill eclectic. Yes. The thing is, you’d be surprised what just a few touches can do to a space. The right couch, chairs, artwork, or colors on the walls can make a huge difference. Before you know it, you’ve got a real upgrade. And it doesn’t have to cost that much, either.”
“Well, my place might be needing more than just a few touches. If you ever saw it, you might just turn around and walk out.”
“Oh, no.” She waved a hand in the air. “Everything’s fixable. Trust me. I’ve got the time if you’ve got the space.”
Paul started to feel vague stirrings of hope as her words hung in the air. Maybe she could actually help him while he got to see her again. Spend time with her as they picked out flooring. He’d love to go with her and do that.
“You know.” She spoke before giving him a chance to respond. “I probably could use some personal training myself. I guess I’m not in the best shape after all. Obviously, you saw what happened this morning.”
Really? Now that would be awesome. He’d love to train her and get to know her at the same time, show her the ropes and improve her health. He lived for turning people’s lives around, making them see the light. Better health, better life. It was that simple.
“We can all improve our fitness,” he said, trying to sound casual. He wouldn’t have dared to bring it up first—people got all bent out of shape and offended when he did, very offended. But since she’d out-and-out mentioned it, an idea sprang to life. “Hey, what about this? You decorate my interior and I work on your . . .”
She smiled. “Exterior?”
“Yeah. Well, interior too.” He wasn’t hinting that she needed help with her exterior at all. No way. He liked her exterior a lot. “Physical fitness actually helps the whole body, inside and out.”
“That is an idea.”
“I’d actually love to show you around my studio, if you’re interested,” he told her. “I’ve got some great equipment.”
He coughed. Oops . He didn’t mean it that way. She looked at him askance, then burst out laughing.
The babbling conversations around them rose in pitch. Paul noticed the chandelier above was made from coffee cups. “I Had Some Help” by Post Malone and Morgan Wallen sounded over the speakers.
“So, what do you do for fun?” he asked. The caffeine was hitting him now. He was practically flying. He really didn’t drink it that much, and when he did, he got a buzz.
“Work, hang out with friends occasionally, then work and more work,” she said without hesitation, wrinkling her otherwise smooth brow.
“No time for vacations?” he asked.
She shook her head, and her blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders. He had the strongest urge to caress it. It looked so soft and pretty.
“Too busy,” she said ruefully. “I have a lot going on. My business is at a very delicate stage, and it’s up to me to guide it along.”
The words just slipped out of him. “So are you too busy to go out to eat, with, say, a personal trainer kind of guy?”
“Ummm . ” Jessica played with a strand of hair and fluttered her eyelashes. Paul was sure she was on the verge of saying yes.
But then it was as if a mask fell over her face, and something descended over her eyes. A curtain of what? Fear? Uncertainty? Mistrust?
“No pressure, of course,” he added quickly.
“Well, I . . . I mean . . .” She looked away.
“I don’t bite, if that helps.” He gave her his best made-for-the-camera smile, wide open and bright.
“Of that I am certain.” She sighed like the world was on her shoulders, and there was a faraway look in her eyes that startled him. “Wow, Paul. Normally, I’d love to. But right now, I’m sorry to say, I’m just so busy. And, yeah. Things are so up in the air. So, all in all . . .” She shook her head. “It’s just not a good time.”
He got the picture. He averted his eyes and squeezed his hands together as disappointment wormed its way through his heart. “Well, if you change your mind, or if you ever do decide you need some personal training, I’m your man. Take care, Jessica. I really enjoyed talking with you.”
“You take care too. And sorry about that—Oops.”
The lid fell off her coffee cup and Paul picked it up from the floor. He handed it to her. Their fingers grazed together.
“Weird little things, these lids,” Paul said. “It’s as if they have minds of their own.”
She laughed. “Truly.”
Paul rubbed his chin. “I’ll have to try a frappé myself one day. They look good.”
But not half as good as you look.
“They are,” she said, smiling back at him. She licked her full lips and Paul was mesmerized. “And thanks again for helping me earlier. Really. You’re a saint.”
A saint, I am not.
“Remember,” he said, “if you ever need some training, just give me a call. You have my card.”
“And if you need some interior design,” Jessica said, “it’s Chandler Interiors. Just check out my website.”
“Will do.”
They parted at the door, Jessica heading right and Paul going left. He walked on, finally arriving at his car in the makeshift parking lot set up for the race, trying to ignore the sting of rejection. There were lots of women out there. And with the way he was with relationships, it was probably for the best anyway.