CHAPTER 8
Remy
Is it acceptable to be grateful for your new job and also wish that the fundraiser banquet you were required to attend was over with like two hours ago?
Granted, I know this big to-do is a one-time thing, but it doesn’t mean I’m miraculously comfortable trying to sound like a subject matter expert for the people who funded my place of work.
I’ve felt like I had to recite my resume all night, leaving me with a dirty wash of insecurity.
I managed to answer everyone’s questions about the center, the staff, and our available methods of treatment so far, though, so I hope my doubts are just a case of imposter syndrome.
Luckily, some of the school’s athletes who’ve sought treatment with us are here to help schmooze with the donors, letting them know their money went to a good cause.
After answering questions about the equipment we have for a middle-aged couple who run a law firm in the area, I thank them again for their contribution before they move along.
Something nudges my elbow, and I mentally cringe that it likely means I won’t be getting a breather in between conversations.
When I turn, however, I find Miles smiling at me, holding out a flute of champagne.
“Thought you could use this.”
“Thanks.”
I’m not a big fan of the stuff, but I have to say, he’s been thoughtful and attentive all evening.
He’s interjected smooth comments here and there that I suspect were meant to be confidence boosters whenever I downplayed my role at the center while talking to guests.
I take a drink of the bubbly alcohol, the tart liquid bursting over my tongue, and nearly choke on it when I feel an arm slink across my shoulders.
His contented smile and relaxed posture might lead anyone to believe it’s a natural gesture.
With his thick head of blonde hair and striking green eyes, he’s fetching in his suit.
There’s this unabashed presence to him, making him look like he belongs in this fancy banquet room.
As his Rolex digs into my shoulder, however, I know that calling the way he put his hand on the small of my back each time someone approached me earlier wasn’t attentiveness.
I was too distracted to give it more thought and was trying to think polite thoughts.
Now that there’s a lull and we’re alone, I’m keenly aware of the way his thumb is tracing circles over my arm.
I think I’m in danger of slowly being claimed when I thought I made it clear that this was just a work function, not a date.
“You know, the Westin is nice,” he points out, looking like he’s admiring the sleek design of the bar back near us, “but wait until you get a load of Porter Plaza. If you come out to visit me, my company holds a lot of its functions there. We could hit up this jazz club nearby afterward. It’s not far from my house. ”
Maybe a few weeks ago, I might have felt the lure of possibilities over that comment.
Right now, a sleeve of suffocation wraps around my neck.
I just started getting good at being single, or at least, getting used to it.
The thought of hitching my wagon to anyone only makes that sleeve cuff tighter.
My quest for an eternal fizzle doesn’t seem as pressing anymore.
I have my yard to clean up and cookbooks I want to read.
My entryway looks a bit outdated and could use a new coat of paint.
What if I want to go visit Jamie? What if Chris decides to show up to work out?
And if he doesn’t… I’ll need time to be depressed about it. Alone and at peace. You know?
It’s been four days since I worked up the nerve to go over to his house.
What was born as a nerve-wracking shot in the dark to repair any potential confusion my hot/cold signals from last Friday night may have caused ended with a revelation.
He’s hurting in more ways than one. It felt like he opened up to me.
I’ve delayed my jog every morning since then, peeking out my window with my heart in my throat. I really thought he might show up.
That sticky feeling of being watched again prickles my skin. I catch Miles looking at me.
Right. I should probably act like I’m at least listening to the conversation since I invited him here to tag along with me.
“Um, I don’t get out of town very often. I work so much, and the new house has been keeping me busy with projects.”
“Hey,” he reassures me with a squeeze to my shoulder. “It’s all right. I’m not going anywhere. You know?”
Fuck my life. I owe Jamie a drink for calling that nuance.
I manage a smile, but direct my gaze anywhere other than at him.
The last thing I need is to accidentally give him more encouragement.
It turns out to have the opposite effect I hoped it would, though, because I feel his lips press against my cheek.
It’s just a quick peck. It shouldn’t elicit instant nausea, even if I’m not interested in him.
Add in the fact that I find Chris staring at me from across the room, however, and I’m well on my way to becoming fully ill.
What is he doing here? How long has he been here without my noticing?
He’s standing near a table in the far back corner of the room in a black dress shirt, the top button undone, and gray dress slacks. I spot a woman from a local news station who spoke to me earlier sitting at the table with her camera crew, and it all clicks.
Crap. I knew there were members of the press here. It escaped me, however, that this is technically a sports-related event. One that Chris is apparently covering.
He shifts his gaze away abruptly, walks to the nearest table, and sets down what looks like a glass of water. Turning on his heel, he starts toward the nearest exit. A sense of dread tells me something is wrong and that I might be the cause of it.
Whatever Miles is saying, I don’t comprehend. Squirming out of his hold, I mumble off an excuse without waiting for a reply, “Would you excuse me for a minute? I’ll be back.”
I’m moving before I can think better of it, fueled by a sense of dread, concern, and my Chris Mightener obsession. By the time I make it to the lobby, I’m breathless from my nerves and from hurrying after him.
The look he flashed me was so cold, weighted with disappointment. When I see his wide frame pushing through the exit door out to the street, I call out to him. Either he didn’t hear me or pretended not to.
Cursing under my breath, I practically sprint across the lobby.
It felt like I made one step forward the other day at his house.
Tonight, whatever he thinks he saw, seems like it could set us two steps back.
Unless I’m just being conceited, and his scowly mood was about something entirely different.
Outside, I catch him bounding down the sidewalk like a man on a mission.
“Chris!” He stops, and a fountain of hope springs up in my chest. “You’re leaving? I think they’re going to announce some—”
I don’t get to finish my lame excuse as to why he should stay before he cuts me off. “I think they’ll survive without some washed-up football player.”
His jaw is set so hard you could break a brick on it, and the wall of the hotel appears to hold more of his interest than I do right now. Did someone piss him off or make a comment about his accident?
“Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Why are you following me?” He snaps, sounding exasperated.
“Because… I care.”
“Care?” He snorts, turning to fully face me and holding out his arms. “Why? We don’t even know each other.”
Sucking in a breath, I muster the courage to say what I didn’t get to last week.
“I know, but I’d like to, though.”
He scoffs, and his shoulders go slack. The quick dismissal stings. Does he really only care about the physical? He’s still so drop-dead sexy he could get anyone he wants. I wish the way my pulse skips around him would stop if all I ever was to him and still am now is a piece of ass.
“What do you want to know?” He gestures with his chin, taking a step forward.
“That my social life consists of a Rottweiler? That if you see me at a bar, it’s not for a night of laughs.
It’s because I’m afraid that if I keep alcohol at my house, I’ll use it way too often to help me get to sleep.
Did you want to know that I had to learn to walk again and have my parents help me wipe my ass for months?
Or that shortly after I could again, I spent six weeks in rehab for a pain pill addiction? ”
Wetting my lips, the picture he paints is brush-stroked in lead, the heavy, dark colors adhering me to the spot. Kicking a leg out, he stuffs a hand in his pocket as though this is some casual conversation that doesn’t mirror the barely checked anguish in his expression.
“How about how they don’t advertise that if you get a career-ending injury in the NFL, you only get the rest of the season’s salary.
And that I’ll be on disability for the rest of my life.
Or how even though I’ve saved and invested what I could over the years to make sure I can keep the roof over my head, I still worry in the back of my mind that I won’t be able to manage it if I live to be a hundred.
And while it doesn’t seem to satisfy my father’s visions of grandeur, the only thing I’m good for now is sitting on bleachers at high school and college games, writing articles about kids who hopefully won’t fuck up the way I did. ”
The portrait turns into a cannonball that was just lobbed at the center of my chest. Each rise and fall of his chest creates new cracks in my heart.
“That’s not you. That’s just what happened to you.”
Running his fingers through his hair, his derisive noise tells me my words fell on deaf ears. He paces back and forth like a wild, injured animal, making me wish there was some way I could ease his wounds. When he finally comes to a stop, he levels his stormy eyes at me defiantly.
“What about you? Who are you?”
Me?
It’s a simple question. So, why can’t I think of an answer?
Shit. I didn’t think this conversation could get any more difficult.