Chapter 2
Callie
The entire Gutierrez family is charming. None more so than my client football player Gage.
My frustration at having to travel halfway across the globe to communicate with him dissipates slightly as Mrs. Gutierrez draws me into the kitchen and a welcoming cheer rings out.
I fight my smile as Gage’s brother Joe hands me a glass of red wine. “You look like you need it.”
I snort. “What gave it away?” I reach to pat my hair.
Joe’s wife, Svetlana, smacks his shoulder with the back of her hand.
“What?” he grumbles. “I didn’t mean it as an insult,” he says, horror dawning on his expression. His eyes dart back to mine. “I only meant that it looks like you’ve been traveling and—”
“Quit while you’re ahead,” Svetlana advises, winking at me.
I laugh and shake my head, taking a sip of the wine. I close my eyes, relishing it before I kiss Gage’s father, Jorge’s, cheek in greeting. “Happy Anniversary, Mr. G.”
He grins at me warmly. “How many times have I asked you to call me Jorge?” he asks in Spanish.
“Too many,” I reply in the same tongue.
He harrumphs good-naturedly and gestures for me to take a seat.
I greet the rest of the family seated around the table. Gage’s sisters, Alejandra and Jessica, their husbands, Mark and Ricardo, and a cousin, Pablo and his wife Martina.
“You must stay for our party,” Mrs. G says, placing a charcuterie board in the center of the table. Immediately, her children reach for it, and she smacks their hands. “We have a guest! I know I raised you better than this.”
“Ehh.” Svetlana wrinkles her nose.
“Not a chance,” Ricardo agrees.
Alejandra laughs and sets a plate with a variety of offerings in front of me. “It’s good to see you, Callie. I had no idea you were coming.”
“Me neither,” I admit. I glance around the table, at the expectant glances of Gage’s family, waiting for the news on my end. “I should probably talk to Gage first,” I add. It’s hard not to be swept away by his family’s warmth. The Gutierrezes are unlike any other family I’ve known.
They’re loud and opinionated and very involved in each other’s lives. But they’re also loyal and loving and have each other’s backs, no questions asked. It’s the type of family I’d always yearned to be a part of, but I’ve pushed those thoughts—those wants—far from my mind in the past few years.
For starters, I’m forty-four years old and the odds of my marrying and having children seem less likely with each passing year. As my last two boyfriends perceptively pointed out—I’m married to my work.
And Dad’s passing two years ago, on the heels of losing my grandmother, has left me unmoored. I’m not rooted to any family, save for myself. The more I accept that hard fact of life, the better off I’ll be.
It’s why I’ve thrown myself into work over the past few years with a ferocity that gobbled up any potential relationship. No dates have become anything more than a casual exchange. I haven’t allowed it.
Just like I can’t allow myself to be pulled into the orbit of the Gutierrezes. As warm as their hugs are, as soothing as their laughter feels, as much as I’d like to sit at their table and drink their wine, I’m here for work.
“He’s just gonna tell us anyway,” Jessica points out truthfully.
I smirk. “I know. But…he’s my client.”
“Tell me what?” Gage’s voice rings out from behind me.
I turn in my chair and pull in a sharp inhale through my nose when I see him. Damn that man. Why the hell does he have to be as attractive as he is irritating?
Gage leans against the doorframe to the kitchen.
His corded arms are crossed over his broad chest, one ankle flung over the other.
He’s wearing olive green sweat shorts and a black tank that shows off his smooth, tanned skin and the colorful tattoos that trail over one bicep to wrap around his shoulder.
A clump of calavera masks interspersed with flowers and tiny script writing I can’t make out from my seat.
His lips are pursed thoughtfully, his tongue peeking through from the side of his mouth the way it does when he’s deep in thought.
But his eyes hold mine. Dark brown, nearly black, and shaded with blatant curiosity.
I clear my throat and stand. I’ve only had one sip of wine but falter slightly, swaying on my feet so Mr. G jumps up and places a hand on my arm to steady me.
“Thanks.” I blush. “I swear it’s not the wine.”
“I know that,” Mr. G says, his gaze sharp. “You’re exhausted, Callie.”
“Worn out,” Mrs. G murmurs in agreement.
“Where are you staying?” Alejandra asks.
“We have room here,” Jessica adds.
“Do you have any bags?” Joe glances around the kitchen, as if my suitcase should be resting up against a wall.
My eyes dart from one family member to the next as my mind spins. The rapid pace of their questions jumbles my thoughts as I try to form coherent responses. But it’s the concern in their voices that nearly undoes me.
My eyes sting as I blink back a swell of emotion.
I’ve been exhausted for so long and yet, no one’s noticed. Not really.
Any colleagues who’ve commented on the weight I’ve lost, or the paleness in my cheeks, were satisfied with a simple shrug and a muttered excuse of a late night.
But right now, the questions from Gage’s family, coupled with the dark, knowing look in his eyes, makes me want to collapse on the floor and sob.
Jesus, pull yourself together.
I roll my lips together and manage a small smile. “I’m all sorted, thank you. I should speak with Gage.” I quirk an eyebrow at him.
“And you’ll stay for the party?” Mrs. G asks again. Now I know where Gage’s relentlessness comes from.
“I, well, I don’t want to impose,” I start.
Gage smirks. “But you came all this way.”
I narrow my eyes at him. His grin widens.
“I have work to do and—” I continue.
Gage pushes off the wall. “Work can wait. You look beat, Cal.”
“And whose fault is that?” I mutter.
Svetlana’s laugh rings out behind me.
Gage fights his smirk. Tilting his head to the back of the house, he says, “Want to take a walk on the beach and talk?”
The beach. It sounds heavenly and I let out a slow breath as my heart rate returns to normal. “Fine,” I agree.
I thank Mr. and Mrs. G. Mr. G stuffs a piece of cheese in his wife’s mouth before she can ask me to stay again. He winks at me conspiratorially and one of the little kids laughs, clasping her hands together in glee at her grandfather sidelining her grandmother.
I give a small smile of thanks before following Gage to the back deck. I dig my sunglasses and phone out of my purse, discarding it on a chair. I pop my sunglasses on my head but keep my phone clutched in my hand in case a client calls.
Once I step outside, I breathe in deeply. Salty air and sunshine fills my lungs and it’s nearly as healing as a full night’s sleep.
The fists at my sides uncurl as my fingers relax. My shoulders drop at least an inch as I physically feel the tension seeping away. I drop the sunglasses that were perched on the top of my head to shade my eyes as I drink in the endless expanse of sea.
Rolling waves and dancing foam.
Golden sand and brightly colored umbrellas.
Bodies dot the shoreline. Squatting children building sandcastles. Sunbathing women, some topless, some not. The sleek frames of men of all ages passing a soccer ball around.
It’s so…normal. Ordinary.
People enjoying the beach at sunset.
And yet, it fills me with the most exhilarating rush.
The sky is painted in broad sweeps of orange and gold. The sound of the sea meeting the shore wraps around me like a hug. And I sense the relaxation, the joy, the calm and it makes me want to cry.
How long has it been since I’ve enjoyed a day at the beach?
“You’re not sleeping,” Gage comments. It’s not a question but a statement.
I glance up at him.
“Jesus, Cal,” he murmurs, reaching out to push my sunglasses back to the top of my head. “Look at me.”
I do as he says.
His jaw tightens and his teeth click together as he takes in my expression. “Why are you here?”
I arch an eyebrow. The frustration I clung to my entire flight here—a flight I couldn’t sleep on due to the intense turbulence—morphs into anger. “You turned off your phone,” I hiss, jabbing a finger at his chest.
My fingertip is met with hard muscle, and I yank my hand back as if burned.
What the hell am I doing? I don’t cross these kinds of lines and lose my cool with clients. But Gage was never just a client. He always saw too much—was too damn perceptive.
I take a centering breath and step down the stairs that lead toward the sand. Gage follows me. When I get to the bottom, I toe off the sneakers I wore on the plane ride and leave them.
The sand rises between my toes, and I relish the feeling. The freedom.
“Grayson Watches offered you an endorsement deal that—”
“I know,” Gage cuts me off.
I glare at him. “This was one of your dream brands to work with.”
He huffs out a sigh. “I know,” he repeats, quieter this time.
“If you sign the deal now, and we moderate the language, the deal may remain intact, regardless of what you decide next,” I explain, giving him a knowing glance.
If he retires, he may lose this endorsement deal. But Gage still hasn’t given a clear indication as to what his plans are for next season. Does he want to play one more year? Does he want to stay with the Coyotes? Or is he ready to hang up his cleats and move on to his next chapter?
I know he’s invested his money well and could have retired years ago. In fact, it’s something he briefly considered after he tore his ACL in the season opener a few years ago.
Given his age, older by NFL standards, and injuries, no one would blame him.
I stop walking and look at him.
His expression is unreadable. Conflicted.
“Gage,” I sigh.
He shakes his head. “I’ll think about it, Cal.”
“About the offer? Or next season?” I press, wanting to know where his head is.
“Both,” he replies simply. Then, he reaches for my wrist and tugs me a step closer. “But this week is my parents’ fiftieth anniversary and I’m off the grid. I turned my phone off for a reason.” He takes my phone from my grasp and slips it into his pocket.
“Hey!” I dart forward, my arms snaking around his hip before he clasps me tightly.
“You need a break, Calla Lily,” he breathes out the nickname he’s used a handful of times.
And every time he does, it stops me in my tracks.
It’s too personal. Familiar. Genuine. Every year on my birthday, Gage sends me a bouquet of breathtaking Calla lilies. Pink, to symbolize his admiration and appreciation.
I step away from him, shaking off his hold.
“Gage,” I say, my voice trembling.
He shakes his head, one side of his mouth tugging upward. “I’ll think about everything, Callie. I’ll even talk to you about it. But you have to stay. Enjoy the anniversary party. Relax a little.” He gestures wide to the beach. “Let your hair down and have an adventure.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
His smile widens. “I’m doing you a favor.”
“You’re being selfish,” I point out.
He chuckles easily but his eyes flash. “With you? Always.”
“Gage!” I say, exasperated. This man’s flirting knows no bounds.
He shrugs as if to say, what do you want from me?
And that’s the scary thing. I want too much from Gage and I shouldn’t.
I can’t.
Because he’s my client and I’m…too old, too set in my ways, too wrapped up in work to be the woman in his life.
He has a family brimming with love and support.
And I only have me.
“Stay the week,” he repeats, not having the courtesy to even pose it as a question. He pats my phone in his pocket to drive the point home.
I look back toward the beach house where Mrs. G’s watchful gaze stares at us from the balcony.
Sighing, I meet Gage’s eyes. “I’ll check into the hotel—”
“There are none.”
“What?”
“Cal, it’s the start of the Easter holidays. Everything is booked up.”
Is that why my flight was so expensive? It makes sense.
“I—well, I,” I sputter, wracking my mind for a solution.
“You’ll stay with me,” Gage says easily.
I turn back to look at the beach house, already overflowing with visitors.
“Not there,” he laughs. “I rented a small apartment. You can take the bed.” There’s humor in his voice and when I meet his eyes again, I note the amusement in his eyes.
I point at him. “I’m here for work.”
He nods, sobering slightly. “I know you are. But I hope you still have some fun. You need it.”
I don’t bother replying to that, instead starting back toward the beach house.
Gage’s chuckle trails over me and I shiver from it. From his proximity.
From the promise in his watchful gaze and playful tone.