28. RSVPs
28
RSVPS
Maddox
The party ends in forty-five minutes, and I’m strung as tight as a violin. Zane RSVP’d, but two hours in and well past dinner, the big-hearted, swagger-filled man is noticeably absent.
Is he ever going to show up?
As I circulate on the patio of the trendy Mexican restaurant in the heart of Venice, I’m constantly checking the door. Each time a strapping, burly guy strides in, my heart jackhammers then plummets when it’s not him.
Every time I talk to a client, a plus one, or a co-worker, I force myself to stay present, but my muscles are knotted from all this… waiting .
If Zane doesn’t appear, I’ll drive to his hotel the second this party ends, march to his room, and pound on the door. Don’t know his room number but I’ll figure it out somehow.
I check my watch. Twenty more minutes. Things are winding down. Clients start to take off. I do another lap, chatting with Crosby and his wife, Nadia, who owns the Hawks—the first, I rep; the second, I strike deals with. “Good to see you two,” I say to the pair.
She huffs at me. “I’m still mad at you, Maddox. You drove a hard bargain with Nate Chandler.” Her eyes narrow as she mentions one of her star players, a guy I brought to CTM.
I blow on my nails. “That’s my job.”
“He’s a tough one, baby cakes,” Crosby says, then drops a kiss to her cheek. “And I love it when he’s getting me sexy new deals.”
Ordinarily, I’d delight in this conversation, but it’s hard to stay present. Fortunately, after another minute, Nadia nods to the door. I jerk my gaze, stealing the chance to check for Zane. But no dice. Then, Nadia says, “We should take off.”
Crosby offers me a fist for knocking. “See you at the game tomorrow.”
I take that as my reminder.
The clock is ticking. I need to find Zane tonight. He’ll be busy all day tomorrow—batting practice, press events, the game.
As they leave, I stare at the door. Where the hell is he?
I reach for my phone. Screw waiting. I’ll text him. Ask to see him at his hotel. Ask for his room number.
But wingtips click on the patio, and a too-familiar smile comes my way.
Seriously? I’m about to text Zane and Vance comes by? Respect the boss and all that, but lately I feel like I’m living under a microscope.
“Great party. Thanks for picking this spot,” Vance says, surveying the scene, clearly eager to preside over the event with me.
But I don’t want to live my life magnified right now. “Glad you like it, but I need a second.”
I step away from my boss, getting some necessary distance. I write a quick message to Zane and hit send. Can I see you tonight at your hotel? I’d love to grab a drink and talk. I can be there in thirty minutes.
Annoyed I can’t take off now, I drop my phone in my back pocket. A few more guests move toward the door, and like we’re giving our regards at a wedding, Vance and I say goodbye to each one. Soon, most of the guests are gone, but Adriana entertains a hardy crew in a spirited game of bocce ball—a pitcher with the Barn Owls, a left fielder from the New York Minotaurs, and the catcher from the San Diego Devils, Trace Woodson. He’s not a client, but the other guys are so he’s here as a friend.
Vance watches their game with approval in his eyes. “She’s so good at…everything. And so are you, so there’s no need for me.” Vance claps me on the back. “I’m going to sneak out early. The wife and kids are in town to see the game. But I’m taking everyone to Universal tomorrow, so they’ll be up at the crack of dawn. Can you two close this place down for me?”
“Of course,” I say, ready to kick him out the door. Don’t want him watching me too closely if Zane comes in.
The second he’s gone, I reach for my phone again. There’s no reply. But I’m not going down without a fight. Walking away from the patio and toward the interior of the restaurant, I open the text and tap out another message.
One that’s crystal clear.
I miss you so much.
I feel lighter just typing that.
Once I hit send, the door swings open. In walks a man who makes my pulse soar sky-high.
I shudder everywhere.
I should join Adriana and the clients.
But I don’t.
I’m caught up in the latecomer as I make my way past the empty tables with purposeful steps, mesmerized by his intense green eyes, enchanted by his irresistible charisma.
When Zane spots me, his jaw twitches, but then he schools his expression, barely smiling. Then, not smiling at all.
I’ll have my work cut out for me.
And I am here for it.
I still don’t know what my big plan is. I still don’t know what’s next. But my bones are humming, and my body is vibrating, and I feel something .
I feel passion .
So much of it is filling me.
I march right up to him, extend a hand, and clasp his. “I’m so glad you could make it,” I say, and I don’t put on my agent voice. I speak low, husky, just for him.
Zane blinks, as if he’s taken aback by my tone. But he pumps my hand. “Yeah, me too.”
Before I can say come home with me , a voice calls out across the mostly empty eatery. “Madman!”
It’s the Barn Owls pitcher.
Then a feminine voice. “Double or nothing.”
Don’t care. I need Zane. I wave them off with a, “We’re gonna pass?—”
But the Devils catcher is louder. “Archer! Get your ass out here.”
Zane sighs audibly, but straps on a smile. “I should…”
We head to the bocce ball court on the patio, and Adriana brings Zane in for a hug. He wraps his strong arms around her and gives her a genuine smile. “So good to see you,” he says.
Lucky Adriana. I want those arms around me.
She plunks a ball in Zane’s hand. “Let’s do it. You’re on my team for this round.”
Trace claims me as his teammate, and we play a quick game. The whole time I steal glances at Zane, but his blinders are on, and he helps Adriana win, then lifts his arms in victory. “Boom. Get ready for me to take home the MVP award tomorrow,” he says, trash talking the other guys.
The easy way he jokes around tugs at my heart but eats away at me too. Maybe he doesn’t care anymore. Maybe he’s over me.
But I won’t know till I ask him.
When the players and Adriana confer on whether they can go one more round, all my patience drains. I close the distance between Zane and me. “The bar’s open for thirty more minutes. Can you grab a drink with me?” I lower my voice, so only he can hear. “Just me.”
That should make my meaning clear.
“Sure. That’d work,” he says, but he sounds wary. Fair enough. I have to earn any chance of trust with him.
We head to the bar, leaving behind the others. “Did you get my texts?”
“No. I was listening to a podcast on the ride over,” he says.
“That’s so you,” I say with a smile. “But that’s good. This is something I should say in person.”
He doesn’t return the smile.
When we reach the bar, the bartender signals that he’ll be with us in a minute. I’m about to snag a stool when I catch a glimpse of the bocce ball stalwarts wrapping up.
I clench my fists.
There’s no time for a drink. I need to get him out of here now.
Hitting the gas, I speed up everything. “Zane,” I say, wrapping my hand around the back of the stool. My heart thumps at rock concert decibels. I’m sure he can hear it. Hell, I hope he can. “I’m sorry for walking out that morning and not coming back. I wanted to come back. I wanted to see you again. I keep replaying that day and wishing I could have done it differently,” I admit.
I feel like I can breathe again. Like I can maybe enjoy the sun again, a meal again.
Life again.
Zane looks over at me quizzically. “What do you wish you’d done differently, Maddox?”
Before I can say anything more, the footsteps grow louder. The Devils catcher, Trace, stops and claps Zane on the shoulder. “Hey, man. Can I steal your agent for a minute?” Then Trace turns to me. “I think I told you I was looking for new representation. All my guys out there said you’re the best. Would love to get a drink and talk.”
Zane’s expression is stony. He’s waiting, watching.
I’d love to work with Trace. I bet I could seal the deal tonight. But I shake my head. “Trace, I’d love to talk to you about representation sometime, but not right now,” I say, then I jump off a cliff. “I just promised Zane I’d drive him back to his hotel so that he can get some rest before the game. But I’ll reach out tomorrow.”
Trace shrugs amiably. “Tomorrow sounds great.”
A grin plays at the corner of Zane’s luscious mouth. That’s my next opening, and as Trace walks out, I set a hand on Zane’s back and tip my forehead to the door. “Come with me.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement.
My muscles tighten once more, but this time with hope. We’re so close to making our great escape.
Despite that sliver of a smile, Zane doesn’t give in easily. He’s quiet as he runs his hand through his hair. Like he did in the New York hotel room when he was sorting out his thoughts about past dates.
I drop my voice another notch. “Do you want to know what my texts said?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
“Yes. Because I miss you so much.”
His smile returns. He steps toward me and lifts a hand, maybe to touch me, but then he thinks the better of it, stuffing both hands into his pants pockets. Those twin moves—his desire coupled with his restraint—excite me.
“Let’s go,” he says. I’m ready to fly, but I can’t leave Adriana hanging.
“Let me just tell Adriana.” I wheel around to rush back to the patio, then I see her cutting through the bar.
She stops me, eyes full of curiosity. “I was just going to settle the final bill,” she says.
I could fucking kiss her. “Favor. I need to go. Can you?—”
“Absolutely. I’ll handle everything and say goodbye to the guys.” Her eyes twinkle as she waves me off, practically shooing me out of the restaurant.
Zane’s holding the door, and we leave together.