Chapter 16 Willa
WILLA
“I’m so sorry. It’s just that I kind of want to explore what might happen with this guy in a monogamous way. I hate to cancel on you last-minute like this, but it would feel deceptive to continue seeing you when I’m thinking I might want something longer term with this other man.”
I was sweating, pacing back and forth in my tiny apartment as I had the most awkward phone call of my entire life. In the end, I couldn’t just text Dean to cancel our date. I owed him an explanation with at least a phone call if not an in-person discussion.
“That’s okay, Willa. Can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I appreciate the call instead of the usual ghost-and-block.” He laughed. “And I understand. When you find someone you really connect with, it’s reasonable to want to explore that.”
I was such an idiot. Why was I passing up on Dean for a guy I had no future with, a guy that would surely break my heart?
Because Eng was like a hit of adrenaline in my veins.
At first it was just the great sex, but I’d caught glimpses of the man inside the amazing body, and I liked what I saw.
He was smart, confident, quick-witted, and took his responsibilities seriously.
And he was honest—brutally so. Which meant that his assholeness came from a redeeming source as far as I was concerned.
Cocky, arrogant, emotionally unavailable. Those were the issues, especially the last one. Cocky and arrogant wasn’t a deal-breaker. Emotionally unavailable was.
He’d flat out said I wasn’t a princess candidate.
And while that stung a bit, I did admire his setting the ground rules for what I could expect and not expect within the first hour of our meeting.
Eng would never be the kind of guy to string me along.
Sex. That was it. That was all he had to offer, and I’d thought that would be fine with me.
Then he’d asked me out on a date, and my stupid pulse kicked into overdrive.
A date.
Maybe he was changing his mind about my princess potential. It was the kind of stupid optimism that had doomed every one of my past relationships.
I hung up with Dean after wishing him the best, then got ready for work, trying not to obsess about tonight’s date.
In addition to my three Saturday clients, I taught the kettlebell class, and ended up on the treadmill, trying to run away from all the thoughts churning in my head. Stephanie hopped onto the machine next to me so I shut off my music, knowing the werewolf liked to chat as she ran.
“How’s your weekend looking?” I asked.
Stephanie grinned, cranking the speed to the max and lifting the deck to a three percent incline. “Work, work, and more work. Last night was fun, and I’m glad I made time for the hockey game and the afterward with you all at McHenry’s, but I’ve got this house to finish and I’m solo this job.”
“Any news on the…you know?” I inclined my head to the row of televisions in front of us. Stephanie had sworn us to secrecy about her possible television season deal, but I was dying to know if I’d be seeing my friend on the screen this fall, renovating a home for some local big-wig baseball guy.
“I’m in the final three.” Stephanie held up both hands to show me her crossed fingers.
“Congrats!” This was huge. Home Sweet Home was nationally syndicated. A televised season of Stephanie remodeling some famous person’s home would absolutely send her business into the stratosphere.
“It’s too early to offer congratulations. I haven’t won yet, and top three doesn’t mean squat unless I do.”
I eyed the werewolf sympathizing with her intensely competitive, winner-takes-all outlook. “Top three means you’ll have a strong chance to land another show if this one falls through,” I reminded her.
She grimaced, raising the incline on her treadmill another notch.
“True. But it could be years before I land a season if I don’t get this one.
And there aren’t a whole lot of other shows like Home Sweet Home.
Decorator Swap is popular for being a train wreck.
It’s not going to do my business any favors having a client who favors cubism trash my work on his late nineteenth century neoclassical revival home.
And Budget Decor? I’ll admit I’ve found a treasure-trove of antiques hidden away at thrift shops and flea markets, but even I can’t make a silk purse out of stained Tupperware and wicker baskets. ”
“I’ve seen what you can do with wicker baskets,” I countered.
She thought about that a few seconds, then gave me a grudging nod. “Fair point, but I don’t want to be known as ‘that wicker basket woman.’”
Time for optimism. “Well, that’s not going to happen because you’re going to be selected to star in the next season of Home Sweet Home.
I’ve seen your work, and they’d be idiots to pass you over.
That pre-Civil War townhouse and the converted Hessian Barracks in Frederick county?
That early eighteenth-century stone farmhouse that was close to being condemned?
Girl, you’re a genius. If I had more than five bucks to my name and actually owned real estate, you’d be top of my list to call. ”
She laughed, then shot me a shy smile. “That farmhouse was a lot of sweat and tears, but I’m super proud of it.
The Maryland Historic Trust had zero findings with my work on their inspection and they are insanely picky about the properties on their register.
I’m on their pre-approved contractor list for historic renovations. ”
Stephanie had a right to be proud. She took such care with her work, and often cut her margins to the bone to meet a client’s budget limitations without needing to sacrifice quality.
I thought about my tiny rental apartment, and sighed with a tinge of regret.
I could have chosen a different career, but I hadn’t and for the most part I was happy with sacrificing income to do a job I was truly in love with.
But today the thought of being eighty years old in a shabby rental studio apartment, scraping by with the small amount I could make at that age teaching senior yoga and water aerobics…
I needed to work up the nerve to pitch the owner of the Tusks on my services.
And if that didn’t fly, then think of something else.
Not that I wanted to switch careers entirely or anything, but I wanted to shift to something with more staying power, or a side-gig that could supplement my meager income.
Influencer work? Abby would be thrilled to help me build and grow an online platform, but I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about shilling sponsored products.
And while I was fit and attractive, I didn’t think I was the body-type that garnered the huge numbers of followers in today’s world.
A bi-racial woman with lightish, gold-toned skin, a broad nose, thin lips, and thick, tightly-curled black hair?
Maybe if I got a boob job, butt implants, nose work, and lip fillers, but I didn’t have either the money or the desire for that.
“Enough about me,” Stephanie said, interrupting my thoughts. “How are things with you?”
“I’ve got this crazy idea of being the team trainer for the Tusks,” I blurted out, because being on a treadmill was evidently like being in a confessional box.
“What?” Stephanie grinned and reached out to lightly punch my shoulder. “That’s amazing! How did you score that gig?”
I winced. “I haven’t exactly scored it yet.
They don’t have a trainer. I mean, they don’t have a coach or a PR firm, or even team shirts, but I can fill the trainer need and do it cheap.
They’re leaving for a few weeks of away games this Thursday, so I’m going to try to set up a meeting with the owner and pitch the idea to him before they leave. ”
“They seriously need all the help they can get, but I think you should hinge your pitch on more than ‘I’m super cheap,’” Stephanie told me.
“I’m really good?”
“Yes, you are,” the werewolf agreed.
“I can tailor fitness plans for each member of the team, specialized for their position, and work with them one-on-one to ensure they reach their maximum capabilities.”
“Now you’re talking,” Stephanie said. “Can you mention winning games? Scoring points?”
“No I cannot. Now, if they had a coach working on their game skills and strategy, and helping them with their skating, then I could coordinate with them and possibly see points and maybe even a win this season if we’re lucky.”
“I guess it would be too much to pitch the need for a coach as well,” Stephanie mused.
“I’ll be lucky if I can get the owner to sign me on, let alone a coach.” I paused for a few seconds. “I get the impression that the owner doesn’t really care about wins. He cares about the entertainment factor and the money that brings in.”
“Then your ‘optimizing performance’ speech might not have the desired results,” Stephanie said. “How will your services impact the entertainment factor? And the money?”
I contemplated her questions for a few minutes. “There’s a reason he makes them play without shirts. Fans like seeing half-naked orcs on the ice. Those guys are seriously built.”
“Eye candy,” Stephanie agreed.
Total eye candy. “I guess I can play to that angle. Say I’ll make sure they look like male erotic dancers for games as well as for whatever marketing events the owner might have planned for them.”
“Not sure those guys can look any more buff, but you can make them run the Baltimore Marathon without their shirts on for promotion,” the werewolf pointed out.
“I can do that. And make sure if they’re walking down the runway at the BARCS fundraiser half-naked,” I replied.
We continued jogging on the treadmill, then Stephanie spoke up again.
“How are the booty-calls with the red-flag hottie-asshole working out?”
She was the only one of my friends who knew about Eng, although she didn’t know who he was or that we’d been watching him not-play just last night.