2. Willa
CHAPTER 2
WILLA
As soon as the lights come up, I’m out of the event, reacting like a cat who goes to jump on a wood stove on the first day of autumn. When I was little we had a cat, Nugget, who loved the coolness of the wood stove in the off-season. She’d lounge on it all summer long, enjoying the relief its cold iron brought her.
Inevitably, when fall came, we’d fire up the stove to warm our living room and that poor cat would come trotting in and head right for her spot. There was usually a moment when she’d be leaping through the air when you’d witness the look on her kitty cat face as it twisted in fear, and her body angled and writhed in the air, feeling the heat as she was about to land.
Needless to say, Nugget had her paws treated for slight burns every fall. I thought she would have learned a lesson, but nope. Always made me wonder if there wasn’t something about the risk, the attractions of the fire, that brought her in?
Anyway, unlike Nugget I do learn from my mistakes. I bolt from that room. How is he here? I intentionally asked for a list of players ahead of the event. I saw the list of names. He was NOT on it.
The lobby of The Regent’s Hotel is busy as people tumble from the event, but luckily the line to check-in at reception isn’t that long. Taking a moment to calm my nerves and gather myself, I start to make my way to the front desk when my phone begins buzzing in my back pocket. When I see the phone number flashing announcing my editor from Athletic Edge , I’m not surprised. They’re probably making sure I made it safely.
“Hey, Frank. I’m here.”
“That’s good, but also not why I’m calling.” I appreciate someone who gets to the point, and Frank’s the bluntness king.
“Of course it isn’t,” I say with a chuckle. “What’s up?”
“We’ve managed to do features in the lead-up to the event on all but one of the players who are playing for the Ice Breakers. He was a last-minute addition to the team, so our reporter on site has spent some time talking to him already, but we need some photos to go with the story.”
An opportunity to add another gig to this one? Sign me up. It’s the ultimate double dip.
“Sure, I’d be happy to do it.” I step to the side, parking myself against the wall next to a palm plant. “When do you need them and who is it?”
“His name is Noah Beaumont, from the River City Renegades. Former NHL player who’s now playing on an AHL team, but he’s a story. Known as the Comeback King. We need a bevy of different pics in the next two weeks.”
It’s as if the world around me suddenly stops on its axis. People are moving and greeting one another, saying hello and converging into small cliques, chatting and such, but to me it’s all muffled voices and muted tones. Like how adults are portrayed in the old Peanuts cartoons. A lot of “Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah. ” I can’t breathe—there’s no air in my lungs and it’s hard to inhale. Chills crawl across my flesh, the reaction is that visceral.
“Him?” I choke. “Why Noah?”
Frank is quiet on the other end of the line. I don’t like it when he goes quiet. His silence speaks volumes. So I try a new tactic .
“I ask because I think he was dating that actress, Cecilia Grazer, and they got a lot of press. More than enough.”
Frank’s end of the phone line is still, until a rumble of laughter echoes in my ear.
“You’re a riot, Willa. I appreciate how you see things sometimes,” he says, his laughter still bubbling through. “Yes, they got some press, but this is different. I know it’s an added responsibility and we’re putting more on your plate, but everything helps with this promotion I submitted you for.”
Oh. Dangle that carrot, why don’t you? “Of course.”
“Team player, Willa. I want them to see in the executive offices that you’re a team player.”
I hear myself saying, “Yes, Frank” when I really want to shout, “No way, man!” Casting a quick glance around the lobby, I realize it’s filling with more people and I’m feeling cornered. Claustrophobic. Looking over toward the double doors to the event, it’s as if ants are spilling out around me. Wanting to hide from all of it, I turn and put my back to the lobby, facing a random plant. It’s just my height and filled out, not too bushy but bushy enough. Maybe I can crawl into the pot with it and stay there until it’s quiet.
“That’s the spirit. I’d like to get a range of shots. Figured since you’re there for the next month, you can get some interesting ones, candids. On the ice, casual ones not in his gear, doing things around Maple Falls. You know, like ‘lifestyle’ shots.”
“I thought you wanted them in two weeks?” I’m trying really hard not to whine, but it’s almost impossible. I’m contemplating the Academy Award I should get for pretending I’m professional right now when a small crowd pushes in on my hiding spot.
“I’d like the first batch in two weeks, but the remainder in a month,” Frank barks, back to his usual self. “We won’t do the feature until next month, but I want some early pics to show the team and higher-ups, and we’ll use them as placeholders until your other images come in. ”
“Okay,” I say, sighing as someone bumps into me from behind. “I’ll make sure to set something up and see what we can do about these photos.”
Without a goodbye, because that’s the way he likes it, Frank disconnects the call, leaving me to stare at the plant and bang my head against the wall. Five times. One bang too many, but long enough to realize I’m standing in front of a parlor palm and it needs some water.
“Why. Is. It. Noah. Beaumont?” One bang for each word.
A hand taps my shoulder. My mother always told me I was too dramatic for my own good. It’s probably a welfare check. I turn around slowly, prepared to explain that I’m not insane—but when I see who’s there, waiting for me, I freeze.
Noah.
Swallowing, I stand up taller, like someone’s put puppeteer strings on my shoulders and is hoisting me up.
“Sorry to bother you, but I thought I heard you say my name,” he begins, nodding his head toward the plant next to me. “To that palm tree.”
I cast a side-eye glance at the plant, as if it’s the plant’s fault that he found me, then snap my eyes back to his. “You heard correctly.”
A slow, irritatingly sexy grin begins to make its way across the obnoxiously handsome man’s face. I loathe him. I’m also hoping that any second now he’s going to realize who I am and shrink away with embarrassment.
He nods, pushing his hair back as he lets his eyes drop to the floor, almost as if he’s the one who is embarrassed. Good. No, GREAT. He knows now, he’s got to know it’s me. That’s right buddy, let’s hear that apology I know you must have been practicing.
“Well …” He pulls his eyes slowly to meet mine. I wait with literal bated breath to see what he’s going to do next. His hand slowly stretches out, closing the space between us as he steps closer to me. Is he going to try to hug me? Dance with me ?
None of the above.
He keeps his hand at a ninety-degree angle and smiles so wide a dimple almost pops off his adorable plump cheek … and I begin to loathe myself now, too, for thinking anything about this man is remotely adorable.
“We should meet each other officially, then.” He looks at me expectantly, eyes bouncing to my hand and then back up again. Unsure of the game we’re playing, I thrust my hand out, going for a handshake, but it comes off like I’m about to slug him in the stomach, causing him to jump back.
“Oh, gosh,” I mutter, placing my hand firmly in his and giving his hand a pump. “Didn’t mean to freak you out. I’m the photographer.”
Noah laughs. “I’m the ice hockey player.”
When I cock my head to one side and stare at him, do I notice he’s still holding my hand? I do. His hand is rough and gritty compared to mine. And those calloused hands feel oddly nice.
“Do you have a name or should I just call you ‘photographer’?”
It takes me a second to get what he’s saying, probably because he’s pulling my life force out of me with his touch, but when I do I’m pretty sure it’s like in the cartoons when a lightbulb comes on over the dum-dum’s head.
“Willa.” Using my other hand, I pat my chest. “I’m Willa.”
“Willa.” He says my name as if he’s not said it before. As if we’ve never been introduced. Our hands still move up and down in a shaking motion, and it’s all a bit surreal. “Hi. Nice to meet you, Photographer Willa. I’m Noah.”
As we size one another up, or maybe it’s me doing the sizing, I’m a little surprised by the lack of recognition I’m getting. Then it hits me why he’s acting like he doesn’t know me.
I’ve changed.
My hair is longer than it was a few years back, and a completely different color. After wearing glasses forever, I got over my fear of touching my eyes (don’t laugh, the worry was real) and started wearing contacts, so the glasses are no more. Judging from the look in his eyes, I’m willing to bet that he actually has no idea it’s me. He could also have been so intoxicated when we met that I don’t register at all.
I’m not sure if I like the fact that I have one hundred percent anonymity in this situation or not, but considering how I was feeling earlier, this is going kind of smoothly. A temporary fix for now: just ignore the fact we know one another from a long time ago. Forget that he cost me a job and his team of people aided in sending me into a spiraling depression for a year, at a time when my mother needed me most because my father had passed away. Spare the thought that his publicist at the time tried to get me blacklisted from future work because of what Noah did, as if trying to silence me.
I whip my hand from his as the thoughts begin to do a country line dance in my head, startling Noah once again. Enough that he takes a step back.
“Whoa,” he says. “Sorry, Willa, didn’t mean to freak you out.”
Why do I have to get awkward when I feel uncomfortable? Why should I feel uncomfortable when he was the one who messed up that day? There’s an internal war as I tell myself to shove this down for now, look at this chance encounter as a positive.
Maybe the fact that we’re here, stuck in this town together for a month, and having to spend time together for his photos, I might just be able to talk to him and do something that’s not passive-aggressive. Speak my mind. I know it’s what most people would do.
However, at the end of the day, I’m a professional. With a job to do. We’re not gonna be weird here, and by we, I mean me. If an opportunity happens where I can say something, well, I need to have a little pep talk with myself ‘cause I’m gonna say it. I’ll say everything I ever wanted to.
“You didn’t freak me out,” I lie through my teeth, waving my hand in the air as if I casually act twitchy all the time. “I’m fresh from the airport, I’m tired, and I really want to check in and go to my room for a hot shower.”
Noah slowly nods, his eyes locked in on mine. It’s like a prison cell kind of lock, something hard to pick and get out of.
“Okay, Willa,” he all but purrs. “It was nice meeting you.”
“You, too,” I manage to say. Stepping away, I halt, spinning around. “Wait. I didn’t tell you why I was saying your name.”
“This is true,” he acknowledges, that sexy grin slowly making its way back. I want to wipe it off his good looking face.
“I’m with Athletic Edge , and they’re doing a feature on you. They called me and asked if I could take your photos since I’m here.”
“Okay, cool. Let’s make it happen.” He smiles, showing off an oddly perfect row of teeth for someone who plays ice hockey. I’m willing to bet a large number of those pearly whites are fake. “If you have a pen, I’ll jot my number down for you.”
Reaching into my bag, I pull out a pen and pad, handing it over to him. As I do, I watch as his gaze drops to the items and he catches sight of the tattoo peeking out under my cuff. There’s a flicker, a moment that passes as Noah stops and contemplates something, like having something tug on a sense memory. The muscles around his lips tense, and his brow furrows, showing me a tiny wrinkle in between in his eyebrows, before it relaxes. Then, he freezes, with his hand still outstretched.
His eyes snap back to mine, a new look behind them that wasn’t there before.
Recognition.