Chapter Two Elise
“Says right here he plays for the Columbus NHL team,” Lily declares while I gather my thoughts in the bathroom. She’s checking her phone, because that’s what good friends do when you decide to leave with a stranger. “Goalie. That’s really important with hockey.”
“Goalie. Got it.” As if that bit of information matters. I’m hopeless with sports and have never watched hockey in my life.
“There’s a lot of pictures of him on Insta.”
“Eww, one of those guys?” I wince. I did not peg him for someone who obsessed over social media. I know the type, since I work with actors all day.
“Not on his account. Other peoples’ accounts, I mean.”
She shows me an entire page for #RandallHaughland. There’s a picture of him on a boat with a bunch of athletic looking guys. One at the gym and one on the beach. Exposing those wide, shapely shoulders to the unsuspecting public is a distracting safety hazard. It should be illegal.
There are posts featuring him in goalie gear, stretched out and saving the ball or whatever. My favorite posts are from @stevestonhockey, which features middle schoolers wearing Haughland jerseys and raising posters. The guy has his own fandom. There are also reels of Randall getting interviewed by a reporter. And, as expected, plenty of posts of him stepping out of cars, or leaving restaurants, or attending parties with a beautiful woman beside him.
“He’s a major player,” I state the obvious. With his blond hair, blue eyes, athletic body, and illegal shoulders, I shouldn’t be surprised. Who can resist a Ken doll with a sense of humor? But this is another level of playboy I’ve never seen up close.
Ken doll isn’t quite right, either. One striking thing about Randall, apart from the obvious attractiveness, is how young he looks. He’s almost, dare I say it, cute. Like a Disney prince in disguise, mingling with the minions before he rescues his damsel.
His age, according to the internet, is twenty-six. Three years younger than me. If Randall was an actor, he’d make a killing playing characters the age of high schoolers or star in a show about young professionals. It’s the gentle slope of his chin that projects a sweet boyishness. The expression carried by his lips, so full and yet relaxed, is of someone at the cusp of smiling. Don’t get me started on those eyes with blue irises and blond lashes. Blond lashes! Good grief.
“What did you expect? Boyfriend material?” Lily asks. “He just needs to break your dry spell, now that the play is over.”
I tilt my head in agreement. She knows me too well. When immersed in a theater production, there’s no time for extracurricular activities. And by extracurricular, I mean sex. Since I refuse to sleep with anyone involved in the show, dry spell it is.
“I don’t expect anything from him. In fact, that’s what makes Randall perfect.”
What I mean to say is, the situation is perfect. A straightforward discussion is much easier to have when your sexual partner is experienced.
I have three unbreakable rules.
One: no strings, no commitments.
Two: no sleeping over. When we’re done, we go our separate ways. This is not the same as never seeing each other again. I’m all about the occasional fling, as long as the expiration date is clear.
Three: The expiration date is ten dates or two months, whichever comes first. Anything after that and the guy starts complaining about why he can’t stay over.
See rule number two.
I slip into my wool coat as I exit the club. It’s the last week or so of winter, and there’s a renewed warmth in the air. The chill on my face is a tickle instead of a slap.
Randall is waiting on the sidewalk, coat open and hands in the pockets of his dress pants. When he sees me, his features brighten. I’m reminded of that stupid cliché of a smile lighting up a room. Probably because a car’s headlights sweep over his face.
Turns out, that’s his car, fetched by a valet. Smoothly, Randall opens the passenger door for me. He slips the driver some cash in exchange for the keys and strolls to the other side like the dirty sidewalk is a fashion runway. There’s even a sexy hair flip when he looks at me from the windshield. A flair for the dramatic, this one.
He pulls away from the curb. “Where to?” he asks. “Have you had dinner? We could grab something to eat.”
His capable hands work the gears, and something about the detail of him driving stick is a major turn on. I reach over and trace the knuckles over the stick shift. Languidly, my fingers explore the veins on the back of his hand, the cords of muscle on his forearm.
“If you keep doing that, we’re going to have to decide soon, Elise. Your place or mine.” His voice is ground in glass.
“About that,” I say, pulling away and looking ahead. “I have a few, um, conditions that I’d like to run by you.”
He glances at me, seeming astonished. “You sound like my family.”
That is not what I expected him to say. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Lawyers. My dad and two brothers. Anyway, proceed please. State your conditions.” His words are formal, but the tone is teasing. And that dazzling smile! Who was I kidding earlier? His vividness has nothing to do with headlights. The man’s entire face is a damn sunbeam.
Clearing my throat, I begin, “If we’re having sex tonight…” I pause to check his reaction.
“I have every intention of taking you to my bed tonight, if that’s what you want.” Randall moves to rearrange his pants, which draws my eyes to their tented state. OK, good sign, that.
“I want to, though not in either of our beds,” I continue. “I don’t bring people to my place, and I’d rather not go to yours.”
“There’s a Westin close by. Is that what you had in mind?”
“Yes, though that might be too dressy for my current couture,” I say opening my jacket to remind him that I’m wearing my friend’s discarded jeans and a shirt I use to paint stage sets. I had nicer clothes on after the show, but the shaken champagne did a number on my dress. I changed before we left the theater.
“You could wear a sack and still be the prettiest thing in that hotel,” he says.
“Wow, you’re real smooth,” I laugh.
“Stating a simple truth, Elise. Besides, I don’t think you’ll be needing much couture tonight.” He wiggles his brows, and I can’t help grinning. We are definitely on the same page.
The Westin is a historic building of brick fa?ade and intricate carvings surrounded by a modern cityscape. We pull up the entrance where a valet attendant practically throws himself in front of Randall’s sports car. Another man opens my door. If he thinks my clothes are rags, he doesn’t show it.
The grand lobby sparkles with crystal chandeliers, scrubbed marble floors, polished brass, and the kind of shine that requires an army of cleaners. Randall holds my hand as he guides me to a plush armchair covered in luxurious dark fabric not too different from the period pieces we use at the theater. Except this one doesn’t have faded fabric on the seat or the sour smell of perspiration. Wearing Regency costumes under stage lights is like walking around attached to a sauna.
“I’ll be right back.” He heads to the check-in counter.
The bar we had left was dark and noisy, filled with other hockey players and the fuzzy filter of booze. I found him attractive then, obviously. But in this well-lit lobby, the sheer sex appeal of Randall is so potent it draws every eye. People turn to gawk at his athletic backside when he walks past. The woman at the front desk beams like she won the lottery when he chooses her counter over the other two.
I fiddle with a thread on my ripped jeans. If Randall and I ever go on a real date—and we’re allowed to have nine more—I’m dressing to the max.
He returns to me in steady strides. When I stand, his arm wraps around my waist, and he places a sweet kiss on my temple. “Are you sure, Elise?”
“I’m sure,” I state simply. Congratulations to me for not screaming take me to a room already!
We hold hands crossing the lobby. Since it’s past midnight, we’re alone in the elevator. He lifts my hand to his mouth, running my knuckles over impossibly soft lips.
I called it earlier: he is definitely a Disney prince in disguise. I make a mental note to swallow at regular intervals so I can avoid drooling.
“You said conditions. Plural. What are the other items on your list?”
The door opens to the seventh floor. Neither of us move, although my muscles are practically coiled to shoot my body down the hallway and straight to a room. Any room.
He’s not in a hurry, waiting for me to get my thoughts in order. That’s another thing I like about Randall. He could wait two minutes or two weeks, it’s all the same. His desirability is such a foregone conclusion, he doesn’t need to rush or exert pressure.
“I’m probably going to come across as presumptuous, but there’s no harm being clear. Especially since we don’t know each other very well. Or, like, at all,” I ramble.
The elevator door makes an impatient jerk, but Randall’s arm keeps it from sliding closed.
“OK,” he says with a shrug, his expression amused like I said something both silly and delightful.
“Not that I expected you to ask me to stay, but just in case, I won’t be sleeping overnight.”
He raises both brows and bites down on his lower lip. Is he trying not to laugh at me?
“That’s it?” he asks.
“Yes.”
Suddenly, Randall sweeps down to carry me like a bride before stepping out of the elevator. His chest is sculpted ridges, his forearms steady. The heat of his body sears through me as my arms cling to those impossibly wide shoulders.
When he speaks, the rumble of his vocal cords reaches into my chest before traveling to my aching center.
“Elise, baby. You’re not gonna be sleeping at all.”