“Sensible men make great husbands. And North is right. You’re a consummate professional. You can handle a rowdy sports player.”
Has it become clear yet that my mother knows not a thing about sports? She may as well have referred to Barrett as a “ball thrower.”
“Since we’re milking the fish-out-of-water nature of our relationship, I’m going to bring him here for a round of golf.” I gesture at the backdrop of Columbus’s most prestigious country club—one I’ve had a membership to since I was twenty-one.
“Splendid idea,” Mom says.
“Superb,” Dad teases.
“Oh, Hank, stop it.” She shoves his shoulder and then they share a lingering gaze of love and adoration.
My heart squeezes in envy. North and I haven’t looked at each other like that in...well...ever. I take a bite of my salad and chew forlornly.
A word crashed into my head yesterday afternoon when he sent a text saying he would be busy for the next couple of days, and I haven’t been able to shake it. What word, you ask? Passionless. North has never been particularly warm, but I haven’t noticed as much as I have recently. Maybe because, by contrast, my pretend date, Barrett, is passionate to the nth degree. He loves coffee. Hates olives. Finds lamb gyros “fantastic.”
Once the lunch plates are cleared, Dad takes his leave to practice on the putting green while Mom lingers behind to chat. “Are you sure you don’t want to play nine with us? It’s such a gorgeous day!”
It is. The greens are lush and vibrant, and the sky is an arrogant, disgusting, beautiful blue. The kind of blue that reminds me of a certain former NFL player’s eyes.
“I’m sure, Mom, thanks. I have to get back to the office. Big date tomorrow!” I make a rallying gesture: my fist balled while I sweep my arm in front of me.
“Now, dear, I didn’t raise you to be impolite. I’m sure this football man has a hidden layer. All men do. When you uncover it, you’ll likely find him to be delightful.”
Welcome to the world of Celia Everhart, where words like “splendid” and “delightful” make their way into everyday dialogue. I wouldn’t be surprised if a cartoon butterfly landed on her shoulder right about now.
“Clearly you haven’t met him.” I spare her the details of how he lost his field reporting job as well as a few hefty sponsorship opportunities with a fast food chain and a brand of motor oil.
I shake my head in annoyance. How could he have been so reckless? Does he have an anger problem, or is he so full of himself that he thinks he can get away with anything? Maybe being passionless isn’t such a bad quality.
“When you two golf here, call us so we can meet him.” My mom’s eyes twinkle. Her jaw goes slack like she just had the best idea ever.
“Um. No.” I bat my eyelashes. “Trust me. You won’t like him.”
“I like everyone.” Her top lip curls. “Except for that Matilda Hudson across the street. She’s a pill. Yesterday makes the third time she accused me of overpruning my roses.”
“While I can’t imagine Barrett reporting to you to the HOA, he is a hot-tempered redhead who has said things in anger.”
“Who among us hasn’t?”
I pat her hand. “I’d never let him ruin the world for you, Mom. Your outlook is too precious.”
“I’ve had my wild days, I’ll have you know,” she tells me. And not for the first time. “I wised up and met your father and settled down and had a beautiful daughter.” She stops short of pinching my cheek. “No golf? Final answer?”
“I have to go back to work but thank you.”
We air kiss. I bypass the valet. I’m more able-bodied than many older folks who are members of this club, so I enjoy the walk to my car. Plus, it really is a beautiful day. I’d like to soak in the sun before I venture back into Mordor to confront Sauron.
I’m referring to Barrett, in case you were wondering.
“Shame we’re not planning on kissing at the end of any of these dates,” Barrett says as he fiddles with the pens in my pen cup.
I send the email I was typing, unable to hold back a snort. “Why am I not surprised to hear you say that?”
He’s sitting on the edge of my desk, behavior I’ve grown accustomed to and have decided to ignore. He takes up space with everyone in the office. I’ve seen it. I guess it makes sense. He made a living out of “huddling” so maybe his personal space bubble is smaller than most.
I lean over to shove a file into my desk drawer and then sit up, only to be confronted by Barrett nearer than usual.
“It’s impossible to tell whether you like someone or not if you don’t touch them.” His blue eyes skate over my face, taking a brief inventory. I wonder what he sees.
“It’s not impossible.” This close I can’t miss the red and blond whiskers that cohabitate on his scruffy jaw. But I’m not going to fall over myself like Nanci. I don’t find celebrities—even low-grade ones like Fox—that interesting. I clear my throat.
“I haven’t touched you, and I know I don’t like you.” I smile sweetly, but it falls away when he ever-so-gently sweeps a lock of hair away from my face.
“Must just be me, then,” he murmurs.
He has big hands. Nice hands. They’re a little rough and a lot tender, which isn’t what I’d expect from him. Using his thumb, he gently brushes the skin along my cheek, then down to my bottom lip. I’m frozen in place, soaking up the attention that has been so lacking from the opposite sex.
“You can tell a lot from a kiss, Kitty Cat. Even one without tongue.”
My heart pounds and my breaths shorten. I tell myself it’s because I don’t like him and his posture is threatening, but my nipples are the first to point out that lie. There’s nothing threatening about his nearness or the way he’s touching me.
Fine. I’m attracted to him. Or not him per se, but to his magnetism. There’s a pull surrounding him.
His blues zero in on my mouth. “Aren’t you the least bit curious? Your readers will be. I’m an unattainable bachelor, and they’re going to expect a full report.”
His voice is low and rumbly like a far-off thunderstorm. The kind best enjoyed while curled under a blanket and cradling a cup of warm tea. That there’s a single cozy element about him is more off-putting than the rest of him.
“I have a boyfriend.” A good reminder for both of us.
“I know.” He tips my chin with his knuckles. “Think your guy would mind if you kissed me for the assignment? No tongue. Just so you can fully disclose how it feels to have my mouth on yours?”
His tongue sneaks out to wet his bottom lip and I suck in a sharp breath of...something. Terror. Or want. Could be want. That’s pretty terrifying.
Barrett grins—a white, sharky smile.
“Eh, you’re probably right.” He drops his hand. “Wouldn’t be worth it.”
I blink back to reality and then watch as he swaggers back to his desk. I’m still leaning forward on the edge of my chair, my chin tipped as if I’m waiting for that kiss he promised. With a huff, I tousle my hair, open my laptop, and start writing. Or, well, I start hitting keys and hope that I look like I’m writing.