“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Because I am not. I can’t. Like, I’d do it for anyone but her.
The last time we spoke was when she called and asked how my new year was going. She had that accusatory tone in her voice. The kind women use when they say one thing but really mean another. She thought I hadn’t shown up for her party and was trying to call me on it. Needless to say, I wasn’t having any of that. And when she asked if we could get together the following week when she was back in town, I was still hurting from what had really happened and let her have it. Told her, no, we couldn’t get together. And then I told her that on New Year’s Eve, as the clock struck midnight, I realized that she was not the girl for me. I gave her the easy way out—plus, I didn’t want to hear her excuses. I couldn’t handle it. I was a broken mess. We haven’t spoken since.
She gets tears in her eyes. “You have no idea what it’s like to be a disappointment to your family.”
“You’re a supermodel who travels the world,” I scoff.
“Which is the opposite of what they wanted.” She gets to her feet. “Please, Carter.”
“Why me?”
She looks down and whispers, “Because there is no one else.”
“No one else? You run out of boy toys?”
“I liked you, Carter. A lot. What you said on the phone the last time we talked really hurt.”
“I’ll say,” I mutter. Even though it’s been almost four months, I’m still not over her. I honestly don’t think I’ll ever be over her.
“I’m just saying that I understand you aren’t the least bit interested in me, but if you aren’t dating anyone, could you possibly find it in your heart to pretend for just one weekend that you still find me irresistible? We always had so much fun together.”
I wouldn’t have to pretend, I think.
“What’s in it for me? I have plans this weekend,” I lie.
“Fine. You want to negotiate, Carter Crawford? Let’s do it.”
The determined look in her eye when she wants something is one of the sexiest things about her. Sure, she’s a supermodel, and she has a beautiful body, but I was always most attracted to her drive. Her passion for life. She is one of the few people who can go toe-to-toe with me in an argument and not back down.
I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling and thinking about how she could practically wrap me around her little finger. How the second she used to call and say she was in town, it would convince me to drop everything and spend time with her.
“The top-rated offensive lineman in the country, AJ Barnett, will be at the wedding. He’s projected to go high in the upcoming draft. And happens to be the groom.”
“Yeah, that’s not much of an enticement,” I say, still trying to play it cool, but when she’s near me, I feel anything but. “I’ve already spoken to him. His family decided to go in a different direction.”
“I know for a fact that he hasn’t signed a representation contract yet.”
“Are you telling me that with the draft less than two weeks away, he is agentless?” My eyes go wide.
“Yes. You’d be doing me a favor and have the chance to earn some major coin. The kid is a specimen, and I happen to know that offensive guards are some of the highest-paid players in the league because it’s their job to protect the quarterback’s blindside. Please, Carter,” she says, folding her hands in prayer. “I need you.”
The way she says she needs me cuts through me.
“Fine,” I agree.
Her big, beautiful eyes fill with tears, and she looks up at me and says, “Thank you.”
Officially lost it.
Vale
Carter turns his back on me, walking inside. And what a fine back it is. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, and I can’t help but sigh as I follow him.
I love Carter’s house. Actually, I loved the man who lives in it.
“Where are you going?”
“Well, I just got back from my jog, so I’m going to drink the smoothie I was making when you rang the doorbell, and then I’m going to shower.”
“Oh, okay, yeah,” I say, my brain becoming even more frazzled over the sight of his naked chest. I used to love to lay my head on that chest and listen to his heartbeat. I used to love being wrapped in those strong, muscular arms.
“Come in my closet,” he says as memories of him frantically stripping off my clothes and setting me up on his kitchen island replay in my head. “I’ll pick out some clothes. You can pack them while I shower.”
Each step I take through his house, I remember something else. Other details. If I were watching the movie of my life, this is where they would insert a musical montage of all the fun, flirting, drinking, passionate sex, and morning-after pancakes we always had.
His whole house holds memories for me. And it sort of stings now.
“What events are we attending? Where are we staying? How formal will it be?” Carter asks.
“Couple’s shower, bachelor and bachelorette parties, picnic with games, wedding rehearsal, night-before dinner, and then golf and the wedding and reception. It will be an outdoor wedding on the family farm.”
I watch as he takes out a suitcase and sorts through his clothing very quickly and efficiently. Very much the way I do. The telltale sign of someone who is often on the road.
But he’s not moving fast enough.
I shove our boarding passes in front of him, which note how little time we have left. “We really have to hurry, Carter.”
“I’m not flying commercial, Vale. What time do you have to be there?”
I notice he says you, not we. But he’s pulling out clothing.
“Uh, the couple’s shower is tonight at seven.”
He gets on his phone, calls someone, and sets up a flight. Then, he points at a suitcase and walks into the bathroom, closing the door tightly behind him.
The sound of the shower running sets my mind on fire, burning with past scenes of us showering together. Of the way he looked wet, the way the water ran down his body, seemingly perfectly placed to highlight everything from his model cheekbones and strong jaw to his muscular shoulders.
I shake my head and get to packing, folding his clothing carefully to avoid wrinkles, placing them inside packing cubes, and layering them inside his suitcase.
I don’t zip the bag up yet because I expect that he will have some toiletries to add.
What I don’t expect is for him to walk back into his closet, wet and wrapped in nothing but a towel.
I can’t help but hope—make that pray—he will drop the towel and get dressed in front of me. If he did though, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from straight-up throwing myself at him.
A good shag would do wonders to break the ice between us.
Sadly, he chooses a few articles of clothing and a watch and makes his way back into the bathroom. He doesn’t close the door as tightly this time. From the mirror in his closet, I can see the reflection of the bathroom mirror and manage to get a brief but wondrous sliver of a view of his delicious backside.
He comes out fully dressed, throws a few final things into his bag, and says, “Let’s go.”