The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)(25)
She picked up the pace as she turned onto the multi-use path through the park a few blocks away from her home. Soon, the endorphins would kick in and chase away the pain of her recent crash and burn. And her past.
Sophia’s phone call had awakened her on a number of levels. She’d let her past experiences lead her to believe that she didn’t need a relationship to be happy; didn’t need love or commitment; that education and career were all that mattered. All her energy had gone into those pursuits, and she had been convinced they would fulfill her. And for the most part, they did. But there would come a time when it wasn’t enough. Sophia’s distress over Phil and her dashed hopes and dreams for a family proved that. Why did love have to be so hard? Why did she habitually push away the men in her life with her cut-above attitude and her brainiac pedagogy? What did it accomplish except assuring her future loneliness?
When all her achievements and laurels lost their luster, what would be left except the people she loved and her own happiness? With tears stinging her eyes and threatening to freeze her eyelids shut, Eloise confronted the hard truth. She did want a relationship – someone to love and be loved in return – a home and family, just as her own parents had. Christ, she was going to be thirty on her next birthday. She cried harder at the realization that time was running out. She truly didn’t know if she could have children, and if not, what did she have to offer a potential partner in that regard? Antiquated thinking or not, all the successes in the world paled in comparison to that one failure.
It’s a bitter road of life that one walks alone.
By the time she finished her route and reached the steps to her building, she was taking great gasps of air between painful sobs. The ugly cry. She knew where she had to go. After showering and dressing, Eloise headed straight downtown, to Blues & Brews.
Her pulse accelerated as she gripped the handle of the entrance door. She had no right to be here, to expect him to be here, or to even want to see her again. But she would never know unless she walked through this door.
She stepped inside, the warm, coffee-scented air wrapping around her in greeting, enveloping her in its toasty, nutty scent. Customers dotted the interior, singles and couples and best friends grouped randomly at the bar and around tables. With a sigh of relief, she spotted Cole behind the bar, tinkering with the coffee machines, looking right at home. Eloise strode toward him.
“Hi,” she said, stopping alongside the bar. “I know I have no right to ask, and you can tell me to go to hell, but I hope you won’t. Can I talk to you?”
He looked up, tilting his head back a bit. His eyes scanned her up and down, a look of pain on his face. “Sure,” he said, his voice quiet. “Make you a brew?”
Eloise smiled and took a stool, unraveling her scarf from around her neck. “I’d love that.”
As the machine hummed and gurgled, her eyes drank him in, from the top of his spiky head, down his ripped midsection covered in a tight t-shirt, to his bare feet shod in sandals. In February. Cole Fiorino’s mind worked in mysterious ways, and Eloise found it intriguing. She chuckled at his optimism in sporting flip flops in Minnesota. His cool blue irises intermittently flicked in her direction as he worked.
“I’m sorry about what happened at the Town Hall,” she began as he pushed the coffee cup across the counter toward her. “I know you felt I was siding with Sheehan, but I was only doing my job. I do appreciate you coming to my defense. Obviously, I wasn’t expecting him, and I have to admit… I… I.” She blew out a breath.” Well, I didn’t have his permission to hold that Town Hall. I thought I knew what was best, and I performed a blatant act of insubordination. Things got out of hand, and I guess it shook me up a bit. I was confused when my work and my feelings shot the first bullet in my internal war.”
Cole remained still for a few moments, the silence between them deafening. Why didn’t he say something? Even if it was f*ck you? “So you do have feelings in there somewhere,” he said tonelessly. “Funny. That’s not what I heard.”
Eloise stiffened, her hands wrapped around the warm concoction he’d prepared. Squeezing it so hard the hot ceramic threatened to burn her palms. She welcomed the searing sensation. It seemed less acute than the burning in her gut. “Excuse me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
He took a step back, clearing the coffee tools away. “I mean, your reputation precedes you,” he answered. “The ice-queen, wearing her career as her crown. I had hoped it was a bunch of bullshit perpetuated by an * that hadn’t gotten laid since Kanye West dissed Taylor Swift the first time. Seems like it’s all true.”
“Who said this?” she demanded, feeling equal parts insulted and embarrassed. But her heart pummeling to her boots said she already knew.
“If the shoe fits, does it matter who’s the cobbler?” He asked the rhetorical question all puffed up and arrogant. This was the NHL bullshit she was used to. Somehow, she’d thought this one was different. But he was just a sleazy jock like all the others, only out for himself and his own interests. But there was another sleazy jock who’d pay.
“Ryder Martin,” she whispered angrily, her eyes narrowing. “Ryder doesn’t know his ass from a dressing room drain. He’s stuck in the past, mourning his lost chances as a pro hockey player. He doesn’t know anything about me, other than I wouldn’t sleep with him on a first date. Our only date. Are you saying a girl shouldn’t have scruples? Or standards? Or taste? That’s not how you felt when we had dinner together.”