Stay(8)

The panty-melting grin all the girls used to die for lifts one corner of his mouth. “Perhaps you’ll be in a better mood when I return.”

“We deliver.” My tone is pure ice.

He thinks I’m challenging him, and Stephen Hastings never backs down from a challenge. “I don’t mind picking it up.”

Great.

With that he’s gone, and I’m left trying to remember how to breathe normally.

Warmth at my side, and Lou is right at my shoulder. “Who was that fine specimen of male? And why are you keeping friends like that under wraps?”

“He is not my friend.” I feel like I’ve run a marathon. Taking a breath, I swallow the tightness from my throat. “He’s the worst mistake of my life.”

She shakes her head and chuckles. “Girl, you’re going to have to tell me this story.”



* * *



Eli’s in Lou’s office listening to clips of North American bird calls, and the sign on the door says we’ll be back in thirty minutes. Lulabell and I sit with two coffees and two glazed donuts between us.

“He was your first?” Her eyebrows rise as she takes a sip of coffee. “That sounds like some kind of a dream come true to me.”

I consider how life changing that night was—and not in the best way. “I had the hugest crush on him for so long. And I mean huge.” I trace my finger down the side of my cup. “He graduated with Ethan, but they weren’t close friends. Still, I was at every rowing match, every track meet… oh, God.”

I close my eyes and shiver. Lulabell laughs.

“As hot as he is now, I can only imagine a seventeen year-old version.” She cocks an eyebrow. “Unless he had an awkward phase?”

Shaking my head, I sip my coffee. “He was never awkward. Not ever.” Closing my eyes, I exhale all the crazy, pent-up emotion I carried as a silly teenage girl in love with Stephen Hastings. “He was never anything but gorgeous and brilliant and aloof and dismissive… and so damn sexy.”

“Sounds like the kind of guy I’d fall for.”

“So I got a little drunk and figured I’d make him see I was the girl of his dreams.”

“With your magic, virgin pussy?”

Coffee almost shoots out my nose. I squeal and cough, and Lulabell starts slapping me on the back. “Don’t die, Magic Pussy!”

“Oh my God!” I cough more, this time loudly. “I did! I really thought he’d have sex with little virgin me and fall madly in love.”

“I take it he didn’t.” Her smile presses into a sad little frown.

Dotting the tears out of my eyes, I manage to recover from my choking fit. “He basically patted my shoulder and told me to have a nice life.” I return her empathetic frown with a pouty lip. “I don’t have a magic pussy.”

She leans closer, hugging my neck. “None of us do, honey.” We both laugh, then she straightens, releasing me. “Was it at least good sex?”

“Oh, you know.” I lean back taking a bite of donut. “At first it hurt like hell. He has a pretty big…” I wave my donut at her.

“Jesus, give me strength…” She clutches her chest, making me laugh.

“But I was prepared for that. I held on through the first part and just focused on kissing his neck and touching him, smelling him…”

“He smells so good.”

“Yeah… Then it got so much better. Then it was over.” My eyes actually heat at the memory, and I start to laugh. “Oh my God! I’m such an idiot!”

“You’re not.” Lou’s voice is quiet, kind. “He’s the type you never quite get over. And now look at what Fate has done! She brought him right back and dropped him at your door. If that isn’t a second chance, I don’t know what is.”

“No.” Shaking my head, I finish my donut and hop off the chair. “No second chance. Never again.”

“Oh, come on, Em. You have to follow up on this. It’s only right.”

My eyes go through the doorway to Eli studying at his desk. “Stephen Hastings is one mistake I will not make again.”

“I don’t know.” She hops up, following me. “A mistake like that I’d be willing to make again. And again… and again.”

Our eyes meet, and we both snort a laugh.





2





Stephen


Aunt Rebecca’s brownstone sits on a tree-lined street between Columbus and Amsterdam. She’s very proud of it—possibly more than she is of her late husband.

“I hope you were able to take my dress today, Stephen.” She sits at the head of a long, mahogany table in a dining room with thirteen-foot ceilings and Venetian glazed walls. It has the original moldings around the doors and around the chandelier base, and deep green fabric drapes oversized, south-facing windows. The golden-yellow walls give the room a warm glow, along with the red Persian rug covering the wide-plank wood floors.

“Rudolfo is very particular about who handles our costumes,” she continues. “Miss Con-Cleaneality is supposed to be the best.”

At a glance, you’d never dream this thin, elegant woman wearing pearls, a purple pantsuit, and a cream turtleneck would ever strip down to velvet and feathers to do a tango. At least I wouldn’t.