Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(44)
I guzzle down the rest of the champagne as my friend releases a happy sigh.
“First me, then you, right?” she says.
That’s…a horrifying thought.
Our waitress appears and Rox orders the salmon. I order the chicken and another glass of champagne. Then I reconsider. “Actually, can you bring the bottle?”
At Rox’s eyebrow lift, I add, “We’re celebrating your wedding dress!”
That’s an easier explanation than telling her that her panic attack transferred to me.
Davis
Ross Vancouver is in his early forties, hair sun bleached, skin a deep tan. The not-native Californian looks as if he belongs here. He even surfs.
My boss’s house, located an hour north of San Francisco, is a massive white and glass shrine facing the ocean he worships. His mansion has nine bedrooms, ten bathrooms, two kitchens, and a patio grilling area with a pool and loungers. It’s paradise. I booked a room at a nearby luxury hotel, but after a week’s worth of meetings at headquarters, Ross invited everyone at the retreat back to his place for cocktails.
This getaway is for his ten top earners of the year, and for the fifth year in a row, I’m number one.
The other nine dropped off one by one last night, but Ross and I were too engrossed in conversation to disengage. He offered a wave goodbye as his guests left, but we went back to our conversation and our bourbon. Ross is a Kentucky-born guy. I guess some habits never die.
He’s single, happily so, and I’ve been joking for years that I want to be like him when I grow up.
“Price,” he greets me, swaggering outside in a pair of board shorts and a long-sleeve swim shirt, surfboard under his arm. He leans the board on the stone wall surrounding his back patio and squints out at the ocean.
“Morning.” I had my choice of rooms last night. Ross and I were awake until three, and I wandered into one and crashed. Bourbon hangovers aren’t something I’m accustomed to, but given Ross’s alertness (and the surfboard), I’m guessing he fared better than I.
“Found the coffee, I see.” He gestures to the steaming mug in front of me. I haven’t been able to take a sip of it yet because my stomach is doing its impersonation of a Cirque du Soleil performer.
“Yeah.” The only way to describe my voice is “craggy.” He notices and chuckles.
“When’s your flight?”
“Noon.” It’s eight and traffic is going to be hell. I need to get going soon.
“Don’t bother.” He brushes the idea aside with the wave of an arm. “Take my jet.”
Ross has money to burn, but I didn’t know he had a jet.
“Stick around for lunch. My chef is coming over to fix the latest fad superfood meal.”
I smile. “California by way of Kentucky.”
“I acclimated. So could you.”
Not the first time he’s suggested as much. He’s the happiest West Coast transplant I know. “Thanks for the offer, but I have to get back sooner than later.”
He eyes me for a long moment. I test my coffee to see if it’ll stay down. It does.
“Who is she?”
His question startles me and I look up to find him grinning.
“Only one reason to go back to dreary, gray Ohio at the end of October, and that’s a woman.”
“The consummate bachelor knows about women?”
“I know more about them than you’d think.” He waggles his left hand in a gesture I assume to mean he was married at some point.
“Her name’s Grace,” I confess. I’ve been texting her all week—tame stuff. She sent me the eggplant emoji and I sent her the peach, and the next text that came through was her saying it wasn’t the same at McGreevy’s without me.
Doesn’t sound like much, but it made my day. Nay, my week.
The texts and one phone call that followed were innocuous. Pleasant. Friendly. No reason for me to feel as if my heart was scooped out and residing on her nightstand.
Save one.
“How long?” Ross asks, doing some sort of presurf stretching.
I do a quick calculation. “A month plus.”
“Sounds serious.”
I think back to her leaning on me after the run-in with her father. How much time we spend at each other’s houses. The fact that we’ve been exclusive without defining it.
“It is,” I admit.
“Well.” Ross snags the board and claps me on the shoulder as he walks by. “Don’t keep her waiting.” He jogs out to the sand.
Through my massive, brain-splitting, bourbon-induced headache, I manage a smile.
“I won’t,” I say aloud.
Chapter 16
Grace
McGreevy’s is dead. Sunday afternoons are hit-or-miss.
While I wait for someone (anyone) to come in, I scroll through the photos Davis sent me from San Francisco. My favorite one is of his feet in the sand, the sparkling Pacific Ocean in the background. His suit pants are hiked to his shins in the foreground. Suit pants. On the beach. It’s so him.
A week lasts longer when you miss someone. Time passed in excruciatingly slow, incremental chunks. I worked, went grocery shopping, cleaned my house. Not all that different from the way I spent time pre-Davis, but now something is missing.