“The onsite realtor has gone home for the day.” The man behind the desk tells me. He slides a business card toward me. I take it out of respect.
“I’m actually looking for Peyton Westbury. I believe this is her address.”
He turns stone-faced and says, “We protect our resident's privacy and do not divulge whether they live here or not.”
“Of course, and I’m not asking you to. I’m new to town, a bit confused about where I am, and want to make sure I’m in the right location. Is this the address?” I turn my phone to him so he can see the text exchange with Peyton. He nods, and I turn my phone back around. “Phew,” I say, hoping to lighten the tension. “Peyton gave me a code for the elevator.”
This man is a statue. His face has no expression, and he’s watching my every move. There are two sets of elevators, one on each side of him. Now, I can gamble and go to the right and be wrong, or I can plead with this guy to help me out. Something tells me he’s not going to fall for an eyelash batting crazy woman, though.
Without taking his eyes off me, he picks up his phone and presses a couple of numbers. “Mr. Westbury, this is Bernard down at the front desk. Mrs. Westbury has a guest requesting access. Yes, of course.” He hangs the phone up and then points to the left, saying nothing else. As far as first impressions go, I bombed this one.
The elevator is all glass, and as soon as it moves past the first three floors, I can see why. “Holy shit,” I mutter as the city comes into view. “So, this is what money buys you these days?” I’m completely taken when the doors open and loud voices wash over me. I turn and find that I’m standing there, gawking. Peyton beckons me forward, and in good time because I barely miss the doors shutting on me.
“I’m so glad you made it. Come on, let me introduce you to some friends.” She takes my hand and pulls me into the living room. When she said a few people, I thought she meant two or three, but there has to be at least twenty, if not more, standing around mingling.
“First, this is my husband, Noah.”
He reaches out and shakes my hand. “Peyton talked non-stop about you today. It’s very nice to meet you.”
I’m dumbstruck, totally caught off guard by how good looking her husband is. The pictures I saw online did not do this man justice. “It’s nice to meet you as well. I look forward to catching one of your games.” I have no idea where this came from, but it seems like the right thing to say.
“Well, let Peyton know when you want to come, and we’ll be sure to put tickets at Will Call for you.” Noah walks off, leaving me to think he probably suspects I’m using his wife for tickets.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Is something wrong?” Peyton asks.
I shake my head quickly. “No, just stupid things come out of my mouth when I’m nervous.”
Peyton sets her hand on my arm in a reassuring fashion. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone here is super chill.”
She takes me around, introducing me to other friends of theirs. Staff who work for the team, neighbors, and a couple of the players. When she gets to her brother, I know exactly who he is, thanks to the web.
“This is my brother Quinn and his fiancée, Nola. They’re visiting from Cali this week.”
We shake hands and exchange pleasantries. There’s small talk about my move to Portland and questions asked about my job. Nola has a ton of questions about the weather, predictions, and the science behind it. She speaks with a southern accent, which I find enduring and cute, and makes me wish I hadn’t worked so hard to get rid of my Texas twang.
We stand around together, talking about everything from clothes, Peyton’s sister, who, from what I’m gathering, can be a pain in the rear at times, to babies. Peyton’s mother is eager to be a grandma and isn’t shy about telling her daughters every chance she gets.
Then, the most awkward and uncomfortable thing happens. Peyton is called away, and Nola excuses herself to use the bathroom, leaving me as the wallflower. I stand there for a moment until I move toward the sliding glass door. I step out onto the balcony, only to find a man sulking in the corner. By the look he gives me, it’s clear he wants to be alone.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was out here.”
He sets his glass down onto the table. The ice inside rattles against what’s left of the amber liquid. He stands and comes toward me. The muscles in his arms flex, and his jaw clenches as he strides toward me. He’s three, maybe four inches taller than me, with black hair and the most gorgeous blue eyes. With each step he takes, the hair on my skin rises.
“I heard everyone talking about you in there,” he says in a sultry, husky voice. “The new weather girl.”
“Meteorologist,” I squeak out.
“I find it odd that you haven’t been here a week and already have your claws into Peyton.”
“I’m sorry, what? We went to school together.”
“Right, and you just so happen to need to climb the network ladder, knowing full well how popular she is in town. I hope for her sake, she sees through your bullshit before it’s too late.”
“Listen, buddy,” I say, taking a step back. “I don’t know you. You don’t know me, so why don’t we just walk away from this conversation?”
“Whatever you say, Weather Girl.” He keeps his eyes on me before stepping into the house. He goes right to the bar and makes another drink. I tell myself this guy is drunk, nothing more, and didn’t mean a single thing he said. Except, the doubt lingers in my mind. What if this is how Peyton feels about me?
Six
Julius
The bourbon numbs everything except my thoughts. This room is full of people kissing ass and taking names to better themselves in their careers. The media management companies are trying to brand Noah and Peyton, then there’s the rookie running back who makes sure to tell Peyton how pretty she is every day, and the new weather person for who knows what station. If I had to guess, it’s probably some online-only type broadcast because the internet is the wave of the future. Honestly, they’re right. I rarely watch the news because I can’t filter what they show. At least, with the web, I can go right to the information I want. Probably not the best way to get my news, but whatever. ESPN is pretty much the only channel I watch because they’re nice enough not to comment on my marriage, but they’re sure to point out when I have a lackluster game. Fun times in the land of Julius Cunningham.
What bothers me the most is the new person in the crowd. What did she call herself? Oh yes, a “meteorologist.” Even as I say this in my head, it sounds pretentious and snobbish. Did she have to go to some special school to tell people it’s going to rain? Hell, I can do that just by looking at the clouds. And seriously, this is Portland—it’s going to fucking rain, and then in the summer, it’s going to get so fucking hot, people are going to wish for rain. It’s an endless cycle.
I watch her, this weather girl, as she moves around the room. She’s schmoozing, taking names and numbers, and working the room. She’s using Peyton to advance her career because it’s likely she wants to be the next Barbara Walters, and standing in front of the map talking about the rain accumulation is just her way of getting her foot in the door.