I put it in Drive and shake my head, pulling away from the curb. “You really should make guys work a little harder for it.”
She denies me a response, but out of the corner of my eye I see her smiling. I don’t know what we’re doing—what I’m doing—but it feels like something I need for whatever reason.
“How’s your arm?”
“It’s fine. Would you forget about it already?” She sighs with a soft hum. “You’re your mom. Anyone ever tell you that?”
I chuckle. I look nothing like my mom. “Did you miss that the tall guy with dark hair was my dad and the short blonde was my mom?”
“Probably to most, you look like your dad. I notice the shape of your eyes—her eyes—earlobes, how you both roll your r’s the same, the shape of your mouth when you smile, and the tone of your laugh. It’s all your mom.”
With each passing second she sucks me into this unfamiliar world of hers. She’s smart and so damn sexy. That’s enough to get my attention. But then I blink and she shines light onto my world in a way I’ve never seen it before.
As soon as I pull into the parking spot along the street, she hops out. I would have opened her door.
“Brr …”
I laugh at her low tolerance for fifty-degree weather. She hugs her arms across her chest, and I rest my hand on her lower back, guiding her to the neon sign above the little dive that’s one of the best kept secrets in the city.
“Elle!” The bouncer at the door hugs Ellen.
I didn’t see that coming.
“Cam, how the hell are you?” She hugs him back.
“It’s all good, girl. Haven’t seen you around here in a while.”
“I moved to a different apartment. It’s not in walking distance.”
“You ever heard of a car or public transportation?”
She laughs. “Yeah, yeah … Cam, this is Flint.”
“I know Hopkins.” Cam gives me a fist bump. “Everyone knows Hopkins.”
“Oh?” Ellen’s eyes widen and her head moves back as her gaze makes an exaggerated inspection of me.
“Clearly you don’t follow football,” Cam says.
“Clearly not as well as I should.” Ellen twists her lips to the side like she’s trying to figure me out.
“How do you two know each other?” Cam asks, crossing his thick arms over his black T-shirt clad chest.
“Flint is my landlord who’s trying to evict me because he doesn’t understand my job or the fact that rats are some of the cleanliest and most intelligent pets.”
“Wow!” I tug at the cuffs to my shirt. “You just threw me under the bus.”
Cam barks a hearty laugh over the smooth music, buzzing chatter, and glasses clinking against tables.
Ellen shrugs. “Saying those words to your parents would have been throwing you under the bus. Saying them to Cam is just nudging you into the bumper.”
Cam nods toward the stage. “The corner booth is vacant.”
“Thanks,” Ellen and I say in unison.
“What happened to ‘I’m not twelve?’” I whisper in her ear as we weave our way through a sea of people huddled into small groupings of round tables and chairs.
“I changed my mind.” She slides into the low-back, curved booth and slips off her jacket, revealing a tight-fitting turtleneck sweater that hugs the curves of her breasts almost as nicely as the light denim jeans hugging her legs and ass. The dark red hair, soft blue eyes … the whole damn package is going to be my ruination. I can just feel it.
I slide in next to her so we both have a good view of the stage. “Mr. Hopkins, the usual?” the waitress asks.
I nod.
“And for you?”
“Chardonnay please.”
“So you used to live downtown?” I watch the performer on stage, going for small talk because I still don’t know what possessed me to call her.
“For six months when I moved here. Couldn’t find anything closer to the hospital that fit my budget. I had a roommate.”
“And she agreed to a six month lease?”
“He.”
I loosen my tie and slip off my jacket. “He? You moved in with a random guy you didn’t know?”
“Sort of. He owns the building but spends most of his time in Florida where he owns other rentals. His sister is a nurse at the hospital. I met her when I came to town for an interview, and she gave me his name. I know, I know, it was a crazy leap of faith that he wasn’t a serial killer.”
“That’s when you found this place?”
“Yep. Nick, landlord slash roommate slash non-serial killer, brought me here once, and I just kept coming back on my own when he wasn’t in town.”
The waitress sets our drinks on the table.
“Is that water?”
I nod. “With lime. I’m driving.”
“You’re quite cautious.”
“I am.” I return my attention to the sax player on the stage, feeling Ellen’s gaze on me, but I don’t give her a chance to take this topic any further. “What were you doing when I called?”
“Masturbating.” She grins, keeping her eyes on the stage.
“I’m serious.”
She shrugs. “Me too.” Her head turns toward me and she sips her wine. “But …” She sets the glass on the table. “If that’s too much honesty for tonight, then…” her eyes roll to the ceiling “…let’s say I was polishing my silver. Or maybe washing my hair. Writing a concerto. Studying theory and composition. Knitting. Take your pick.”
I scratch my neck. There’s something about her that my body rejects. Maybe it’s not her. Maybe it’s me and my need to understand her motives. I don’t think she has any—and that makes me uneasy. “Why a music therapist?”
“Ha! Really? Now you want to know this? Where were these questions at my interview? No way. You go first.”
I lean back, resting my arm on the back of the booth behind her. “Fine. What do you want to know?”
“Why does Cam act like you’re famous?”
I smirk. “I’m not famous.”
She turns her body toward mine, bringing one knee close to her chest, her foot resting on the seat of the booth. “Maybe not, but Cam thinks you’re a big deal at least in the world of football.”
I sip my water, staring at the lime trapped beneath the ice. “I played in college and would have gone Pro as wide receiver had I not fucked up my knee. Instead of finishing law school, I became an agent for a very promising quarterback. That’s how people around here know me. The man behind the player who gave Minnesota their first Super Bowl win. He took early retirement. I went back to finish law school and the rest is history.”
“That’s a good story.”
It’s not a good story. It’s so fucking tragic I can barely find the will to crawl out of bed every morning.
“You don’t look happy. Your wife died somewhere in that story, didn’t she?”
I nod.
She drops it. No how, why, or where. I omitted the most defining part of my life, and she doesn’t ask anything else. Again, I can’t figure out her motives.