Page 40 of Holding The Reins

She pinches my t-shirt, her nails grazing my torso through my shirt and I threaten to brick up with the simple contact.

“Come on, Mr. Carter, pour me a bourbon, sir.” She nods toward the kitchen as she moves in front of me.

I do my best not to watch her perfect ass sway under her shorts but I fail, miserably.

I am so fucked.

Istare at my reflection in the mirror on Wednesday night. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe he showed up here unannounced. Andrew’s words were hurried and curt when he called to say he was in town this afternoon.

“What choice did you leave me with? You don’t answer my calls. It’s been weeks. Enough is enough. You can’t avoid me forever, Cecilia. I’m ready to settle this. Meet me for coffee… it’s just coffee.”

I push his pleads out of my mind as I smooth my hair.

Andrew doesn’t take no for an answer, that’s one thing I know for sure. So avoiding him like I’ve been doing the last month is pointless and I do need to get this over with, so Spicer’s Sweets, it is. It’s the only option. I’m not going to Nash’s bar with Andrew, that is for damn sure, and the only other place in town to meet is our resident upscale restaurant, Dolcettos Steakhouse and Pasta Bar.

This most certainly isn’t a date, just coffee. I sigh and take in my appearance. As basic as I can be, just like Ginger said. Basic bitch mode. Jeans, black t-shirt, sandals. I grab my purse and head out to my truck just as it starts to rain. An omen for my night ahead, I’m sure of it.

Spicer’s Sweets is quiet at dinner time mid-week. At least that is working in my favor. Andrew looks like a fish out of water in this town. His wavy blond hair is perfectly styled, and he’s wearing Tom Ford head to toe. He looks like he belongs on my Pinterest page, and not the rustic town coffee shop in Laurel Creek, Kentucky.

Melissa White, a girl I went to school with, is seated in a dimly lit booth and she recognizes me. She smiles and nods and I nod back.

So much for me doing this on the down low.

Within the next hour, everyone I know will know that I had coffee with a ‘gorgeous city type’ and my family will all know Andrew is here.

He comes to me the moment I walk through the door, my hair is damp from the rain. He pulls me to his chest, and I freeze.

Touching him feels foreign. I can’t believe just over a month ago this man was my fiancé. I strive to remember the last time he tried to hug me, or kiss me. I can’t recall.

I pull back from him.

“CeCe. I miss you,” he breathes out, looking down at me.

“Ironic. You didn’t miss me while you were busy fucking everything that walked,” I retort quietly, giving him a ‘bless your heart’ type of smile.

“That’s not how I want to start this night, Cecilia,” he says back, fiddling with his keys.

“Andrew… let’s just get a coffee and sit down.” I sigh, gesturing to the counter.

“No, no, I’ll get us a coffee, you sit. Chai latte?” he asks and I internally laugh. Andrew offering to do something for me?

“Sure, I’ll be over there.” I gesture to the open booths that line the dark brick wall of Spicer’s. I sit and take a deep breath as he gets in line. I wonder how I could’ve been so attracted to him. On the outside, he is good looking in a Ken doll sort of way, but he’s so preppy, so polished, and just expensive looking all around.

Either my tastes have changed or I’m just seeing way too much of my rugged, hyper masculine boss—a whole different type of gorgeous. Lately, I’ve been dreaming of a light stubble that would scrape lightly along my skin. Flannels and boots—real boots not fancy Gucci boots you’re not allowed to scuff. I’ve also been dreaming of rough, warm, calloused hands—hands that know hard work and spend their days gripping a hockey stick tightly while coaching.

A beautiful sight I’ve grown accustomed to rewarding myself with when I need a break from my computer screen. I watch Nash on the ice every day, almost like a scene from You, staying just out of sight behind the curtain over the glass in my office. He’s so damn good with all the kids and they clearly look up to him. This morning, he was teaching one of the kids how to pass through the legs to trick his teammate and the errant thought that he would one day help to make beautiful, cheeky little babies crossed my mind before I scolded myself for ogling him instead of working on the fall budget. Between all these endearing qualities—and watching him in his element skating at warp speed and firing off goals without even really trying while scrimmaging with the teen camp—my Saturday night vision roster is already almost full again for this week and it’s only Wednesday.

I turn my attention back to Andrew as he pays with no real friendly demeanor in his eyes. He says thank you to the server as if she’s lucky to make his coffee. No warmth, no kindness. Without even realizing it, I’m comparing him to Nash again who would take the time to tip her and tell her to say hi to her parents for him.

I realize at this moment that I really haven’t been in love with Andrew in a really long time, if I ever was at all. What my eighteen-year-old self wanted and craved is entirely different than what my twenty-five-year-old self wants and craves.

I would never have been happy with him. This epiphany is about to make this conversation go a lot easier.

“Here we go,” he says, setting my steaming mug down.

“Thanks.”

Andrew sits and pulls a wet nap out of his wallet. He wipes the worn and rustic wood table down in disgust.

---