Page 48 of Taking It To Overtime
“Always, Vera. Always.”
The knockon my hotel door comes precisely at six o’clock and I let out a sigh of relief. It’s not that I thought he wasn’t coming—okay, I thought exactly that—but as the time inched closer and closer to dinner; I caught myself worrying that he’d cut his losses and run back to his parents’ house. Or maybe another hotel room.
I’m losing my grip on my sanity. Possibly on reality too, but I can’t stop the slow slide into madness. I can’t stop the way my lips tingle when he looks at me or the way my pussy clenches when he laughs. I don’t know if it makes it worse, or better, that Robbie seems to be slipping with me, but I do know that I blew up Tandy’s phone today with a million phone calls as I hiked my ass all around town to find an outfit for tonight. Because yes, despite my literal job with top-end designers, I didn’t bring a single item to Kimmelwick that seemed good enough for dinner.
With my ex.
By the time Robbie knocks, despite having his own keycard, I am surveying myself in the mirror above the bureau and debating climbing up on the mattress for a look at the bottom half of my outfit. Who the hell designed a hotel room without a floor-length mirror? I’d like a word. The only thing actually stopping me is the nagging thought I will for sure brain myself on the overhead light. Short ceilings and tall girls do not mix.I glance over my shoulder one more time at my reflection, marveling that I’d found the most expensive linen potato sack ever made before taking the few steps to undo the deadbolt. Then I almost swallow my tongue.
I’ve seen Robbie in a suit before. As a kid: at some party my parents threw, at end-of-year school awards, and at his great uncle’s funeral. As an adult, both during the NHL draft—although I pretend I didn’t watch—and of course I’ve seen the photos of him headed for the team bus or plane, but none of those times in memory or print seem to matter. There is nothing left in my brain but the Kit Kat jingle, the way his pants shape to the width of his quads, and the slow stretch of his hands before he curls his fingers into his palm.
“You look incredible.”
There’s a ringing in my ears. Loud enough that I’m not sure who said it, me or him, but then Robbie says my name and his tongue sneaks out to wet his lips. I want to lighten the mood, say something flip and flirty like, “this old thing?” As I run my hand down my side, but I can’t put the words together.
My hair is twisted into a claw clip, not done. I’ve washed my face but applied zero makeup. I’m barefoot on the flattened hotel carpet, wearing a linen tube of a dress that does absolutely nothing but make me look like a striped column, but he’s looking at me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.
It’s not arrogance to say I know I’m beautiful. Partly because I think everyone is beautiful in their own way—I mean it, try people watching sometime—but a good amount of that conviction has been built over a decade of being hired for my looks. The fashion world is harsh. The requirements for models are endless, but I’ve had my fair amount of praise as well. The better my campaigns did, the more I worked. After landing Cooper’s line, it became easier to hear the positive voices over the negative.
And never, not once in all the photos I’ve posed for, all the catwalks I’ve stomped down, all the ads I’ve filmed, never has there ever been a time when someone looked at me the way Robbie Oakes is right now.
It’s fucking delicious.
“We match,” I say, sticking my leg out to show him the beige linen of my dress, broken only by vertical navy stripes. He slips his fists into the pockets of his beige linen pants, the move pushing back the edges of his jacket. I tell myself the movement is the reason I’m staring. I’m checking out his outfit choice and the collarless shirt looks soft and relaxed tucked into his pants.
It has nothing to do with the urge to sink my teeth into his neck, right where I can just see the edge of his oak tree tattoo sprawling across the left side of his throat. Between my choice and his trousers and jacket, we look like we could pose for the same resort-wear collection. Kismet. Fate. Invisible strings drawing us toward each other even after all this time.
I wonder if I could convince him to take some photos of me for my social media.
He nods, looking up at me from unfairly thick lashes. “Must be a sign.”
And just like that, my heart turns over to expose its tender underbelly. The bitch even waves a white flag on her way down.
“I just need a few more minutes.” I say, a hand coming up to touch the base of my head, feeling the soft strands of my hair.
Robbie shakes his head. Not a vigorous no, but a little etch-a-sketch clearing motion. Like smacking the side of a vending machine when it’s eats the crumpled dollar bill and doesn’t spit out a pack of crushed potato chips. Like he needs to reboot his thoughts.
“Take all the time you need, Vera. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Right.” I force a chuckle. “Because this is your hotel room too, duh.” He frowns, his shoulders coming up and back as heopens his mouth to respond. I bulldoze on, “You didn’t have to knock. You have a key.”
I’m a bitch. A bitchy bitch bitch for goading him, sniping at him, whatever. I blame the butterflies tap dancing on my spleen. I blame the smoldering embers gaining traction every time our eyes meet, or I look at the breadth of his chest, or I think about his mouth.
“Every time I’ve picked you up for a date, I’ve knocked on the door.” He says.
Date.
My stomach turns, and the ringing sound gets louder, and it’s not that Idon’twant this to be a date. It’s actually the opposite, and this was my idea. I put it out there. I told him I’d see him tonight, but I can’t admit that. Not to myself, not to Robbie, not to anyone, because we’re already eating through the days I have here. We’re already burning the hours down to nothing and leaving is going to hurt.
I just think this might be worth it.Heis worth it.
“Vera.”
“Right. Just let me make myself presentable. Then we’ll go.” I spin on my heels, ready to bolt to the bathroom, but Robbie says my name again.
“Vera.”
I turn my body back to face him, but keep my eyes about two inches above his shoulder. He waits me out with the same steady calm he shows on the ice, waiting out the goalie or the defense. Taking his time, looking for the perfect shot. I shift my gaze and there’s a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
