Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)

“Yes, what a hardship it is to be a sex symbol.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, a semi-disgusted look on his face. “Maybe posing naked on the ESPN magazine body issue wasn’t the best idea, Champ.” The tortured look on his face is so precious I wish I could get a picture of it.

“That wasn’t my idea,” he snaps.

“Oh really? Whose was it then?”

He grumbles something in a super low voice that sounds like, “My ex.” Hmm. Interesting. His eyes dart from the road to me. “You saw that?”

I didn’t. Amber mentioned it. However, I’m having too much fun to stop now.

“Who didn’t? You were on the cover––naked. Did they grease you up for that picture? You looked shiny.” He looks like he wants to melt into the floorboard of the car. I have to turn my head away from him and bite my lower lip to stop the laughter from busting loose. “What’s so horrible about women finding you attractive anyway? Present company excluded of course.” At this I get a slow turn of his head, a narrowing of eyes, and a small twitch of his plump lips.

“This may be the last contract I sign. I don’t need the complication…besides, I like being alone.” He says it so earnestly I can’t bring myself to tease him anymore. We descend into silence that eats up time, the mood suddenly grave.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Keep going when the world is against you? I remember people calling for your head two season ago. But you bounced right back.” For the next few minutes, I watch and wait for his answer.

“I don’t listen when they’re cheering, and I don’t listen when they curse me to hell.” Large pale orbs peer at me thoughtfully. “I know what I want, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it––nothing gets in the way of that.”

If only I had a tenth of his strength and determination. The single mindedness it must’ve taken him, the force of will––especially since I know he didn’t grow up under the best of circumstances. I take those words inside of me and tuck them somewhere safe. So that next time, when things seem bleakest, they might light the way.

Calvin decides to stop by the groom’s house before we head to the hotel. The house is a sprawling Nantucket style beach home covered in pale blue shingles with white rose bushes surrounding it. A lawn as tidy as a putting green extends for acres all around, backing right up to a deserted beach. Real people live here? It’s a fairytale house, for goodness sake.

Barry Marshall, Calvin’s agent, an attractive black man in his late fifties I estimate by the look of his short silver hair, greets us at the door with an easy smile. After a lot of bro hugging and back slapping, he directs those pearly whites at me.

“Pleasure to meet you, Camilla. Calvin’s told me so much about you.”

Huh? I sneak a peek at Calvin and find his attention trained on Barry. “Some of it good, I hope?” I follow that up with a strained laugh.

“Come in, come in,” he prods, ushering us into the kitchen. Through a wall of windows that overlooks the back of the house, I notice a swarm of people busy setting up the backyard for the wedding. “I’ll show you to your rooms.”

What?

“We got a room in town, Barry. We don’t want to impose,” Calvin pipes up. Thank the good Lord.

“Knock it off. Leslie may leave me at the altar if she finds out I let you stay in a hotel. Besides, the kids are all here. Sam has his own room, and you guys are just down the hall from him.”

Did he just say room? As in singular? I’m not sure I heard him correctly. What’s worrying me more, however, is that Calvin isn’t arguing with him, a man that lives to argue is presently not arguing.

“Alright.”

Excuse me? I turn to glare at him and get nothing but mild amusement in return.

“Is that a good idea? I mean––you have a wedding to set up for,” I manage.

“It’s fine,” Barry continues. “Calvin’s family.”

Two minutes later, we’re being shown to a large guest bedroom one door down from Sam’s room. After Barry leaves us to get settled, I’m off to Sam’s room to make sure he’s okay. Cracking the door open, I hear two small voices drifting out from the room. A beautiful girl with long, light brown corkscrew curls and cocoa colored skin is holding a tiny bunny rabbit while Sam is petting it gently on its head. She’s older than Sam. I’m guessing around ten years old.

“What’s his name?” Sam asks.

“Velvet,” answers the girl…and I suddenly feel like a party crasher. Swallowing the lump of cuteness overload stuck in my throat, I back away and walk reluctantly back to my room to deal with the change of plans.