"I'm working right now," I explain to her.
"Oh, don't be such a drag, Nix. Let's go to the movies and then out for some beers."
"Sorry, Lyla. I've just got too much to do."
She steps in a little closer to me and I can smell her perfume. It's overpowering and burns the inside of my nose. She stands on her tiptoes in an effort to get her lips up near my ear. At six-foot-five, I could bend over and help her out but I don't. She gets close enough though and whispers suggestively, "We could bypass the movies and do something else instead."
There was a time when just those words would have caused my dick to stand at attention and I would have taken her up against the wall but clearly my time with Lyla is about to come to a screeching halt. I didn't have a shred of interest and she's clearly wanting more than no-strings sex.
I step back from her and let her down as gently as Nix Caldwell possibly can.
Which is not very gentle at all.
"Look, Lyla...I'm sorry. I'm just not interested in you, okay?"
Her face falls and the seductive smile she had been sporting instantly vanishes. "But...I don't understand..."
The biggest lesson that Lyla is about to learn from post-war Nix Caldwell is that he has little patience. And when it's gone, he doesn't hold back. "What's to understand? I have no interest in you. Period. None. Do me a favor and don't come back around."
Lyla's face looks like it's about to crumble, then rage fills her eyes. "You're an asshole, Nixon Caldwell."
I look at her, my eyes probably as dead as I feel on the inside sometimes. "I know. Now, get out of here."
I turn my back on her, assuming she's going to leave. Instead, an empty bucket hits me in the back of my head. It bounces off and lands on the floor with a clatter. I look back at Lyla and she is wearing a very self-satisfied look, with her hands on her hips and her lips pouted out. For a split second, I think about retaliating...not physically...but verbally.
And just as quickly, it's gone. I simply don't care enough to engage and truth be told, I deserved to have her throw the bucket at me. I just stare impassively at her until she turns around in a huff and leaves my shop.
I reach back into the fridge and grab another beer. I'll have to call it quits today. No working with metal tools or fire when I've had something to drink. It's too dangerous.
Even for someone like me, who has been through Hell and back.
CHAPTER 3
Emily
Crap! I'm late.
I hate the drive from Manhattan over to Hoboken and there's construction going on at the Lincoln Tunnel that has traffic backed up.
I shouldn't be nervous. I'm only going to see one of Ryan's best buddies, Lincoln Caldwell. He's the goalie for the New York Rangers and he graciously granted an interview to Ryan's little sister. I have to get it completed for one of my elective classes, The Economics of Sports.
I went ahead and officially declared my major in Journalism with an emphasis on Sports Journalism. Now, when I say I "officially declared", that just means I declared it to the university and to myself. There is no way in hell I'm telling my parents until I absolutely have to.
It really helps having a brother that plays professional sports and it would have been super easy to just interview him. But I don't share with many people that I'm related to Ryan Burnham. I want to keep my relationship with my brother private because I'm really enjoying the bond we've developed. And I don't want people trying to be friends with me just because my brother plays in the NHL.
So Ryan suggested I interview Lincoln. They became fast friends when Ryan signed on with the team and are pretty tight. I've met him a few times at some of the players' parties and he's a nice guy. A little bit of a ladies' man, but nothing I can't handle. Plus, he probably knows Ryan will kick his ass if he ever makes a move on me. I don't think Ryan will ever tolerate one of his teammates dating his baby sister. Which is fine by me. I may love all things related to sports but I have no desire to ever date an athlete. With the exception of my wonderful brother, most of them are just too full of themselves.
I mentally calculate my time frames. I'll need only about half an hour of Lincoln's time and that will get me back over to Manhattan in time for dinner. I'm eating at Ryan and Danny's tonight and I am so excited. This will be the first time we've been able to get together since the Fall semester started for me.
Ryan and Danny got married last December in a beautiful but simple Christmas wedding. The only ones in attendance, other than the happy bride and groom, were me, Ryan's best friend, Mike, and Danny's friends, Paula and Sarge from Boston. My parents weren't invited because my father was out of the country but I know my mother would not have come. She's still pouting over Ryan's "abandonment of his family" in favor of "that woman with the purple hair". At this point, I think it's safe to say that my mother has completely written Ryan off and that makes my heart hurt for Ryan and Danny. My father, however, has been talking to Ryan so maybe he can talk some sense into my mother. He's the only person with any sway over her and really, it's because my mother adores her husband. Truly.
I find Lincoln's condo easy enough and pull into a parking spot. I pull my visor down and check my face in the mirror. No stray mascara marks and my lip-gloss is still shiny enough.
I pull my phone from my purse and check my texts and emails briefly.
Great! There's another text from Todd.
Em...pls call me. I miss u so much. I luv u. We belong 2gether.
Ever since my mother made me go to that fundraiser with him, he's started his stalker behavior again. He keeps insisting that we belong together. He sounds...frantic. As if his life depends upon hitching me to his hip. Right now, it's just emails and texts, which I have been ignoring. But maybe I need to get tough with him.
I punch out a quick reply.
Stop texting me. We r over.
Short and sweet. Hopefully, he'll get the message. Hopping out of the car, I make my way up to the top floor apartment.
Lincoln, of course, welcomes me in and I'm struck by how beautiful his place is.
I expected it to be littered with dirty clothes, beer cans and posters of naked women. Instead, his walls are painted a warm, taupe color and he has stylish, black leather furniture. Tastefully framed art prints grace the wall, and the only ode I can see to the fact that this is a bachelor pad is that he has an XBox 360 hooked up to a massive seventy inch television.
Lincoln Caldwell, goalie for the New York Rangers, is as beautiful as his condo. He's a favorite subject for the newspapers and sports magazines, probably because his face could be considered a work of art in most museums. Dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and sexy hair that's cut into a gazillion layers, perfectly framing his rugged face. He'd be a dream guy to have if it wasn't for the whole "I don't date athletes" thing I have going on.
I'm welcomed in and Linc chooses to have us sit in his living room for the interview. As soon as I take a seat, a huge, furry bundle of what I later learn is a dog comes barreling at me. He...she...it...hops the coffee table and crashes into my chest, sending me backward into the plush, couch cushions.
I'm gasping for air and the dog is licking my face from top to bottom. I hear Lincoln yell, "damn dog" and then he pulls the golden mass of muscle and quivering nerves off of me. I can now see it's a beautiful Golden Retriever...a boy, I believe...and he's staring at me with a big, goofy dog grin on his face.
"It's okay. I love dogs," I assure him.
Lincoln cautiously lets go of the dog's collar and I'm rewarded with the big lug--not Lincoln--coming over to lay his head in my lap.
"Sorry about that. Dog has no manners whatsoever."
I give the furry monster a quick scratch behind the ears and I get a well-behaved canine that promptly lays at my feet and goes to sleep.
The next half hour goes by quickly and Lincoln provides me with an engaging interview. Of course, he can't help by finishing it off with an offer to go out to dinner. I politely decline and he gives me a sad, tortured look. I'm sure that works on a lot of women, but not me. Instead, I give him a professional handshake, thanking him for his time. I do, however, lean over and give the dog a big hug and a goodbye scratch.
Walking back to my car, I glance at my watch. I need to hurry if I want to beat rush hour, although it won't be so bad heading into Manhattan as opposed to coming out.