Her Rebound Guy

Caleb, aka Mr. Swoony, was late. She looked quickly at her phone. Okay, calling him late wasn’t entirely fair, since she had been fifteen minutes early. She’d rushed everything today, starting from the moment she’d sat bolt upright this morning, an hour before her alarm had gone off. She’d had three cups of coffee, two more than she usually had when she woke up. But she’d tried to waste some of her extra hour over coffee and a magazine. It had been that or stare at her closet and rethink what she’d planned to wear today, which was guaranteed to be a bad idea. Of course, too much coffee had given her the shakes, which meant her homework assignments for her art class were a mess.

And then she’d stared at herself in the mirror, trying to figure out what first date hair and makeup should look like. And she’d changed her mind about what to wear before settling back on the ruffled cream-colored dress with a peachy cardigan, seafoam green scarf and matching bangles. Later, when she’d called her friend Marsie—who had been dating forever before meeting the man she was set to marry—her unhelpful friend had told her not to worry about what she was wearing and instead think about what she would talk about with a stranger.

Knowing what to say to a stranger had never been a problem for Beck, but finally she had decided Marsie was right about the first part. She pulled out the outfit she’d planned to wear originally, got dressed and then left for her date.

Of course, she’d driven too fast and there hadn’t been any traffic, so her plan to sail casually through the door of the bar at exactly six in the evening wouldn’t work. Now she had to try to make it look as though this wasn’t her first date since...college.

And, as it had for the entirety of the day, trying was failing her. As she shifted from foot to foot to foot and wondered where to rest her hands, she probably looked like a woman who’d already had too much to drink and was about to have more.

“Beck?”

She started at the smooth, deep voice that said her name from the left. “Caleb?” she asked as she turned. All this time she’d been staring out to the parking garage to the right, not expecting him to come from the left.

His shoes were nice. Casual black loafers, well-worn, but not scuffed, like he both wore them a lot, but also took care of them. Dark jeans with trim hips and the hem of a light purple button-down.

And an outstretched hand, which she took before meeting his eyes. But when she did meet his eyes... God, they were as light green in person as they had been in his pictures. Not only were they an unreal light green, but they were smiling, and his entire face was surrounded by pitch-black hair that made it look as though he’d just gotten out of bed in the best possible way.

He might be the most handsome man she’d ever seen in real life, and if it wasn’t for the slight crook in his nose where he’d probably broken it, she’d think he stepped out of a photoshopped magazine spread.

He was slender and tall, too. Willowy, without being weak-looking. Frankly, it was all a bit unreal.

She smiled back at him as she took his hand. Well, if this was going to be her first date in over twelve years, at least she was starting on a high note.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. God, his hand was warm, even on a cool late-spring night when he wasn’t wearing a jacket. He was probably perfect and did things like keep the woman in bed next to him warm, even if she always had ice-block feet.

“Likewise. Shall we?” He swept one hand onto the glass of the bar’s front door.

“Yes.”

He opened the door for her and she took one step into what felt eerily like her new future.

* * *

BECK WAS NERVOUS enough that her hand shook as he had gripped it in his. She even walked like she was nervous, with her shoulders up near her ears and quick, rabbit-like steps that made the ruffled bits at the bottom of her dress bounce about her fine legs. And her square jaw had tightened as she’d smiled, rather than opening in the bright grin he remembered from her profile picture. Her rich brown hair was shoulder-length and feathery around her chin and collarbone.

She was just as cute as she’d been in her profile pictures, with intelligent eyes and an open face. In fact, her nerves were endearing. Caleb couldn’t remember the last time he’d been nervous on a date, nor could he remember the last time he could recognize that one of his dates was nervous.

Her profile said that she was divorced. If he had to guess, she hadn’t been divorced long. Once inside, he stood back to watch her move as she approached the bar.

“Hi,” she said to the young woman wiping a glass dry. Then, to his surprise, she stood on her toes and her legs looked almost a mile long sticking out of the bottom of her dress. The hem of her cardigan lifted, though not enough for him to see if she had a nice ass.

He was trying to figure out what she was all about when she said, “That’s a nice dress,” to the younger woman behind the bar, who beamed wide with pleasure. “That’s a Marauder’s Map on your dress, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl says. “You like Harry Potter?”

“Doesn’t everyone? Or everyone who knows anything.” Beck sank back on her heels and Caleb could see that she was smiling.

Well, isn’t this different. Caleb had been on hundreds of dates and planned to go on hundreds more before he died. Many of those women he’d gone out with had been nice. They’d been friendly to waitstaff and kind to the person who helped them in the shop. But Beck struck him as different. She was one of those rare people who was kind to people because she saw each and every person in front of her as a unique and interesting individual who was worthy of getting to know.

That was different from someone being polite because they were supposed to or because they were a cheerful introvert. Even through her nerves, Beck exuded a warmth that even the bored-with-life hipster behind the bar responded to. Caleb had been to this bar what felt like a thousand times, both on his own and with dates. The bartender had never looked back at him with a real, honest-to-God smile, no matter how polite he was.

Beck was different, alright. If Caleb had to guess, he’d say Beck was one of those people who hugged strangers and they didn’t mind.

He was so lost in his own thought and evaluation of her that he didn’t notice she’d ordered and paid for her drink until the girl was handing over a martini glass with a purplish liquid in it and Beck was agreeing to start a tab.

“Anywhere you want to sit?” she asked, turning to face him.

There weren’t a lot of seats in this bar to begin with, and his favorite date table was taken. “How about that one?” he asked, gesturing to a booth away from the door.

“Sounds good,” she said and then stepped away. He stayed put but continued watching her make her way through the people until she was at the table he had gestured to. Then she got out her phone, typed something quickly, and then seemed to turn the volume down and put the phone into her purse.

He’d turned the ringer of his phone off back when he’d parked his car. And it was a point in her favor that she’d done the same and tucked it away where it couldn’t be a distraction. He turned back to the bar and ordered his gin and tonic and some bar snacks. He ignored the little voice in his head that told him his life was changing today. His life had the possibility of changing every day, with every breath.

Beck was sweet and he dug the intelligent sweep of her eyebrows, but she wasn’t going to change his life any more than any of the other women before her had. Even if the smile she greeted him with held a hint of mischief.

CHAPTER FOUR

“SO, TELL ME about your dog. Why is he named Seamus?” Mr. Swoony—she supposed she should be calling him Caleb now—asked as he lounged in the bar’s booth. Lounge was a quiet word for the sprawl of all his limbs across the fabric. Only a man at ease with his body from tip to toe could so easily extend his extremities without worrying about whacking over the large vase of flowers next to his right hand.

He was probably good in bed. A man that comfortable with himself had to be good in bed, right? Or, maybe, it meant that he only thought of himself. What did she know? Neil was the last man she might have looked at and evaluated how good he’d be in bed, and yet she couldn’t remember if she’d ever done that. Since it had been college, probably not.

She took a sip from her Aviation cocktail, smiling a little. At her thoughts. At her lack of experience. At the big leap she felt like she was taking into life. She wasn’t smiling at Caleb, exactly, until she caught his gaze and a shiver of pleasure ran down her spine.

Definitely good in bed. More certainly, it had been over a year since she’d had sex and that was long enough to make a woman imagine orgasms in every man’s gaze.

“Seamus?” She looked away quickly before she actually imagined what the sex would be like. That sounded too much like committing herself to a roll in the hay, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to do that. Over a year might be a long time, but she could wait longer. She wasn’t looking for an open barn door.

“The shelter said he was found muddy, in a swamp. The woman who found him and cleaned him up said he looked like a half-dead beast dragged out of the bogs.” She shrugged, a little self-conscious. “It made me think of Seamus Heaney.”

He raised a black brow, which made her more self-conscious. “Poetry, huh?” Then he smiled and her self-consciousness disappeared with his casual acceptance.

“I’m proof that English majors get jobs.”

He barked a laugh. “So am I.”

They shared another quick glance that made her toes tingle. It was harder to look away this time.

Friends told her that she needed to know what she wanted with this whole dating thing, but they hadn’t told her how to know what the person she had a drink with wanted out of the experience. Well, except for the bride, Jennifer. But Jennifer’s advice had only been to pick the right dating site and avoid handsome men. Caleb was in direct violation of at least one of those pieces of advice.

What did Caleb want?

Unable to bring herself to ask that question, she asked, “What do you do?” instead, spinning her martini glass on the table. His profile had said he was a reporter, but that was vague.

“I write for the Raleigh paper. Politics. I cover the General Assembly.”

That set her back a little in her seat. “Not a simple job. And always something to report on.” Anything happening in national politics had to have a run in the state first, sometimes including the out-and-out battles.

“All those bills made in the dead of night. I have trouble keeping track,” she confessed. “And the laws they pass don’t seem to relate to anything. What does women’s health have to do with motorcycle safety laws?” She’d been against that one on principle. And Leslie was one of her favorite people to work with, so she’d been against the bill that banned people from bathrooms and even called her representatives about that one. She was prouder of her stance when she learned later that the bill had included a bunch of other stuff about restricting local government. Frankly, she was generally against bills coming out of her state capital on principle. Maybe she would be for them under different, more open circumstances, but she didn’t know what was in them because they were presented and passed within hours.

Secrecy was bad, and being against secrecy was easy. That was a political stance she could get behind. But having to admit that she struggled to keep track made her feel like she was out of her league, especially when the only other thing she could think to add was, “Your job sounds hard.”

He smiled, like he heard it all the time. But also like he enjoyed his job and was not-so-secretly pleased every time someone said, “Oohh.”

“It uses my writing skills, which is good. And I like talking to people, and being a reporter gives me an excuse to ask people questions. And,” he shrugged like he was humble about his job, even though she could tell he wasn’t, “I think freedom of the press is important. So, I’m glad to be a part of that.”

“You said English major, not a journalism major. Do you have a wild tale of career changes? Some dark experience in your past that made you determined to expose evildoers and right wrongs?”

“Like a bite from a radioactive spider?” He had the most delightful shrug. Comfortable and agreeable, like he’d seemed to be all night. She tried to imagine him tracking down sources—if they even called them sources—or badgering someone he was interviewing until they gave away their secrets. Tried and couldn’t. He seemed too slippery to be hard, and she didn’t even mean slippery in a bad way. More like water, flowing around obstacles and making its own path.

And, like water, he could settle into a comfortable stillness, which he did as he answered her question. “I liked to write as a kid, tell stories and make up lives of the neighbors’ pets. I’d sit them down and ask them questions about their day, then report the gossip to my parents.”

His face froze for a moment, so clear that she thought she could see all the way to the bottom of his soul and some inner hurt he was trying to hide, but then he smiled and the secrets he might be keeping were obscured by the mask he wore.

A reflecting pool she would be tempted to sit and think next to suddenly revealing the soul of the water sprite inside.

“My dad didn’t like me telling those stories,” he said. “Especially after Mom died. She’d been the person who liked to hear them most. ‘Kids’ nonsense,’ he used to say, and he would tell me I was too old to be playing make-believe.”

His cheeks were smooth, his eyes were wide and clear, and anyone glancing over at their table wouldn’t think he might be saying anything upsetting. For all Beck could tell, he didn’t consider this to be an upsetting story.

Still pretending, she thought. Only he doesn’t realize he’s pretending anymore.

“That’s the kind of guy my dad is, you know. Old-fashioned. Men are men and that means stoic faces and no talking to pets. So, I would tell the stories to my younger sister and we would play television. Game shows and TV news, with me reporting on the pets. For some reason, my sister always reported on weather and sports.” His voice softened when he spoke about his sister, and that was cute. And, if she were honest, made her a bit jealous as an only child.

“Anyway,” he said with a shake of his head that cleared the emotion out of his voice, “Once I got to college, I thought I should be a writer, because I liked to tell those stories. My roommate worked for the college paper and I tagged along, writing stories for them. I covered town politics and how it affected the college.”

He snorted. “I used to joke that college town politics were a lot like the politics of the pets—all that emotion sharing a tight space. One Christmas, I was watching the nightly news with my dad and sister. I don’t even remember what the reporter was talking about, but I remember my dad complaining about politicians and ‘the man’ and the cheats. It’s not like he did bad. He was a car salesman at a nice dealership and he made a good living, but he seemed to always think the world was keeping secrets from him and those secrets were why he wasn’t doing better.”

Beck nodded in sympathy. “I grew up in DC. I really should know and understand politics better than I do, but it always seemed too...opaque is the word I want, I think. And getting older hasn’t made it any easier to understand.” She hadn’t paid that much attention, either. Both because North Carolina politics were dead-of-night things and because politics, like her parents, had always seemed cold.

“Yeah. That’s how most people feel, I think. My dad is my audience, even though he thinks I’m as crooked as the people I report on.”

She winced at that admission.

“I understood what the reporter was talking about. The local politics I was reporting on for the school paper are almost as far from national politics as a cat is from a dog, but they’re still pets and I understood pets. My dad didn’t and still doesn’t.”

“Reporting seems like a manly job. Smoke-filled backrooms. Secret committees.” She knew what it was to have parents who didn’t approve of your work. Her parents had been remote and never deigned to talk with her about their jobs, but they were still shocked when she didn’t follow in their footsteps.

Her parents thought she was a glorified waitress. They didn’t see how she made memories for people or why that might be a worthwhile job.

“Some of it is contamination by proximity.” This shrug was less effortless. “Politicians are all crooks and, since I count some politicians as my friends, then I must be a crook, too.”

“And are you? That seems like the sort of thing I should know, even if this is a first date.”

She meant it as a joke and he laughed, both of them pretending that what she’d said had actually been funny. For all the momentary glimpses she’d gotten of his soul, his surface might as well be a thick sheet of ice. Short of some thaw, she couldn’t see in.

And he can’t see out. Or in, either. There was a little boy in there still hurt by his father’s disapproval, and that little boy didn’t talk to the man sitting across the table from her.

“I don’t think my dad wants to know more about the rules that govern his life. If he knew, he might have to do something about the things that make him unhappy. And some of it is that he doesn’t like his son knowing more than he does. To him, I’m still telling stories and by stories, he means lies. Holidays at my house are a barrel of laughs.”

He snorted again, a wry noise offset by his embarrassed half smile. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this, especially after one drink on a first date. Normally, I just tell people that my sister and I played television news as kids, but I like writing more than I like television news, so here I am. That’s the sanitized version.”

It was her turn to shrug and she tried to make it the easy, careless movement he’d seemed to perfect. “I’m easy to talk to?”

“Yes, Ms. Dogfan, yes, you are. In fact, you are so easy to talk to that I’m going to get another drink. Want one?”

“Yes, please.” She liked being thought of as easy to talk to. Nothing he’d confessed had been scandalous, but she knew why it felt personal. And she didn’t think it was that she was easy to talk to so much as it was the dark bar, with soft music and bench seats that cocooned around them. A little bubble, where nothing they confessed to each other would escape.

Safe, she thought. He had felt safe talking with her, which she understood, since she felt safe sitting here with him, too. Which surprised her. Standing outside the bar, shifting back and forth on her feet, she’d felt like her nerves were radiating out through Durham’s small downtown, forcing walkers to push through it like it was a heavy wind.

Those nerves had stayed with her as she’d ordered her drink and as she’d silenced her phone. Then Caleb had sat down, asked about Seamus and poof—all those nerves were gone. If he asked, she might lay out all her secrets on the table for him to pick through.

Might. She was determined to be smart about this whole dating thing and laying her baggage on the table for Caleb to examine was not even in the same time zone as smart.

Though, she considered as she watched the way he laughed with the bartender and chatted up other people at the bar, smart didn’t seem like much fun when his lanky body was part of the equation. In the abstract, all the contradicting advice left her at sea in her own life, each life preserver she was being tossed leading her to an unknown shore.

She could land on Caleb. She’d probably be back adrift again, but kissing those shoulders might be worth it. And then she could say she tried. One less choice available to her.

She was still watching him as he returned with two drinks and a report of snacks. Carefree as he was—or as he was pretending to be, considering the story he’d told her about how he got into journalism—her staring didn’t seem to bother him. “It’s not dinner,” he said as he sat down and told her what he ordered. “But we could go get dinner, if you want.”

She cocked her head. “You just ordered us another drink.”

“Well, yes.” He looked amused and she wasn’t sure what he was smiling about until he said, “Am I just a two-drink dude, or might you want dinner even after that second drink?”

“Oh!” He’d told her that personal and revealing story, which was sweet, but that he liked her well enough to think even an hour into the future hadn’t occurred to her. She’d been thinking well over an hour into the future, but she’d been thinking about how good his black hair would look against her white sheets. Dinner hadn’t played a part in any of those thoughts.

“Let’s see how we feel after this second drink and round of snacks. Maybe we won’t need dinner,” she said.

For a moment, she thought she saw the hurt of rejection flitter over his face, but then he seemed to consider what else she might mean. He put his hand on the table, palm up. “No dinner, huh?”

Emboldened by the soft lighting and a little alcohol, Beck put her hand on top of his. “Maybe no dinner. Depends on how hungry we are.”

He raised an eyebrow. They were holding hands, or not quite. When he curled his fingers, the tips brushed her palm and she could feel his touch in her toes. “Does it also depend on what we’re hungry for?”

“Yes.”

“Your lead, Beck.” Their hands were still touching, hers on top, both with the ability and acknowledgment that she could pull away at any moment. That he wanted her to be touching him, but wouldn’t argue if she felt otherwise. She relaxed her arm, letting her palm fall onto his and curled her fingers around the side of his hand.

His recognition that she could say no made her want to say yes. It made her want to scream “yes” as he was on top of her, maybe kissing her neck.

Sex with a near-deadly handsome near stranger was an option to her now. She could take this man home with her. She could go home with him. The realization made her feel almost two feet taller. And she certainly felt stronger. There had been moments during her separation when she had realized that she could make her own choices, but for the first time, she felt like she was in control.

The second feeling was different and it was heady.

She didn’t lift her hand when their snacks were brought over. He didn’t move his hand, either, and they both switched off drinking and eating with the other hand. She didn’t want to let him go.

Over their second round of drinks, he asked her about her job. Her second cocktail buzzed through her head. The room was dim. So, when he asked her what she liked about her job, she felt comfortable enough to confess the truth. “Honestly, it’s been hard. I’m not a wedding planner and people come to my restaurant for other types of celebrations, but mostly it’s weddings. I talk to a lot of excited brides who are certain that this is forever and, well, that’s hard right now.”

She looked at the bar for a moment, studying the bartender’s movements and the way the woman leaned into customers she liked and leaned away from the ones she didn’t. Once she felt less immersed in her own pain, she turned her attention back to Caleb. “It’s a little easier now than it was. I’m no longer angry at my ex, at the world and especially at the happy couples.”

She paused to take a sip of her cocktail. “Work is easier when I can celebrate with my customers, instead of pretending.”

“Newly divorced, then?” he asked.

“My divorce went through...” She paused, pleased the date didn’t pop into her head immediately. “A couple weeks ago.”

She pressed her lips together, but the words slipped out anyway. “You’re my first date since Neil left. God, which makes you my first date in over ten years.”