Stella

He’s ten minutes late. I check my phone. Nope, no text or calls. And why would he pick this restaurant? It’s one of those obnoxiously trendy and overpriced places in SoHo. The only reason I haven’t paid for my drink and walked out is because of Ethan. Ethan vouched for him, swore up and down that this guy is a good man and a worthy candidate, so I’m allowing him a grace period of two more…

The roar of tail pipes gets my attention. Actually, it gets everyone’s attention. The people sitting at the outside tables crowd my line of sight. I shift left and right until I spot a man on a Harley pull up to the restaurant and park right in front of a fire hydrant.

How obnoxious.

Secretly, I hope a traffic officer drives by to disabuse this guy of his sense of entitlement. Passersby begin to stop and stare. That’s when I get a sinking feeling. Oh balls, this is probably my wayward lunch companion.

He takes off his helmet and runs a big hand through his hair, after which he greets his fan club with a wide bright grin. It seems out of place here in New York. It’s too much. We just don’t smile like that here.

He finally gets off the bike and I realize how tall he is in comparison to everyone around him. I’m talking freakishly tall. The pictures online, of him on the football field, do not do this guy justice. He’s proportionate, though. Which is probably why he didn’t look like a freak in pictures.

I run a perfunctory assessment of his other attributes. Messy, dark-blonde hair. A deep tan. Firm jaw. A straight nose. Bulging chest muscles pushing against a gray t-shirt. He meets all the requirements for Beefcake of the Year. I’ll reserve judgment for now.

Five minutes later, he’s still grinning. At the people that have swarmed the bike. At the women that are putting their hands on him to get his attention. At himself probably. A nagging suspicion tells me he may be the type. This does not bode well for our future.

The crowd around him grows bigger. From my research and what Ethan’s told me, I know he’s a retired football player but these people are acting like he’s the second coming.

Two more minutes pass and it doesn’t look like he’s made much progress so, getting impatient, I go fetch him. I push, I shove, I even step on toes to get through the mass of bodies. Finally, I reach my intended target.

“Mr. Wylder?”

I get nothing. He’s still smiling at a brunette who’s extending an arm to be signed. I guess I should be grateful it isn’t a more intimate body part.

“Mr. Wylder!” I shout and tug on the hem of his t-shirt. His attention finally swings my way. “I’m waiting.”

“Sorry, Shorty. No more autographs.”

He holds up a hand, his big-ass palm inches from my face, and pushes past me without glancing my way again.

It takes me a while to process what just happened. By then he’s already walked into the restaurant while I remain standing on the sidewalk shell-shocked.

I watch him talk to the maître d’, flirt with the hostess. I almost can’t believe my eyes. It’s like watching reality TV, totally cringeworthy and yet I can’t look away in fear I may miss what cringeworthy thing he might do next.

He looks at our table and notes the empty chairs. His head swivels right, then left. Finally he looks straight ahead. His gaze lands on me. Our eyes meet. Here we go.

The surprise on his face turns to…he’s smiling––again.

In all honesty, I’ve already made up my mind. I need to get back home and stalk the forums and websites for new potential candidates. With that in mind, I march into the restaurant, and back to the table.

“What are the chances?” he says with a crooked grin and a heavy Southern accent. He thinks this lazy country boy routine is cute. It’s not cute, and I’m not smiling. I’m not even close to smiling.

“What are the chances?” I parrot back. “Stella Donovan,” I say, holding out a hand.

“Nice to meet you, Stella.” The sticky sweet way he says my name has my gut churning. Par for the course.

“Dane Wylder.”

I tip my head, no smile included. My cold response has no visible effect on him. He’s not chastened in the least. He pulls out my chair and waits, a smile still in place. As soon as I sit I retrieve an iPad and a manila folder out of my tote bag.

“What’s that?” he asks, his tone curious with a dash of amusement. It seems this guy is easily amused.

“The research I’ve compiled. Only the essentials. Should we decide to proceed––” In my mind I’m snickering as the words leave my lips. “Then a more exhaustive vetting process will follow.”

Fat chance.

Looking up, I take in the disheveled bed head, the two-day stubble, and last, although by no means least, the black eye. I don’t even want to know how that happened.

There’s a strangely alert look in his heavily lashed, hazel eyes, the tips so long they’re tangled at the ends. For a hot moment I wonder if it’s a dominant trait. Which I really shouldn’t since there isn’t a single chance of this guy becoming anything other than a funny story I tell at cocktail parties. Therefore, as strangely fascinated by those lashes as I am, I don’t linger in case this egomaniac gets the wrong impression.

“Like a stud at auction?” he mutters.

“Pardon?” I say, even though I heard him perfectly.

“Hmm?”

“I thought you said something.”

“Nope.” He smiles. Apparently everything can be fixed with a smile in the world according to Dane Wylder.

I tap open the screen of my iPad and my eyes land on retired football player under profession. “What position?” I absently inquire while I pull up the list of questions I’d prepared beforehand. Small talk; I couldn’t care less what position, nor do I know much about football outside of the basics.

“All of ’em, honey. With you? All of them. Fair warning, I’m not great at standing. Bum knee.”

He cannot be serious. I look up. He’s smiling, a wide toothy grin. Dear Lord, he is serious.

My eyes move back to the iPad. It never happened. One sign that I find his juvenile behavior mildly entertaining and it will never stop.

“What position did you play?” I try again.

“That’s not in your file?”

I look up from the list of questions. When I don’t respond, he says, “Tight end.” And then––you guessed it––he smiles.

* * *

Dane

“I’d suggest a Myers-Briggs test, to see if our personalities are compatible, but I think it’s safe to say you’re an extrovert,” she says, tone communicating her annoyance perfectly.

I was a psych major. I know exactly what a Myers-Briggs test is. Doesn’t mean she needs to know that. This wouldn’t be half as much fun if she didn’t underestimate me.

This woman is not what I was expecting when Ethan suggested this babymaking scheme. When he said a friend of his was interested in co-parenting a child and nothin’ more, I jumped at the chance, my prayers answered. A woman not interested in anything other than a platonic business arrangement? Sign me up.

I pictured an unattractive woman. Someone older, smellin’ of desperation. Nothing like this…this little thing with dark hair and big eyes. She’s no Christy, but she’s attractive.

“Is that one of them squiggly line picture tests? Imma tell you right now they all look like boobs to me.”

As soon as we sat down she fished a pair of reading glasses out of her bag and put them on. As far as ugly goes, these are the granddaddy of ugly. But those clear blue-green eyes of hers framed by those ugly-as-fuck glasses are something special.

She blinks, blinks again. Her expression is priceless. I almost wish I had a keepsake.

“Save it for your groupies, Mr. Wylder. The dumb beefcake act won’t work on me. I’ve seen your IQ score.”

“You have?”

“It’s right here in your dossier.” She taps a short red nail on the screen of her iPad.

“And a perfect Wonderlic.”

“Excuse me?”

“I take it you ain’t a football fan?” At the word ain’t, she grimaces. I bite back the urge to chuckle.

“You would be correct.” Across the table, she hands me a manila folder. “Here’s my dossier.”

“Dossier?” Taking it, I flip it up and down. “You mean a file.”

I get a not-so-subtle glare in return. This woman does not like me––a first. So then why does another undeniable smile split my face? Don’t know. But what I do know is that this is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

Her irritation clears and once again she’s lookin’ down her cute nose at the screen. Her eyes widen. She glances up from the tablet she’s abusing and skewers me with those baby blues. I can’t wait to see what comes out of that pretty mouth next.

“It says here you’ve had a thousand sexual partners?” Her voice holds equal amounts of shock and disbelief. “That can’t be right.” Damn, she’s cute when she’s confused. “It’s a typo, right?’

“That’s classified information,” I bark, feigning anger like a champ. She rolls her eyes and I barely manage to stop the laughter wantin’ to rip out of me. “How’d you get that number?”

“Research. Otherwise known as Google. So it’s obviously not classified.”

Pure bullshit propagated by past teammates but why mess with the legend, right? Besides, most women, even the most bloodthirsty predators, balk at such a number. They move on to dumber pastures in their hunt for a husband and that spells victory for me. And if there’s one thing I love above all else, it’s winning.

“Give or take a few hundred.” She eyeballs me, mentally gearing up for a debate.

Men have been underestimating women since the dawn of time. Not me. I chose the red pill. Make no mistake, they are the smarter sex. The idea that men rule the world is a lie spoon-fed to us by the females of the specie––a conspiracy to control the masses. Keep the suckers fat and happy, thinking they’re in charge, when someone else is pulling puppet strings from behind the curtain. Not this sucker. Ain’t no one pullin’ my strings.

Her lips shape into a smug smile. She laces her fingers together. She has nice hands, long tapered fingers. One minute I’m staring at her hands and the next I’m picturing those hands wrapped around––

She coughs. My eyes climb back up to her face where I find her wearing a determined little scowl.

“If this is going to work, honesty is of the utmost importance. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Absolutely.” Though I highly doubt any woman is capable of keeping that promise for longer than a twenty-four-hour period.

“And you expect me to believe you’ve had a thousand sexual partners?”

God, this is like fishing with dynamite. Sitting back, I cross my arms and give it a meaningful pause before answering, “Sweetheart, I was gettin’ paid a lot of money to play football. I couldn’t just give that up.”

She goes dead silent. Dang, if I knew how much fun this was gonna be, I’d have done it ages ago.

* * *

Stella

I glance at my cell, indicating my impatience to leave. “Well,” I say, searching for an excuse for a speedy exit.

I ordered the salad Niçoise simply because I wanted to eat and end this torture as quickly as possible. I hadn’t expected this clown to order the rest of the menu. I’ve never seen a human being consume so much food. I can’t even imagine what his carbon footprint is.

Throughout lunch I said as little as possible while he pelted me over and over with inane questions. Why does he care if my tight ponytail gives me a headache? Or whether I always wear black. Or my favorite, “Are those glasses for show, or do you really need them?”

And then there was this…

“You’re Puerto Rican.”

“American––I was born here. Half Cuban, if that’s what you’re asking. On my mother’s side.”

“Right,” he said, like it’s the same thing.

“Is that a problem?”

His face lit up with another sly grin. “Hell no. I like seasonin’ on my white meat.”

I couldn’t make this up if I tried. You would think he was dropped on his head as a baby. Alas no, I’ve seen his IQ score with my own eyes, courtesy of one of my young analysts who “knows how to get information.” I didn’t ask how, I only said thank you.

“I really need to head back to the office.”

“On a Saturday?”

Oops.

“I have some research to do.” Sounds legit…kind of.

His greenish-brown eyes narrow. He motions for the bill. Ten awkward and silent minutes later, we’re struggling for the bill folder.

“Allow me,” he says.

“I got it,” I reply. Even though I put up a good fight, his grip is a thousand times stronger. He eventually wins the hand-to-hand combat.

Placing three crisp C-notes down, he stands. I do the same, denying him the opportunity to pull my chair out. This earns me a rare frown.

“You aren’t going to wait for the change?” The bill was $150.32. I glanced at the total before it was unceremoniously ripped out of my hands.

“Nope.”

So, here’s the thing, I get a little anxious about money. Irrationally so, I readily admit. Being broke for as long as we were when I was growing up gives you a whole set of triggers. Twenty percent would’ve been sufficient. One hundred percent is being careless and my next thought is he’ll be broke by the time he reaches fifty.

Catching me conspicuously eyeballing the black folder, he says, “You okay?”

My gaze snaps back to him. “Yeah. I’m great. Do you always tip that much?”

He doesn’t like the question. I know this because he wears his suspicion openly. “Yeah, why?”

He’ll be broke by the time he reaches fifty. “Just curious.”

“More research?”

“Hmm, yeah.”

His warm hand lands on my lower back as he walks me out. The gesture takes me by surprise. Instinctively, I lean forward and he gives me a queer look. Once we hit the sidewalk, people walking by us recognize him, some slowing their pace. We’re about to get swarmed, a perfect opportunity for me to make a swift getaway.

“Thank you for lunch, Mr. Wylder.”

He smirks. Apparently he finds it hilarious that I would address him as such because he’s been giving me the same quirky smile throughout lunch. I’ve been racking my brain for the last hour trying to place who he reminds me of.

“It was a pleasure and I––uh, you know––wish you luck in your endeavor.” He’s obviously a fan of smiling so I give him one, a super forced one.

“I think we should have dinner sometime this week––to hammer out the details.”

My mind draws a complete blank. I blink. I blink some more, taking my sweet time to ascertain whether I heard him correctly. Then I explode with laughter––in my mind that is. In my mind, I’m rolling around on the ground in laughter.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t going to work.”

He looks positively gobsmacked. “What do you mean, it isn’t going to work?”

The syrupy drawl is gone, replaced by a much more tolerable version.

“You’re not––” This is awkward. “Uh…what I’m looking for. Nice meeting you, though.”

He looks offended, kind of. I must’ve hit a nerve. I must have because the lazy indifference is gone. Yep, he’s offended. Wow, that’s rich. Talk about a sense of entitlement.

“Bye.”

Without further ado, I take off down the narrow sidewalk of Prince Street. Unfortunately, he follows. I know this by the dark shadow he casts over me.

“You think you know my character based on the two words we shared?”

The scratchy baritone is closer than I want it to be, right over my shoulder to be precise. The taunt is enough to make me pause, however. Turning with a half-cocked eyebrow and smug knowledge glaringly obvious on my face, I make a show of staring at the black eye.

“I know enough.”

“Darlin’, let me spare you the embarrassment of having to apologize later––I’m what every woman wants.” And then he pats himself on the chest.

Did I step into an alternate universe where men still said stupid shit like this? I would laugh at his audacity, but I don’t want to encourage this knuckle dragger.

“Not this one.” Holding up a hand, I add, “Quick, somebody call Guinness World Records.”

All puffed up, he struts around me, stepping in my way. And that’s when an old memory strikes and it dawns upon me, who he reminds me of––or better yet, what.

“You don’t know me well enough to say that.”

Down the street I spot a taxi with its light on. Desperate to get away, I flail both arms. Except, he keeps swaying in my way, blocking my line of sight. Which is not hard to do if one is the size of a wooly mammoth. This annoys me beyond reason.

“Listen up, Foghorn Leghorn. I can assure you that you are not even remotely close to what I want. Now kindly step out of my way.”

The taxi comes to a hard stop at the curb, screeching tires and everything. I step around Foghorn, who seems to be in the midst of a serious internal debate, his expression frozen in the bewildered position, and reach for the door handle.

“Gramercy Park,” I bark at the driver as I slip into the back seat of the cab.

Before we take off, I hear a deep male voice yell, “The Matrix called. They want their wardrobe back!”

Whatever. Tapping on the screen of my cell, I pull up my spreadsheet.