The Boxer (Modern Love Book 2) Page 4

  “Can we talk?” he asks.

  Whitney and Lennon both step back, but Cole’s Jeep pulls up to the curb.

  “We’ll be in the car,” Whitney says, and they disappear into the vehicle.

  He cups my elbow and guides me away from the Jeep toward the fence, then drops his duffle bag to the ground. He places one hand on the fence and leans his weight against it. Unable to relax, I stand there with my arms crossed over my beer-stained blouse.

  “You okay?” he asks, tenderness in his tone.

  “Yeah.” My eyes focus down on the cracked cement.

  “I’m guessing tonight isn’t a good night?” I can’t look at him, so the only way we could sleep together tonight would be if he were to blindfold me. Which wouldn’t be a half-bad idea any other time, I suppose.

  “No.” I figure I’ll never see this guy again. I mean, we definitely hang in different circles. My head lifts and I meet his eyes. “I’m sorry. I just got out of a relationship six months ago, and my friends thought I should step out of my normal box.”

  “The perfect box?” he asks, the sly grin from earlier emerging.

  “My friends weren’t lying. This isn’t my scene.” I gesture toward the tent area.

  “Would you like it to be?”

  My eyes slowly drift to meet his once more. His gaze is seeking. “You have to be over getting to know me already, and you don’t even know my last name.”

  He bellows a laugh. “The only reason I need your last name is to track you down after tonight. That is if you don’t give me your phone number.”

  A rumbling erupts in my stomach. At first, I think it’s butterflies fluttering from him still wanting something to do with me, but I quickly realize it’s the grumbling of vomit circling in my stomach.

  I need to get out of here fast. My eyes search for a trashcan. Nothing.

  “You still want my number?” I ask, hiccupping as acid sneaks up my throat.

  “Yeah, I kind of like to unwrap perfect boxes. You’d be surprised what I find.”

  If my throat wasn’t burning and my stomach wasn’t churning, I’d be swooning. Unable to say anything, I cover my mouth and Lucas’ whole persona changes from suave to panic.

  I widen my eyes, searching for anything to throw up in. There’s not even a tree anywhere in sight. Before I can run past him and throw up in the middle of the sidewalk, the vomit rushes up my throat and I bend over, emptying the contents of my stomach at his feet.

  Once I’m at the point of dry-heaving, the tears in my eyes clear enough for me to focus and I realize that I’ve thrown up in Lucas’ duffle bag.

  Lennon’s suddenly beside me, pulling back my long blonde hair. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  Though my stomach feels much better, I just added another layer of embarrassment to tonight.

  Covering my mouth, not to add my horrible breath to the mix, I mumble my apology, but Lucas’ eyes fixate on the bag.

  “Let me take the bag and I’ll get your clothes cleaned. I’ll buy you a new one—”

  He stops me with his hand. “Unless you know a cleaner that will wash my money, it’s useless,” he says and Lennon breaks out laughing.

  I hit her in the stomach, and she covers her mouth with her hand to stop herself. “This is classic,” she says from behind her hand, completely disregarding the seriousness of the situation.

  “Lucas,” I sigh, ready to bend on my knees to apologize for the umpteenth time, when he puts his hand up in the air.

  He looks only at Lennon. “You should get your girl home.”

  Lennon grabs my arm, dragging me down the sidewalk as I continue to shout apologies. He ignores me as he stares down at his bag, running his hands through the long layers of his honey-blond hair.

  Could my life get any worse?

  5

  “I come bearing caffeine.” Whitney strolls by me, cheerful and happy with a tray of coffees and a bag that I pray hides bagels because something has to soak up this alcohol.

  “Morning, Whit,” I mumble, following her down the hall leading to my kitchen.

  I sidle up to the breakfast bar, and Whit stands on the other side, placing the coffees on the counter and then searching for a plate.

  “Where’s Lennon?” she asks, her head buried in my cabinet.

  “In my bed.” I rest my heavy head in my hand, watching her do what I usually do.

  Whit glances over her shoulder and raises her eyebrows.

  “She refused to sleep on the couch. Said it would be like old times. I just wanted the night to end, so I stopped arguing.”

  Whit laughs and pulls out a plate before digging into my cutlery drawer, retrieving a knife. One by one she slices the bagels and my stomach jumps for joy.

  “I’m really sorry, Tahl.” Her voice is low and sincere. “It was supposed to be a fun night out.” She places the plate in front of me and then opens the variety of cream cheeses she bought, setting them out.

  “It was fun. Until it was mortifying,” I say, thankful my consumption of Everclear is preventing me from being able to truly envision what a disaster last night was.

  The memory of Lucas’ eyes as he stared at the bag of money covered with my taco salad from lunch pushes to the forefront of my mind. I push the recollection back as far as it will go, as shivers run up my spine.

  Whit circles around the counter and slides into the chair next to me. Her hand lands on my forearm, and when I get the energy to look over, her eyes have more than enough pity in them. “Cole said he’s a super-cool guy. He’s sure he doesn’t hold it against you.”

  I stare over at her for longer than I should. Mostly because I forgot where my line of thinking was heading.

  “Lucas, I’m talking about Lucas,” Whitney reminds me as though I’m not the vice-president of the biggest sausage company in North America. Okay, that makes my case worse.

  “I’m sure his mind was swimming with thoughts of me as he washed and dried all his money. I mean, I’d do the same thing.” I’m sarcastic, and Whit rolls her eyes, focusing all her attention on the bagel with cream cheese.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” she mumbles over her first bite of breakfast.

  I take a sip of my coffee, having no energy to fight Operation Throw Bullshit at Tahlia.

  We sit there for a few minutes, her loud chewing grating on that last nerve I woke up with while I sip my coffee and contemplate where the biggest rock in San Francisco is so I can crawl under it.

  Then the person responsible for my embarrassment saunters out of my bedroom in her mismatched bra and underwear. The hair on the right side of her head is a mess and pointing up to the sky, but she manages a mischievous smile.

  “What’s up, hookers?” She grabs some coffee and a bagel and moves over to my couch, making herself comfortable.

  “Get off the furniture with that bagel,” I mumble, and her head falls over in laughter.

  She stands. “Just wondering if the good old Tahlia was still in there.” Instead, she hops up on the counter, crossing her legs and staring over at us as though she’s waiting for some rundown. “How ya feeling?” she asks me, and I glare back.

  “Let’s see. Depressed, hopeless, and unattractive. So, that fabulous idea of taking me out last? Top notch.” I put my thumb up and shoot her a fake smile. “Oh, and add in nauseated, sore, and did I mention unattractive?”

  She waves me off, her face contorting into a look similar to the one I used to give my mother when I was a teenager. “It’s like a lasting impression, you know? He’ll never forget you.”

  Her reply earns two thumbs, so I place my coffee down and raise my thumbs in Fonzie’s signature move. “Great. Hope I run into him again sometime soon.”

  “Cole said he fights almost every weekend,” Whitney says around a piece of bagel in her mouth.

  When I turn her way with a scathing expression, she almost chokes it out from laughing.

  “Or not,” she says.

  Grabbing my coffee, I stand and make m
y way over to my couch. “Girls, I appreciate the effort, and maybe in time I’ll be able to go out again, but not for a while.”

  “Tahl, everyone has embarrassing moments. Look at Cole and me, that wasn’t exactly the best introduction,” Whit says.

  She may be right, but I’m just not used to making a fool of myself. Everything in my life is meticulously planned. If someone showed me a tape of last night, I probably wouldn’t even recognize myself.

  “Yeah, let’s mourn Tickled Pink.” Lennon tips her head down, mock-praying for her first vibrator’s untimely death at the jaws of Whitney’s dog, Sparky.

  “Some people are meant to be the partiers and others are meant to be the ones who take care of the partiers. I’m the latter. I’ve been the latter my entire life and I’ll forever be the latter.”

  “The hell you will,” Lennon says, hopping off the counter. “What did being that way get you? A cheating bastard of a fiancé, that’s what. You need to live a little. You need a guy who’ll undo that straight jacket you’ve put yourself in.”

  “Lennon.” Whitney tries to tamp her down, but we both know once she’s on a rant there’s no stopping her.

  “You need to get fucking laid.”

  There, she’s finished, and I can’t argue with her. I do need to get laid.

  “Well—” I’m about to agree with her when she throws her latest sex toy in my lap.

  She announced last fall that she was starting a sex toy company and wanted Whitney and me to try her products. Only Lennon, I swear.

  “This one is called Candy Swirl, and it’s so much better than Tickled Pink.”

  She continues on her sales pitch that truthfully I only hear every other word of, but get the gist that this vibrator will do its job and get a girl off.

  “Oh.” She picks up the piece of paper lying on the table, the one they gave me last night. She holds it up to Whit, and they share a conniving smile. “We never talked about this because you went off on that whole boring paper-anniversary scavenger hunt that led to jackass’s name coming into the conversation once again.”

  I hold out my hand for the piece of paper, but she folds it and holds on to it as she and Whit take a seat in the two chairs across from me.

  “So, I know last night was a train wreck, and really, I think we can all blame the Everclear.” Whitney starts the pitch, which means they think she’ll be able to sell me on whatever they’re up to.

  “Everclear ruins everything.” Lennon purses her lips and shakes her head, as though she wasn’t the one practically pouring it down my throat.

  I narrow my eyes at her but don’t speak.

  “We bought you a gift. It’s an apology gift because you were blinded by love, but we should’ve been able to see Chase for the ass he was. We want to make it up to you.” She holds her hand out for the piece of paper clenched in Lennon’s hands. Lennon passes it to her, and Whitney holds it out between us. “Please, Tahlia, don’t refuse it right away, okay?”

  I take the paper and unfold it while Whitney and Lennon both fidget in their seats.

  I read it over and don’t say anything.

  It’s a one-month subscription to an adventure dating club, called Single In SF. The group goes skydiving, winery-touring, bungee-jumping. Different out-of-the-norm dates that you go on with a group of single people. Interesting and as far out of my comfort zone as it can get.

  “I told you,” Lennon says. “She’ll never do it.” Never mind art, I’m pretty sure she majored in manipulation at college. As if I don’t know she’s trying to use reverse psychology.

  “Give it time to absorb.” Whitney joins me over on the couch, her hand on my knee. “Tahl, you’ve always dated one type of guy. The rich guy, the fraternity guy, the daddy’s boy. We figured this would get you out there away from guys like that.”

  “Someone who doesn’t think it’s a felony if he leaves the house without gel in his hair. A man who doesn’t care if his shirt is wrinkled. Someone who wants to put effort into finding his next girlfriend rather than whoever he picks up at the bar.” Lennon stands and then sits across from me on my coffee table so that our knees are practically touching.

  I’d normally tell her to get up, but their gift is meaningful and at the same time terrifying. Especially since I’ll be doing it alone.

  I inhale a large breath. “Okay,” I agree.

  “Really?” Whit’s eyes bug out of her head.

  “Pay up.” Lennon holds her hand out to Whitney, and she smacks it.

  “You guys made a bet?” I ask.

  “Actually, we weren’t supposed to tell you that.” Whitney stares directly at Lennon as though she’s a dumbass.

  “So neither of you think I can do it?”

  “We think you can do it, we just aren’t sure you will do it. You aren’t exactly outdoorsy. I mean, Tahlia, you did that lame indoor track marathon last year,” Lennon says.

  “Let’s make a bet,” I tempt them, and Lennon’s eyes light up, while Whitney’s shoulders deflate. “If I do this dating thing, you guys can’t set me up, or drag me out again. Ever.”

  “What if you’re like forty and live with twenty cats?” Whitney asks, and I can’t hide my laugh.

  “Okay, you can’t fix me up or drag me out until I’m surrounded by cat shit.”

  “You’ll never make it,” Lennon challenges and holds out her hand.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  I hold the paper tighter and stand up before making my way into my kitchen. Grabbing a bagel and smearing it with cream cheese, I take a bite, feeling emboldened now that I have a challenge. I’ll show them. Four weeks at an adventure dating club, easy-peasy.

  “You tempted the beast,” Whitney says, tapping Lennon’s shoulder to grab her attention away from the Candy Swirl she’s picked up off the couch to examine.

  Lennon looks up at me. “That girl can never back away from a challenge.”

  I know they planned this whole bet thing out. I might feel half dead right now, but Lennon doesn’t have loose lips. I’ll let them believe they have an advantage because after four weeks and no prospects, I’ll be able to do what I want without either of them trying to pull me out of my comfort zone ever again.

  You can do anything for four weeks, right?

  6

  I’m not sure what I expected when I signed up for the horseback riding adventure with Single In SF, but I didn’t expect to be squeezing between Range Rovers and Mercedes to park. Shouldn’t there be rows of rusty old pickups around? I mean, I’m stepping on hay as I climb out of my car. Surely the Mercedes didn’t haul it over. The only car that doesn’t cost more than eighty grand around here is some rundown truck that looks like the top has been sawed off.

  My riding boots squish under the mud below the layer of hay from last night’s rainfall, and I tuck my cell phone and keys into the pocket of my sweatshirt. Not sure whose bright idea it was to plan an outdoor activity when the warm summer weather hasn’t arrived in San Francisco yet. It’s still spring, and the temperature is in the mid-fifties.

  Groups of guys and girls cluster off to the side of a table set up near the entrance. A line has formed in front of the table, and I hear people giving their names, so I step in line.

  I glance around to check everyone out, after which I’m fairly certain most of these people are executives like myself. Their North Face jackets, clean jeans and brand-new boots give them away. Half of them have their faces buried in their cell phones, and the other half are bragging to one another about their jobs. My God, am I one of these types of people? Is this how I come across to someone who doesn’t know me? I cringe inwardly at the thought.

  The line moves and I step forward. A few of the guys on the periphery shift their eyes away from the girls they’re talking to.

  Is this how these things work? Is this going to be like when the new girl starts school and all the guys flock to her until the next new girl comes? I’m the shiny new iPhone to this group of Adventure Daters.
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  One guy’s eyes zoom in on me, and I turn quickly, pulling my phone out to distract myself. I’m thumbing through Facebook posts of what happy people do on their weekends while I wait to horseback-ride with strangers.

  “Hi.” His voice is squeaky as though he’s going through puberty, but his full-growth beard says he’s much older than that.

  I glance over from my phone for a second. “Hey,” I say, burying my head back into the abyss of Facebook. Man, some of these people have amazingly happy lives according to their posts.

  “You’re new?” he asks, and I glance over again.

  “Yeah. First day.”

  He’s kind of cute, a tad shorter than I prefer, but lean muscle and from the glimpse at the watch adorning his wrist, I know he has money. Upon further inspection, I notice a collared button-up shirt under his North Face fleece. His perfectly white teeth sparkle under the sunlight, and I realize he’s Chase.

  Not the actual Chase, but his replica. As I look around the area, each guy has perfectly coifed hair, shaped eyebrows, shirts tucked in, pants not too short or too long as though tailor-made for their specific size. Add in the cars in the parking lot, and these are all the type of guys I’d once been attracted to.

  I chuckle to myself. Whit and Lennon thought this would expose me to someone outside of my norm when all it did was thrust me into the snake pit with all of them.

  “Is something funny?” Chase’s mini-doppelgänger says.

  “Oh.” I stop laughing at the absurdity of my life. “No. I’m sorry.” I hold out my hand to him. “I’m Tahlia.”

  His smile emerges again. “Tahlia, what a beautiful name. I’m Aaron.” He shakes my hand in a wimpy fashion as though he’s afraid my bones will crack.

  Whatever, dude. I just lifted half my weight at the gym this morning.

  “Hi, Aaron.” I snatch my hand back when he tries to hold on a little too long and palm my phone again.

  “I’m a vice-president at Godfrey’s Bank. Youngest ever promoted.”

  My eyes lift from my phone, and I smile with a nod. “Congratulations.”