“Where to, sir?” The cab driver opened the trunk for my bag.
“The Grand del Mar.”
“Nice choice.”
I nodded and slid into the back seat.
Still on for tonight?
Would suck if she canceled. I still hadn’t found the balls to ask about the Wall Street Douche. He never came up in a text over the last month, so I decided to play the ignorance and denial cards. They beat the hell out of truth you were hoping wasn’t true any day of the week.
Yeah- might be a few minutes late
No problem.
I’ll pick you up.
I went for it. Two and a half seconds later my phone rang with an unidentified number, California area code.
“Hey, you. You know they have this thing called GPS? An address would have sufficed. You didn’t need an excuse like directions to call me.” Point: Ace. Two-Two.
“Oh, um-”
Huh. She sounded on edge.
“Look, it’s probably a better idea if I just meet you. I have a full schedule of patients, and my office is already downtown. This way you don’t have to drive, or we can just reschedule another time, and-”
The Talia I knew didn’t ramble. She was nervous. Hell, about meeting me?
“Hey, no problem. Whatever’s easier for you.” She was the one who picked today because she said she only had morning office hours. But she was obviously wigged out, so I passed on reminding her. “Look, take your time, see your patients. I have back-to-back meetings, so later works better for me, too.” That shit just flew out of my mouth. Could I be any more of a pussy? I glanced down; my dick was still there. Just checking.
The line was quiet until she ended the awkward silence. “Okay.”
Her okay was far from convincing. Okay, at least we were still meeting. Not okay was how tentative she sounded about it. Forget everything else, forget that my balls squeezed every time my phone chimed since we reconnected, forget the pervy fact that I got off more than once fantasizing about her sick legs since she sent me that pool picture, and forget that she might have a serious boyfriend (douche or not)—we had almost thirty years of history behind us. You name a childhood memory and we shared it. The innocent, the embarrassing, the downright tragic. The confident free-spirited beauty who danced barefoot on stage wearing her favorite pair of my old jeans would have had no problem turning my ass down if she wasn’t interested, without it interfering with our friendship. Been there, done that. My Talia didn’t do awkward. But that was my Talia from twenty years ago. People change. Suddenly I was less concerned with relieving the throb in my pants and more concerned with finding that girl again.
“See you then.” I hung up before this Talia could say anything else.
I paused at the entrance of the dimly lit bar. I was happy with the vibe. Good music. Modern. Loungy. I liked it. After a quick scan because I was early, I strolled up to the edge of the bar and lifted my chin to get the bartender’s attention. I couldn’t help but smile, she wasn’t late. That drink could wait. She was here and looking sexy as shit. Sitting at the far end of the bar, I freely gawked. If anyone was watching me I would have looked bizarrely stalkerish. A few loose tendrils hung loosely around her model face. Her long lashes brushed gently against her cheeks as she sipped her bubbly and tapped away on her phone. She wore another one of her tailored suits that clung to every curve perfectly with hot as hell black heels. And her flawless skin still had a sun-kissed glow resembling an early summer day. The truth was I needed a minute to swallow down the small lump that had formed in my throat and regain my composure. I would have questioned my gender again if I hadn’t felt the swell. This woman seemed to unleash emotions I never knew existed. Bottom line, I was relieved—not that I didn’t think she was going to show up, but because she did. Her hesitancy and rambling earlier was, well—not her. My stomach tightened and filled with butterflies. The good kind. The kind that felt right. The kind I had only ever felt when she unleashed her killer pipes reaching those notes only she could, exposing that area inside, down deep. That vulnerable spot. I didn’t do vulnerable. And I definitely didn’t do emotional. I crushed hard as a teenager, but in nineteen years things change—I changed. This reaction wasn’t me. But I wasn’t sure how to stop it or even if I wanted to.
I stepped out of the bar lights and into the shadows, avoiding her eyes. Selfishly I was enjoying the quietness and simplicity of the moment. With her sculpted bare legs crossed, she rested against the back of the leather stool. She unconsciously clicked her loose heel to the rhythm of the music. I smiled, reminiscing about how she always used to do that. I guess in a sea of change there were some things that didn’t. But what held my attention was a thin line of faded black that curved along the arch of her foot. It almost looked like a design, but there was definitely writing immersed. This classy, sophisticated Talia and a tat almost seemed like an oxymoron.
“Hey, you, when’d you ink yourself?” I grinned when her head snapped up at the sound of my voice. Guess grins were catchy.
“No filter, typical.” She touched her glass to her lips and sipped while struggling to tame her smile. I grabbed her heel and brought her foot up into the light.
I did a double-take then traced the ink with the pad of my thumb. “You really etched our high school band name permanently into your skin? Oh Dr. Pryce, I bet you’re regretting that impulsive teenage decision.” Of course my mouth was jealous of my thumb, so I dipped down and kissed her cheek.
She jerked her foot from my grasp. “Leave it, Ace,” she muttered, not making eye contact. Not the reaction I was expecting. I knew she loved our band, we all did, but to permanently mark yourself with the name, after the fact, seemed a bit extreme. Just saying.
“Come on, TACK? No regret?”
“I regret plenty, this…” Her face morphed to serious, her softness tightened, and she re-crossed her legs. “This is not one of them.”
Ouch. Definitely touched a nerve. She was obviously very passionate about it. I wanted to ask her what she meant, but I didn’t.
“Okay.” There was that stupid word again. This time from my lips. Not exactly how I envisioned the start of our first real conversation after almost twenty years. And I definitely didn’t want it to deteriorate any further. Maybe I needed that drink. I signaled the bartender.
We sat silent while he fetched my bottle.
“So what about you?” She sounded a tad more relaxed, more like … TP.
“What about me?”
Her iPhone whistled with a new text. She tapped the power button, quickly blackening the screen, before she even had a chance to read the message. Clearly, I was not invited to eavesdrop. Thoughts of someone else’s sexting was a definite mood killer anyway. She dropped the phone in her bag and nailed me with her big cinnamon eyes.
“Sorry. Work.” Yeah right.
“No hidden ink? You all tatted up under this muscley situation you have going on?” She waved her hands up and down the length of my body.
Somehow the tension from moments ago vanished and now the conversation was about me. Shit. How a woman could so effortlessly and brilliantly avoid a topic and complete a one-eighty boggled my mind. But I didn’t mind her acknowledging my body. That had to be a good sign, right?
“I pegged you for some completely over-the-top ink to get your chicks all hot and bothered.”