Oh, who the fuck am I kidding?
I’ve been carrying a torch for this man for as long as I can remember. I think even when he put frogs in my bed at age nine that I loved him then. I know for sure that when he kissed me the night after Richard’s funeral, and then gave me my very first orgasm, I loved him. Yes, it was definitely love, or otherwise, why would I have been so shattered when he wouldn’t have sex with me? I can remember that night with painful and vivid detail. I’ll never forget what I believe was actual disgust on his face when I told him I was a virgin.
That night, he not only gave me my first orgasm, he gave me my first broken heart.
In fact, it’s been my only broken heart.
I nursed it for two years and finally started to let some of it go when I met Will in college at Duke. I gave my virginity to Will instead. I also gave him my love and promised to marry him. I tried to push Woolf Jennings to the back of my dark closet and leave him in there.
I not only tried, but I succeeded, because he rarely crossed my mind as I lived out my days as the model bride-to-be beside William F. Tynnick, Esquire. He stayed buried away, popping out on occasion if we ran into each other during holidays, but for the most part… Woolf was nothing more than a family friend.
Something he’s just made abundantly clear again.
A change in subject is in order.
“So what’s the real story about The Wicked Horse?” I ask genially before attacking my home fries. The grease actually seems to be settling my stomach.
A brief flicker of anxiety passes over Woolf’s face, and he asks cautiously, “What do you mean, the real story?”
“I mean,” I say dryly as I wave my fork at him. “Why is Woolf Jennings, CEO of JennCo, spending his time running a bar? Or for that matter, how in the hell do you have time to even do that?”
Woolf seems to relax. “I have a business partner, Bridger Payne. He does most of the work there. I’m more like a silent partner.”
“But why?” I press him. Not that I can’t see Woolf doing that, because I can so see him hanging out in just such a place. It seems to fit him.
“It’s a nice break from an otherwise dull life,” he says softly.
I swallow my food, setting my fork down. “Dull life?”
“Come on, Callie,” he says with joking censure. “Can you honestly say you’d ever see me sitting behind a desk my entire life?”
I blink at him in surprise. Not at what he just said, but at myself. Because yeah… I know Woolf. He wouldn’t be happy behind a desk. He’s too rugged and adventurous. Always has been. He’s more at home in the leather of a saddle than a chair. He loves the outdoors too much. He likes thrills and excitement.
“I can’t see you sitting behind a desk,” I agree quietly.
He stares at me silently, almost with relief in his eyes that I… what? Still know him? Is he relieved that I still know my longtime friend? My brother’s close friend? My failed lover?
I smile at him in understanding before pushing my plate away. “Okay, so I get The Wicked Horse… which is a great name by the way. How long have you had it?”
“It’s only been open a few months,” he says with pride. “It keeps me sane and makes dealing in a world of suits otherwise bearable.”
“Well, I certainly had fun there last night,” I say with a grin.
“Too much fun,” he says as his eyes flick briefly down to my chest. My face turns hot just knowing that he’s thinking… in this very moment… about my naked breasts.
“Not enough fun,” I assert with challenge. “Someone stopped me.”
“I did you a favor, Callie. You’re lucky a picture didn’t end up in today’s paper.”
Shrugging my shoulders, I take another sip of coffee. “Well, that didn’t happen so let’s move on.”
Carmen is the one that ends up bringing Woolf his breakfast, thank God, as I don’t think I could take any more of Kelley’s flirting.
After he pours some syrup on his stack, he starts cutting into it. “Speaking of moving on, what are your plans?”
I told Woolf last night all the painful details of what happened with Will. He’s the only other person other than me, Will, and Judge Lane that know the sordid mess.
“I’m not sure. My dad will be gearing up for reelection next year. Maybe I’ll stick around and work on his campaign.”
“It makes sense,” he says after spearing a few chunks of pancake on his fork. “You of the two poli-sci degrees.”
I duck my head to hide my pleased smile. That he remembers what my degrees are in. After graduating from Duke with my political science bachelor’s degree, I went on and completed their master’s program while Will went to law school at Duke. My dream had been to go to DC and work in the Senate or House as an aide, or maybe even try my hand at lobbying, but Will wanted to move back home to Connecticut and go into private practice, and so… I lamely followed him.
And you know what the value of poli-sci degrees are in suburbia?
About zero dollars.
Therefore, I worked thirty-five hours a week as an event planner in a business owned by the wife of one of Will’s partners.
Woolf’s phone rings, and he shoots me an apologetic look just before he answers it, “Jennings.”
I watch as he pushes his plate away and leans forward. One forearm on the table, the other raised to press the phone to his ear. His eyes roam around the restaurant lazily, not really seeing anything because I can tell he’s carefully listening to whoever is on the other end.
Finally, he says, “Yeah… that was supposed to have been mailed out to you week before last. I just assumed you received it.”
He listens a bit more, then looks over at me and makes a writing motion with his hand. I immediately dip into my purse, pull out a pen, and push a napkin across the table at him. He scrawls something that’s practically illegible and says, “Okay… got it. I’ll mail it myself as soon as I get back to the Double J.”
When Woolf disconnects, he looks flustered as he takes the napkin and tucks it into his shirt pocket. “Sorry about that. I just need to send myself a quick email so I don’t forget about something when I get back to my office.”
“No problem,” I say as I watch him over my coffee cup. I wait for him to send the email and when he looks back up at me, I tilt my head to the side and ask, “Don’t you have a secretary or something to handle that stuff?”
Woolf snorts as he lays his phone back down and picks his fork back up. “I have a secretary who works at the main office of JennCo in Cheyenne, but I can’t seem to find a local one to keep me straight. I think I’ve been through five different ones already this year.”
“Slave driver,” I tease.
“No, seriously… I’m a pretty easygoing boss. I just hire shitty people without a work ethic.”
“Well, I’m not doing anything. I’ll help you out if you want.”
Woolf freezes with a forkful of buckwheat cakes to his mouth and just stares at me in contemplation. But then he lowers the fork and his eyes right along, and says, “No. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” I press him. “I don’t have anything to do, and I’m a fucking whiz at organization. I’ve kept my father’s schedule straight during his campaigns, and shit Woolf… I was a fucking event planner in Connecticut. I hated it, but I was damn good. I’ve got skills at least.”
He blinks at me hard and doesn’t say a word.
“What?” I ask defensively.
“Just that filthy mouth you’ve developed,” he says softly. “It’s very anti-Callie.”
“I’m not the same girl you once knew,” I tell him firmly. Well, I really was, but I aimed to change that. So far I’ve entered a wet t-shirt contest and mastered the word “fuck”. I’m quite proud of myself so far.
Woolf scrubs his hand thoughtfully over his stubbled chin. Seriously, did this guy ever shave? It seems he always has just the perfect amount of whiskers to make him look even ten times sexier than normal.