The Last Guy
With a sniff, I fight for control. “It depends on what you mean by sick. Am I sick of the hypocrisy? Am I sick of the double standard? Am I sick of doing my best and being treated like—”
“Are you going to Manhattan?”
“I haven’t decided.” I slide back down into my multitude of pillows, my phone at my cheek, wondering why I haven’t called New York. Why am I hesitating? It’s the chance of a lifetime . . .
“Look, Stone, I’ve been thinking about you for two days. The way Marv treated you was shitty, and it pissed me off. But running away isn’t like you either. You’re a fighter.”
He’s been thinking about me? I refuse to acknowledge the flutters in my stomach at the idea. “I would hardly characterize a job interview in Manhattan as running away.”
“Do you have plans for dinner?”
My brow crinkles as I try to register what he’s saying. “No . . .”
“I’ll pick you up at seven. We’ll discuss it over dinner—before I have to be back at the station for ten.”
“I didn’t say yes!”
“Seven.”
The line goes dead, and I hold my phone in front of me a few seconds staring at the screen. It’s six o’clock. Holy shit, he’ll be here in an hour! I kick my way out of faux mink and satin coverlets. Glancing down, I realize I need to do a little personal grooming . . . all over actually. My hair’s a rat’s nest; I slept in my makeup. Gross! I wouldn’t even date myself in this condition.
A little less than an hour later, I’m pulling up my zipper when a strong, insistent knock sounds on the door.
“You’re early!” I shout, giving the clock a quick glance. It’s only six fifty.
“I came here from . . . work.” The last word is right in my face.
Cade fills my doorway. His dark-brown hair is slightly mussed, and his blue eyes are as intense as ever. My insides sizzle. Pulling the door open causes him to lean forward slightly, and as if from muscle memory, everything in me draws right to him.
Clearing my throat, I take a step away. “It’s a good thing I’m ready, or you’d be waiting in the hall.”
“Is that so?” A sly grin curves his lips. It’s too much.
Turning on my heel, I step into the kitchen to retrieve my purse. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
“Where’s Chas?” He steps inside, looking around in the direction of our bedrooms and back to me.
Every single bit of this is triggering images of all the ways we touched and kissed and fucked all those weeks ago right here in this apartment, and I have to bite back a sigh.
“Chas is actually meeting with a retail executive about launching a makeup line.”
“Wow!”
“I know . . . Are you ready?”
Cade pushes an elbow toward me. “Do you like the Flying Saucer?”
I do a little shrug. “It’s one of Chas and my favorite places to eat when we need to catch up.”
“Perfect. I’ll buy you a beer.”
We step into the enormous wood and linoleum space. It’s a former department store, and old china plates cover the walls between bicycles and gold paper star lanterns.
A waiter is right with us. “We’ll each have a Stone IPA,” Cade says, and I shake my head.
“It’s what you always get, right?”
“I’ve never had it,” I confess.
“What?” He narrows his eyes at me before returning to the waitress. “And two Space Club sandwiches.”
“Another first,” I say.
“Stone.” His voice is grave. “Don’t tell me I have to start ordering for you.”
It’s quiet a beat, and I’ve reached my limit. “What’s going on, Cade?”
A guy hurries up and places two pint glasses in front of us. We both take a moment to sip the bitter, slightly hoppy pilsner.
“That’s good,” Cade says, leaning back and running his palms down the tops of his thighs.
I nod in agreement then sit back as well, doing my best not to let my eyes follow those hands up his thighs to what I know is hidden in his slacks.
“Let’s put our past aside for just a moment,” he says, blue eyes assessing me. “Can you do that?”
I do a little frown and put on my professional mask. “Of course.”
“I like to think we’ve always had something of a . . . healthy working relationship, wouldn’t you say?”
“We’re not on the same beat. You’re sports. I’m hard news.”
He pauses a moment, his perfect lips twitching. “Hard news?”
“Okay,” I confess. “I drifted into features at the end there—”
“Marv sent you nothing but features, you mean.” I don’t miss the anger that enters his tone.
All of this is getting to be too much. First, we had the most glorious three weeks of my life followed by the most hellish three weeks. I’m on the cusp of leaving this nightmare, and he shows up out of the blue saying all these things.
“What’s your point, Cade?”
“You’re too good—and too smart and beautiful—to leave Houston. It’s your home. It’s where you’ve built your reputation. You belong here.”
I shrug and lift my glass. “Life doesn’t always go the way it should.”
“Marv was screwing Savannah. It’s why she got the anchor job instead of you. I told the board, and they fired him on the spot for sexual misconduct with a subordinate.”
He catches me mid-sip, and I almost snort pilsner up my nose. “What!?” I slam the pint glass down on the polished wood table.
“It happened pretty fast today after I caught them in the supply closet. They made Vicky news director, and we both want you back . . . We want you beside me at the anchor desk.”
“Beside you? But what about Lorie?”
“She asked to have the weekend position—she wants to be a stay-at-home mom.”
For a few moments, I can only blink at him. My mouth is slightly open, and I don’t even care.
“But . . . Wha . . .” Clearly, I’m having trouble speaking as well as thinking. “What about New York?”
The muscle in his jaw clenches attractively. “Do you want to go to New York?”
Quiet falls over the table. The waitress has put our sandwiches in front of us, but my throat is closed. I couldn’t eat a thing if I tried. Cade slips his arm across the top of the table, reaching his hand to me.
“We hoped you might consider staying. KHOT is your family . . . We love you.”
All the air leaves my lungs, and I can barely say the words. “We?” It’s a whisper, and my eyes flicker up to his dark blue ones.
The air around us is tight. It crackles with electricity, and I slip off my stool. It’s there in the way he says my name, but everything is crowding together in my mind—my goals, my dreams, my future . . . the chance of a lifetime.
“I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“Stone . . .”
Shaking my head, I hurry to the door and out to the sidewalk. I have to think, and I can’t with him right in front of me. I’m hastily pulling up the Uber app as I walk, not sure where I want to go . . . I don’t want to go home. Where can I go to think?
Nearby attractions pop up, and I hit the bottom one without even reading the description. A car is less than a minute from me, and I pause at the corner.