Outwait Page 11

  *

  “What time are you leaving?” my dad asks.

  I glance at the clock. “Soon. My flight’s at four, and everything I need is in my car.”

  “Have fun, sweetheart. Behave yourself.”

  I roll my eyes. “I always do, Daddy.”

  “I know you do. Just be safe.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll call up Cletus to give you a ride.”

  “That’s not necessary. I can park at the airport.”

  “I know, but I’d feel better if you didn’t leave your car there.”

  “Fine,” I say, knowing there’s no arguing with him. I rummage through my purse and dig out my keys before tossing them over to him. “In case you don’t want me to leave my car here, either.”

  He chuckles. “I’ll make sure William gets them.”

  “William? Why?”

  “So he can get your car home.”

  “He won’t care where my car is.”

  My dad shoots me a strange look, but I leave it at that. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain to my dad what’s going on with William—especially because the whole reason I’m pissed at William has to do with my dad.

  “Have fun, Sylvie.”

  “You too, Dad.”

  He nods and leaves my office then I wrap up my work for the week. I’m leaving early, which means I’ll have additional work to do next week. There’s always work to do, though.

  I arrive at the airport with my suitcase. I check in and get through security in record time, and I still have an hour to burn by the time I get to my gate. I decide to head over to the airport Starbucks because coffee is always a good way to kill time.

  I study the people at the gate next to ours. It’s fairly empty since their flight to Houston doesn’t leave for two hours. The next gate’s flight goes to Los Angeles at five, and there are a decent number of people milling around. The next gate goes to New York, and I can’t help but think of Carson. He might’ve been right in this very spot just yesterday as he got off the flight from New York. I wonder how many times he’s been right here, how many times he’s visited San Diego. With both business and family here in town, I imagine he’s here often. I wonder if he likes to fly, or if he hates it as much as I do.

  The thought has me reaching for my bottle of anxiety meds in my purse. The only time I take them is when I have to fly somewhere.

  Just as I tear my eyes from the New York gate that’s starting to board, I feel a hand on my arm.

  “We meet again.”

  I recognize the voice before I look up into the hypnotic, dark eyes.

  It feels a little like fate. It has to be fate. How else would this guy who lives in New York continue to cross my path here in California? It makes no sense.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, shaking my arm out of his grip. I immediately miss his touch when he lets go.

  He nods to the gate. “Flying home.”

  “I thought you were here for the weekend.” I grip the bottle of Ativan in my palm. My doctor told me they would calm my fear of flying, and usually they calm me enough to be able to focus on something other than the crippling fear that the plane is going to crash to the ground. It’s worth it, even for the short, ninety-minute flight to San Francisco.

  He shrugs, and those dark eyes pin me to the spot. “Something came up, so I’m heading home.”

  Home.

  I can’t explain the little sadness that darts through me knowing he won’t be here in San Diego—even if I’m not here, either.

  “Have a safe flight,” I say, and I turn to go to Starbucks because, just like this morning, I’m afraid if I stay and engage in conversation with him, I might start to like him. I can’t like him. I’m supposed to hate him—not just because he’s a persistent jerk, but because he’s a shrewd businessman who’s taking something that isn’t his to take.

  His hand grips my arm at the elbow. “Wait,” he says.

  I turn back to him. “What?”

  “Have a coffee with me?”

  I shake my head and laugh. “God, you really don’t give up, do you?”

  He smiles. “No, I really don’t.”

  “Don’t you have a flight to catch?”

  “I do, and I don’t really drink coffee, but they’re just starting to board, and Starbucks is right there.” He nods to the booth across the terminal from us.

  “I was just heading there anyway,” I say. “I guess it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you walked there with me.”

  We fall into step together as we head over, and he nods toward the bottle in my hand. “What are those?”

  “That’s a little nosy, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, it’s completely nosy, but you’re gripping the bottle like your life depends on it.”

  “Anxiety meds. I hate flying.”

  “Do they work?”

  I shrug. “It shuts my brain off enough to allow me to relax.”

  “Can I try one?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I fucking hate flying,” he confesses, and I can’t help my giggle.

  “So do I.” I uncap the bottle and hand him a pill despite everything I’ve ever been taught about sharing medicine with someone when they haven’t been prescribed the drug.

  “Thanks,” he says as I press the pill into his palm. I ignore the rush of feeling I get when our hands touch. It was nothing.

  I pull my hand away like his is on fire as he slips the pill into his pocket, and then we’re suddenly at Starbucks. We wait in a short line.

  “What do you get here?” he asks.

  “A nonfat cascara latte.”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s a coffee drink.”

  “What would you get if you didn’t drink coffee?” He stares at the menu like he’s reading a different language, and I can’t help my laugh.

  “Their peach green tea is really good.”

  “Green tea?”

  “Get it cold.”

  I place my order and pull out my wallet to pay, but he beats me to the punch. He orders his iced tea and pays for both our drinks.

  “Thanks,” I say as we make our way to the end of the counter to wait while the barista gets to work on our order. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “You won’t let me take you to dinner, so the least I can do is pick up your coffee.”

  “So what called you home so quickly?” I ask, going for conversation. “Everything okay?”

  “Careful, cupcake, you actually sound like you care.”

  “I don’t.”

  He laughs. “Everything’s okay. I just…didn’t need to be here anymore.”

  I want to ask why. I want to ask if it had anything to do with the fact that I won’t be here, but it’s such an egocentric idea that I can’t even believe it entered my head.

  Yet there it is.

  We find an empty table and sit once our drinks are ready.

  I take a sip of my coffee. “Got all your business taken care of?”

  He nods. “Something like that.” He sips his tea. “Wow. You’re right. This is really good.”

  I tap my temple. “Smart.”

  “I already knew that.”

  He grins, and my face warms.

  “How long has your brother lived here?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “A couple years. He was out here looking at houses when he met his wife.”

  “Meant to be?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Do you believe in that stuff?” I’m not sure why the question slips out. I don’t care what he believes in. It’s none of my business.

  But fate…

  Fate somehow led me to him today—or led him to me. I’m not sure what fate’s doing, exactly, but things are getting intense.

  He raises an eyebrow. “It worked for Carter, I guess.”

  I nod. That didn’t answer my question, exactly, but I don’t
know if I believe in meant to be, either. I did—when William and I got together, I thought it was fate intervening on our behalf. We’d worked together for four years, I always thought he was cute, we flirted in the most professional manner, and then he finally asked me out. It seemed like we were drawn together from the start.

  Yet I’m feeling a much stronger pull to someone who isn’t William. Is that fate?

  “This is the final boarding call for flight seven-sixty-three into New York.” The loud voice over the speaker cuts into our conversation.

  Carson rolls his eyes. “I guess that means I should go.”

  I clear my throat. “I guess so.”

  “Walk me to my gate?”

  I nod. “Sure. I should head back to mine anyway.”

  “Thanks for the unexpected coffee date.”

  “It wasn’t a date,” I protest.

  “Sure. Okay. You’re right.” He nods with a dose of sarcasm.

  “It was a coffee business meeting.”

  “So I can write that off, then?”

  I laugh. “I guess we didn’t really talk business, did we?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope, and I didn’t even have coffee.” He shoots me one more panty-melting grin and then turns to board his plane.

  CHAPTER 17

  SYLVIE

  While the weekend will provide a respite from William’s constant badgering about when I’m going to get over the fact that he lied to me, I’m not certain it’ll provide much else.

  Instead, I’m stuck thinking constantly about my coffee business meeting with Carson.

  Most of the women attending this bachelorette party are also from San Diego, and I immediately latch onto one named Courtney—or maybe she latches onto me. Whatever the case, we make an immediate connection of friendship that will, at the very least, last through the weekend.

  She seems sweet, and she also seems the most like me. She’s known Josie for a long time, and she doesn’t know anyone else here. She’s married, and I’m in a long-term relationship that’s supposedly heading that way. Apparently she has been friends with the bride since elementary school. We bond over the fact that we don’t know anyone besides Josie, and then we bond over wine. Well, I bond over wine; she’s not drinking because she’s pregnant.

  Friday night is when everyone arrives. Saturday is meant for playing and drinking, and Sunday is the day we depart. It’s a quick weekend trip, and we’re all staying together in a cabin Josie’s rich parents are paying for.

  Courtney and I end up together in a room with two twin beds. After an evening of drinking wine, we’re gossiping before bed. The lights are out and we’ve both washed off our makeup. We’re giggling and, admittedly, I’m a little drunk as we talk into the darkness from the isolated comfort of our separate beds.

  She tells the first secret without any prompting.

  “I didn’t want to come this weekend.”

  I giggle. “Neither did I. Why did you come?”

  “This stays between us, and I’m probably only telling you because of pregnancy hormones, but I have a relationship blog. Lately I’ve had to…embellish some of the stories. My blog used to thrive on my dating mishaps, but I’m happily married now and I don’t really have much to complain about anymore. I thought maybe this weekend with some single girls could give me some new material.”

  “What would your readers think if they found out?”

  “It’s a pretty big deal, to be honest. I think they’d be pissed. Only my husband and my best friend know, so you can’t tell anyone.”

  “Promise I won’t.”

  “Why did you come this weekend?”

  “I wanted to get away from my boyfriend for a couple of days.”

  “Why?”

  I should probably be hesitant to tell the truth after what she just told me about her blog, but all the wine I drank prevents that hesitance. “This is something I haven’t told anyone, either, so it stays between us.”

  “Ooh, sounds juicy.”

  “I have a total crush on someone who isn’t my boyfriend.”

  “Just a crush? Or are there feelings involved?”

  “I don’t know. William kept something from me right around the same time I met this really hot executive from a competing company, and he’s showing all sorts of interest in me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Part of me feels like I should forgive William and try to get past it.”

  “But the other part of you?”

  “Wants to know what it would be like to have sex with someone like Carson King.”

  “Carson King?”

  “Yeah.” I sigh dreamily as I think about him running on the beach. How was that just earlier this morning? “He’s been pretty persistent in asking me out.”

  “Carson King, as in Carson King from King Communications?”

  “Yeah. Do you know him?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Oh, shit. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I’m, uh…sort of married to his brother.”

  “Oh Jesus.”

  “Yeah.”

  I laugh—wine-drunk Sylvie finds this whole situation highly amusing. Courtney starts laughing right along with me.

  Once our laughing starts to calm, I ask, “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Well, he’s really close with my husband. He lives in New York, and he’s next in line to be the CEO of King Communications.”

  “I already know most of that. What about his dating life?”

  “How much honesty are you looking for?”

  “Give it to me straight. I’m numb with wine so I can handle anything.”

  “Dating life? Nonexistent.”

  “He doesn’t date?”

  “He doesn’t do what I would call dating, exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “In the two years I’ve been married to his brother, I’ve never seen him in a relationship. When he comes to town, he almost always stays in a hotel even though we always invite him to stay with us. Carter told me it’s because he always ends up bringing some woman home with him, and I have to say, I appreciate that he does that. Millie doesn’t need to hear Uncle Carson’s moans in the next room, you know what I mean?”

  I try for a laugh, but it doesn’t come out right. I attempt to clear my suddenly clogged throat.

  I was wrong—wine numbness does not equate to me being able to handle anything.

  My chest hurts as she talks, and a stinging heat presses behind my eyes.

  “But he came into town yesterday and stayed with us last night. It was only maybe the second or third time he’s done that since Millie was born. He didn’t bring some random girl home. He went out with Carter and Axel, their cousin, last night, and they came home at a decent time. He even played with Millie this morning. They were so sweet together. Honestly, if he ever catches the daddy bug, I think he’d make a wonderful father, but first he has to settle down. He has to stop sleeping with any woman that breathes and pick just one. He just hasn’t ever seemed interested in commitment.”

  The heat behind my eyes morphs into actual tears, and they leak silently from my lids as I lie on my back and stare into the darkness up at the ceiling.

  I thought maybe there was something between us. I thought maybe he and I had a chance.

  Clearly I was wrong. His sister-in-law knows personal things about him, and I stupidly asked for honesty.

  Maybe this is all for the best. Now I can easily get over my crush and move on. Now I don’t have to think about this womanizing asshole anymore. I don’t have to live my days under a cloud of confusion as I wonder if I should give up what I have with the very solid and secure man I live with.

  This was exactly what I needed to push me right back into William’s arms.

  CHAPTER 18

  SYLVIE

  When
I walk in the door Sunday night, I’m greeted with something I never expected.

  Fresh flowers sit in a vase on the kitchen table. The table is set, wine has been poured, and it smells like spaghetti sauce.

  William is doing everything he can to win me back, but after the revelations I learned about Carson over the weekend, he really doesn’t have to try too hard anymore. I may not be happy with William at the moment, but I’m not running into Carson’s arms. It was a silly crush, and his own sister-in-law’s words about him play in my mind on repeat. He’s not the one for me.

  The man who bought me flowers, poured me wine, and cooked my favorite dinner is.

  “How was your weekend?” William asks as I walk in and set down my suitcase.

  “It was fine,” I say. “What’s all this?”

  “Just a little surprise for my lady.”

  “That’s nice, William.” I don’t have the heart to say I can’t even look at wine right now after all I drank yesterday. I’m still feeling the effects with a lingering headache and a weak stomach, and I’m not sure I can even eat a meatball right now. I try to look at the positive side: maybe a rally is just what I need to knock out the hangover.

  I let myself go yesterday. I let myself have fun. I let myself get drunker than I’ve been in a really long time. What did I have to lose?

  Today, obviously, I’m paying for my lack of discretion, but it’ll pass—just like every other time I’ve proclaimed I’m never drinking again.

  He walks over to me. “May I?” he asks as he leans in toward me, and I nod. He presses a soft kiss to my lips. I don’t get butterflies when he does it, but those fade over time anyway.

  His eyes dart to my suitcase as he backs away. I can tell what he’s thinking before he even says a word. I’ve been in the door for less than sixty seconds, but he doesn’t like the suitcase sitting in the middle of the hallway. “Why don’t you get unpacked, and I’ll have dinner ready in about fifteen minutes?”