You, With a View(7)

“I don’t.” My defensive tone gives me away, but he doesn’t call me on it.

He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Tell me how it goes tomorrow, okay? Call us.”

“Fine,” I say, still annoyed by his hawk-eyed observation. “?‘Night.”

The earnestness of our conversation must have grossed him out—I wake Friday morning to Theo’s Forbes picture staring at me, wedged next to my pillow.

Gah. Disgusting, my rational brain says. Sign me up, my lizard brain counters.

It’s with that irritating thought that I get dressed. I lock up the silent house and drive into the city, my inner monologue moving so quick and loud it sounds like static played at full blast.

It’s not until I’m parked and walking down Columbus Avenue in the heart of North Beach that my mind goes quiet. It’s a power switch flipped off as Reveille comes into view, the black brick building looming ever closer.

I should probably order coffee first, give myself a minute to get my shit together, but my hands are shaking inside the pockets of my jean jacket. Caffeine will shoot me off into the stratosphere. Maybe once I see Paul, the anticipatory anxiety will ebb.

As I get to the café, I wonder if Gram’s hands shook when she met Paul, or when she realized she was in love with him. When she said goodbye. If she ever felt anticipation so thick she thought she’d choke on it.

My mind is darting so quickly from thought to thought as I round the corner toward the outdoor seating that I almost miss them. But it’s Paul seated at the furthest table, no doubt, his hair white, his age-spotted hands wrapped around a coffee mug. His eyes slide past the person he’s talking to across the table—the broad back and dark-haired head facing away from me—and move past mine, then bounce back. Widen.

My heart stutters to a stop along with my legs. I lift my hand, tentative, shocked by his shock, but get distracted by the man sitting across from him.

The shoulders stretching across that broad back straighten, and Paul’s grandson turns in his seat, his hand gripping the back of the turquoise metal chair.

And then my heart stops for real. Theo Spencer, the beautiful, infuriating centerfold of Forbes magazine, is staring right at me.





Three





Is this a joke?”

We say it at the same time. That also has to be a joke.

Theo stands, and I catalog everything about him before I can process how I’m feeling: the worn-in Levi’s with a button fly, goddamn him; the wavy hair rustling poetically in the breeze; his expensive-looking navy sweater, sleeves pushed up his forearms. The material looks so soft I want to rub my cheek on it.

No, I don’t. What the hell.

“What are you doing here?” I demand as his expression cools from its initial shock.

Theo’s eyes skim my body, but not in a sexy way. Like he ordered Wagyu steak, and he got McDonald’s instead. I regret the short corduroy skirt I’m wearing, and especially the Doc Martens. They’re from high school.

When his gaze does a U-turn back down to my feet, one corner of his mouth hooks up, and I know he remembers the damn boots.

“Still wearing those shit kickers, huh, Shep?”

That voice. I hate it. It’s like velvet rubbed the wrong way. There’s a texture to it that crawls up my spine, and a depth that sprinkles goosebumps on the back of my neck. I still remember sitting on stage at graduation, staring daggers at his back while his voice delivered the valedictorian speech instead of mine.

“What are you doing here?” I repeat.

One eyebrow raises, stern as ever. “I think it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

I don’t want it to be true, but the truth is staring at me, wholly unimpressed: my high school adversary is Paul’s grandson, and we’ve been talking all week without realizing it.

What force has brought him back into my life? Satan? No, that doesn’t make sense—the same force brought Paul into my life, too.

My gaze moves up to the sky. What are you doing up there, Gram?

A throat clears and Theo and I turn at the sound. Paul pushes off the table to stand, his eyes—deep blue like Theo’s—bouncing between us.

“I take it you two know each other?” he asks.

“Unfortunately.” I hold up my hands, horrified. Even if it’s true, it’s his grandson I’ve just insulted. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, she did,” Theo says.

I shoot him a glare, and it’s as effective as if we’ve actually hurtled back in time. We used to exchange endless jabs in class, on the tennis court where we both played varsity, at parties. Through unfortunate luck, we liked the same people, so our paths crossed constantly. Murdering him with my eyes is muscle memory. His returning smirk is, too. He loved riling me up.

I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. I’m an adult, despite my circumstances proving the opposite, and he’s not going to get to me. Even though the dimple popping in his cheek—and the heat blooming in mine—says otherwise.

“Haven’t seen that smile in a while, Teddy,” Paul says with a grin the same shape as Theo’s, dimple and all.

Like that, all expression drops off Theo’s face. “I’m going to grab another coffee.” He lifts his chin at me. “What do you want?”