Love Me Love Me Knot Page 5

  Sophie counted to ten, hoping the next time she opened her mouth she would sound as confident as Ryan looked. Because he was really here. Here, inside her café, even more handsome than when he left. Older. An entire decade older than the last time they were together. It seemed like yesterday that he broke her heart, without explanation or a goodbye. She may have shut him out at first, but she knew the real reason. Page seventy-four of Sports Now’s September issue, ten years ago.

  This time she didn’t try to hide the ragged breath escaping her lips. Sophie turned around.

  Ryan was staring at her, and she couldn’t break his gaze. Her spine tingled, and her heart jackhammered. Could he tell how much effort it took to stop her knees from buckling?

  Ryan’s raspy sigh broke the deafening silence. “Think I can get that sandwich?”

  Her heart slowed to an almost rapid pace. “Right. A sandwich.” Forgive my ogling. She called to Charlie. “Can you prep a sandwich?”

  “Sure, what kind?”

  Sophie looked back at Ryan. Had he gotten taller?

  “Anything’s fine.”

  “Give him Amy’s sandwich. She left without it.” Ryan had always been a carnivore. He’d probably choke on a veggie burger. “I take it you want that to go?”

  He held her gaze without a hint of levity. “Not particularly. Do you want me to take it to go?”

  “Yes. No. I mean you probably should.” The longer Ryan stayed in her café, the higher the odds were she’d say or do something she would regret . . . like kill him. His mouth tugged up on one side. Or kiss him. Another minute or two, and she might be willing to forgive him for . . . page seventy-four, was it?

  “I need to get ready for my meeting with Red tomorrow morning anyway.”

  Red’s troubled face earlier flashed across her mind. He seemed upset about something. What if this was that something? If you hurt him, I will track you down and cut you. “You’ll like him. He’s a good guy.”

  “I’m sure I will.” He shot her that unfair, heart-stopping smile.

  Charlie handed Ryan the sandwich bag, making sure their fingers touched. Sophie tried hard not to roll her eyes.

  But Ryan’s eyes remained fixed on Sophie’s. “It was good to see you, Sapphire.”

  Her old nickname, the way it rolled off his tongue and lingered in her ears . . . it took her back. Sophie shook her head. She had to get herself together. Now. “Yeah.” Her voice caught her in her throat. “See ya.”

  Ryan pushed open the door . . . and smacked Asher right in the moneymaker.

  Blood drained from Sophie’s face. Thank you, Mr. Murphy, for coming through again!

  Ryan held the door open for Asher. “Oh, hey, man, sorry. Are you okay?”

  Sophie bit down on a laugh, wishing a real-life “replay” button existed.

  Asher rubbed his nose. “Fine.”

  “Pity,” Sophie said, mostly under her breath. Could it have hurt anything if Ryan broke Asher’s nose?

  Asher carried the promised box containing Sophie’s things, the potted plant she’d bought for his kitchen window right on top. Sophie winced, remembering how she watered it just few days ago.

  “Hey, you’re Ryan Pike,” Asher said.

  “Yes.” Ryan offered his hand.

  Asher shifted the box to his hip and shook it, a cheesy grin slapped across his face. “I’m Asher Hughes, in Up Front’s entertainment department. Good to finally meet you. I follow your blog religiously.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for reading my blog.”

  What sort of bromance was this? Was Asher drooling? And no, they couldn’t be friends. Asher was still holding her box. Ryan was holding her sandwich. Both held a broken piece of her. This wasn’t right. Get out! Both of you!

  Asher still gripped Ryan’s hand. “No, thank you. I’ve won a few bets based on your predictions.”

  “Oh.” Ryan frowned, wiping his palm on his jeans.

  “You’re pretty much a legend around the office. You really think the Giants are going to take another series?” Asher’s eyes grew to silver dollars. “Did you watch Posey’s hit last night? I thought—”

  “We’re closing.” Sophie stepped forward wringing a terry towel so tight she thought the fibers might split. “So, if you guys are done—and believe me, you’re done—I need to lock up.”

  Ryan’s soft eyes swayed toward her. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.” He turned back to Asher. “Sorry about the nose.”

  “No problem.”

  When the door closed behind Ryan and Asher moved two steps inside, Sophie held up her hand. “That’s far enough. You can leave the box and go.”

  “Where do you want it?” His cheery attitude grew stale. Apparently he didn’t have any of that kissass boy charm he used on Ryan reserved for her. Not that she cared.

  She pointed to the table closest to the door. “Right there is fine.”

  He plopped the box on the table. “You sure you don’t want to take inventory? I have your vinyl Beatles records and”—he pulled out a colorful box—“your super-absorbent tampons. Still not clear why you put those in my bathroom.”

  Sophie tasted bile. Because I needed them one time and had to go to the store since you wanted me to stay and rewrite your column. I forgot to take them home. So, sue me. “You can leave now.”

  “Actually, can I order a kale smoothie?”

  Sophie narrowed her eyes. Was he purposely trying to antagonize her? “Goodbye, Asher.”

  Asher held his hands up. “Fine. I’m leaving. But I don’t understand why you’re so mad. It’s not like we were exclusive.”

  The problem was Asher was right. Sophie was the one reading into the relationship. Asher never said they were a “couple.” Dating past the twenty-something age was only beneficial for men. Whereas women are introduced to cellulite and fat pockets, guys become all Richard Gere and George Clooney. Not fair. “I’m not mad,” she said flatly, “I just need to lock up and give the girls a ride home.”

  “So, a rain check on that smoothie then? Maybe Trixie and I will come by next week to try the new cran-salad.”

  Sophie clenched her jaw, but said in her most even-tempered voice, “You need to leave.” Before I gouge your eyes out with one of those super absorbents.

  “Sorry,” he sneered, exiting. The sneer clearly negated his apology. But whatever, he was gone.

  Sophie flipped the bolt and sighed. He wasn’t worth it. She looked around and felt the warmth this home away from home offered. This was her safe place. The teens’ safe place. Asher might not be worth it, but this place was, even if she was bone weary from the day and had to spend the rest of the evening prepping for tomorrow. Like every evening, the rest of her time spent at the café was delegated to sweeping, mopping, washing, chopping, and packaging. It all had to be done.

  The best part of afterhours, however, was watching the teens sit at the bar, eating frozen custard, and talking about everything from boys to school drama to personal triggers. Seeing them band together in an effort to heal made the long, hard hours worth it. So, securing funding was not an option. It was a must.

  Charlie popped her head out of the kitchen door. “I assume it’s safe to come out? Mail’s here.” She glided across the floor and handed it to Sophie. They usually only received junk mail, since the café’s bills went directly to corporate.

  One piece of mail stuck out, however, addressed directly to Chicks ’n’ Slicks. Sophie’s cheeks immediately burned hot. It was from Mr. Tomilson, the landlord. Now what did he want?

  Sophie’s throat tightened. There were only a handful of reasons Mr. Waste of a Human Being Tomilson would directly correspond with her café. And not one of them was good.

  “Bad news?” Charlie grabbed the bag of chocolate Satans from Sop
hie’s apron and popped one into her mouth.

  Sophie ripped open the envelope and unfolded the paper. A hitch in Charlie’s breath told Sophie that she was reading the letter over her shoulder. And when Charlie slipped a Satan inside Sophie’s palm, she knew Charlie understood exactly what the bad news meant.

  A rent hike, effective immediately.

  Chapter 6

  Ryan stepped onto the sidewalk. The café door swung closed, effectively cutting him off from the chatter inside. And from Sophie.

  Though this was the City by the Bay, in this part of town, he’d be hard pressed to smell the ocean over the stench of urine and garbage. Not unlike San Antonio, however, the beauty of the city was not on the surface, but in the diversity of the people.

  Although currently, the city seemed to be of one mind, amped up on baseball fever. With the home team up three games, all he saw was the Giant’s orange on every surface. He’d be sure to not wear his Dodger’s shirt anywhere near this city.

  The jagged skyline lit up the city, drowning out the night sky. Yet, Aquarius was clearly visible.

  His dad’s favorite constellation.

  His father would be eager to share facts about the water-bearing constellation, and proud that Ryan still knew it covered 980-square degrees of the sky. Well, that is if Ryan was still nine and cared about that any more.

  He took a long breath, trying to settle his nerves. The temperature dropped significantly over the past hour, and Ryan was grateful for the cold bite. No sense in hailing a cab, the Grand Bella Suites, his hotel, was only a brisk walk from the café, and that would give his head, among other extremities, a much-needed cool down. He took off in the direction of his suite. What had possessed him to visit Chicks ’n’ Slicks?

  He could lie to himself and believe he went to satisfy his curiosity for why Sophie would create such a huge community program when the rest of the affiliate magazines used food drives and office tours to “give back” to inner-city kids. But he knew he wanted to settle other curiosities. And as soon as he read her personal file, he knew exactly why she got so involved with kids suffering from eating disorders. It was deeply personal to her. And if it was personal, it meant a great deal.

  Ryan kicked a rock across the road and it thudded against something. When the object moved, Ryan recoiled, only to realize a homeless person leaned against the building, hidden by a sheet. He stared at his sandwich. Chef’s choice wasn’t much to offer, but it probably tasted just fine.

  Ryan walked over and tapped his foot against the piece of cardboard the person was sitting on.

  When the sheet lifted, a gray-haired head popped out. Ryan jumped back. Damn if the guy wasn’t the spitting image of his dad. He composed himself, hoping he didn’t startle the guy. “Sorry about the rock.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’ve had worse.” The man’s gravel voice added years to what Ryan assumed was mid-fifties. His age sunspots, faded scars on his arms, and missing patches of hair told Ryan worse was likely an understatement.

  “You hungry?”

  “Starved. You offering?”

  Ryan held up the bag. “I think this lacks meat, but it’s from that café over there.”

  The man looked past Ryan. “Good café.”

  “You know it?”

  “Of course I do,” he said as if that was a given.

  Ryan handed the guy the food. “What’s your name, boss?”

  The man took the bag. “Thanks. Just call me Wolf. You got custard in here?” He opened the bag to peek.

  “Sorry. Just the sandwich. Not even sure what kind to be honest.”

  Wolf shrugged. “Just as well. Probably healthier, considering where it’s from. There’s some really fine girls in there.”

  Ryan flinched. It must have been evident in his expression, because Wolf let out a hearty laugh.

  “Not like that, junior. I mean the girls in there are well behaved. Sweet, too. The lady who runs that place must have come from a convent or something, because my own daughter won’t give me the time of day. But they . . . well, they’re a lot nicer than my Janey.”

  What Ryan assumed was a painful memory flickered in Wolf’s eye. He pulled a twenty from his pocket and handed it to his new friend. “Sorry about the rock. Enjoy the sandwich and have a nice evening.” Ryan crossed the street again and gave another long look at the café before it disappeared from sight.

  A little more research had told him that Chicks ’n’ Slicks funding had been cut by over half. Which didn’t make sense. In fact, that was the typical formula for axing the whole program.

  Ryan shook the thought. He’d know if they were nixing it. But just in case, he’d ask Phil about it later.

  Once at the hotel, Ryan headed to its convenience store. He’d already checked in so he waved at the man at the front counter as he passed by. A pre-made ham and cheddar sandwich, candy bar, and bottle of water would suffice. He paid for the food and then unwrapped the sandwich, taking a huge bite. It wasn’t much, but it curbed the low growl in the pit of his stomach. At least the part related to hunger. The other part, well, that was knotted up quite tightly.

  Finishing the sandwich in three large bites, Ryan tossed the wrapper into a garbage receptacle next to the elevator, then pressed the button heading to the thirteenth floor. The penthouse was bigger than he needed, but Lola had set up his accommodations, so he wouldn’t complain.

  He cracked open his water bottle and relaxed on the king-sized bed. His head still spun thinking about Sophie. Watching her dance with the girls in the café awoke something in him he wasn’t ready to face. It took him back to the girl he once knew. The girl who, after only dating a few months, he would have married.

  He had been young and dumb. It was probably for the best they broke up, even though he still didn’t know why she had dumped him. Fast-moving, passionate relationships were doomed to fail. It probably saved them both a ton of heartache. But his heart didn’t seem to believe it, even after a decade apart.

  Still, seeing her tonight was worth it, regardless of how it threw an incredibly complicated wrench in executing his task at hand. He would ignore that something she’d awoke in him and be the professional Phil believed he was. The professional he knew he was.

  ~ ~ ~

  After a sleepless night, Ryan prepared for his visit to the West Coast publishing office. He cleared a three-mile run on the treadmill, hopped in a cold shower, and downed a bottle of cranberry juice. Wishing, instead, for the shot of bourbon in his minibar. But drinking for more than a social obligation was a hard limit he imposed on himself. Even if he still couldn’t shake Sophie from his head.

  At a quarter to six, he grabbed his coat and escaped the hotel. Ten minutes later, the cab pulled street side to a four-floor industrial building. The structure sat level, despite the steep hill it was on. It butted up against similar-shaped buildings and had suffered from sun exposure. But it was a prime location, only a mile or so from Google.

  His last visit here was when he interviewed quarterback legend Joe Montana about former football players and prolonged brain injuries. Conveniently, Sophie had been out of the office, but so had Red. He hated that his first opportunity to meet the man was because of what Ryan assumed was a forced retirement.

  The elevator spit him out on the third floor. He swept the layout, gathering his bearings. There seemed to be less room in here than a third-string locker room. His cheeks warmed just thinking about his spacious office with a killer view.

  On the way to Red’s office, he passed no less than twenty cubicles. Each one personally decorated with photos, stationary, notes on features. Which tiny box belonged to Sophie?

  He turned the corner of the last row of cubicles and there, leaning heavily against the doorframe of a windowed office, stood Red Goldman. The red streaks in the whites of his eyes told
Ryan that he hadn’t been the only one who couldn’t sleep. “Ryan Pike,” Red slurred.

  Ryan held out a hand. “Red Goldman, nice to finally meet you.”

  Red gave a sarcastic laugh, but shook his hand. “Better come in.” The putrid smell that socked Ryan in the face made him doubt his sleepless night theory. Brewery and sweat. It reminded him of his father.

  Red’s office was the biggest room on the floor. He had three times as many framed photos hanging on the walls as Ryan, and probably somewhere around thirty awards strewn throughout the room. A stack of moving boxes sat off to one corner.

  Red skirted around his desk, where he all but fell into his chair. He held up an empty glass. “Join me, my good man.”

  Ryan closed the door and tried to picture Red thirty years younger. It tears a man down from the inside out to have his livelihood threatened. If that’s what was really happening. Or he was just a typical work-induced drunk. Under the circumstances, Ryan would give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Ryan took the seat on the other side of the desk and held up his hand. “I’ll pass, thank you.”

  Red’s rosy cheeks reminded him of Santa Claus. “Suit yourself.” He gripped the bottle and read the label. “Twenty-five-year-old scotch. Puts a hair on your chest.”

  Red’s shirt was partially unbuttoned with chest hair sticking out of the V-shape. He had to be pushing sixty years old with a stocky build, offsetting the thin-framed glasses outlining his eyes.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Ryan asked.

  Red set the bottle down and sipped his drink, ice clinking together as he drained the glass.

  “Yes, I’m feeling rather jovial. Ecstatic, if you can believe it.” He belched. “Oops. Excuse me.” He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth.

  Ryan grabbed a fistful of tissue from the box on Red’s desk and handed them over. “You want me to call someone for you?”