Push Me (To The Edge series, #1) (4 page)

The first search results popped up on my screen.
Sam had a Wikipedia page.

“No,” I said. “He was married and talked about her all the time. No flirting.”

“Tell me his last name again? I want to see this guy.”

I told her his full name as I skimmed his Wiki page.
He was indeed divorced from his wife, Sandra,
but there were no details about it. Almost a year and a half before the divorce, Sam had sustained a career-ending injury during a game. That was three years ago. Since that time, he’d been working in broadcasting, providing analysis for Major League Baseball on ESPN.

“Holy hell.
Hello
, Mr. Poole,” Rachel said.

“Cute, huh?”

“Cute?” Rachel let out a heavy sigh. “That’s not cute. That’s hot. That’s take-me-to-bed-and-never-leave
hot
.”

We were both silent for a moment, reading through
Sam’s bio. There was a lot in there about his achievements on the field, none of which made much sense to me, other than the fact that it was pretty obvious he was a big deal: twice he’d been named to the All-Star team, and in the season in which he sustained his injury, he was a top candidate for Most Valuable Player in all of baseball.

Rachel
finally broke the silence. “I don’t get most of this, but it sounds like it really sucked for him.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Oh well, too bad you missed out on this guy. Then you wouldn’t be…”

That was
Rachel’s way of raising the subject of Ian. She’d done this from the first time she met him. She later told me she got a really bad vibe from him, even just having met him twice, and her reaction got even stronger as I kept her updated on our relationship. But lately, it was becoming a topic she wanted to revisit nearly every time we talked.

“Oh, God,” I said, closing the browser and clearing
Sam from my screen. “I can’t even think about that right now.”

“You’re going to talk to
Ian when you get back, though, right? Like you said?”

“Definitely.”

Later, as I was drifting off to sleep with the baseball game still on the TV, the camera cut to the announcers. I thought I had noticed something about Sam earlier, and had been waiting to see him again to double check.

The suit he was wearing looked
just like one I’d sold him years ago.

.  .  .  .  .

My phone rang at 6 a.m. I fumbled around the nightstand to grab it, looked at the screen, and wasn’t surprised to see who it was.

“
Wake-up call.” Ian sounded like he’d been up for a while, and he probably had. It wasn’t unusual for him to get up before five, work out, shower, and be ready to start his workday by seven. It was one of the things I had never gotten used to. I preferred to sleep in as long as I could.

“Hey,” I mumbled.

“That voice. I love hearing it in the morning. I miss you, Sweet.”

I heard a knock at the door and sat up quickly.

I groaned. “Who the hell could that be?”

“Answer it.”
Ian urged.

I got up, padded across the carpet, looked through the peephole and saw a guy wearing a black blazer with the hotel logo on it.

This was more than a little intrusive and annoying.

“Hang on,” I said through the door.

“Yes ma’am. Just room service with your breakfast.”

I
pulled my robe on and said, “I’m not hungry, Ian.” Not being a morning person, my appetite didn’t get rolling until at least 10 a.m., and I’d usually have just a piece of fruit or something light. Eating this early made my stomach unsettled. Ian insisted that breakfast was the most important meal of the day and that I’d get used to it, but I hadn’t in nearly a year, and he wasn’t giving up.

“You have to eat,” he said. “I ordered you two egg-whites, wheat toast, orange juice
, and coffee.”

“Fine.” It wasn’t often that I let frustration seep into the words I spoke to
Ian, but this was one of those times.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“You know I only want the best for you.”

“Let me get the door and I’ll call you back, okay?”

Off the phone and standing alone in my room with the breakfast tray on the table a few minutes later, I stood there and stared at it, then put it out in the hallway, but kept the coffee.

I sipped it as I called
Ian back. By then, he was in the limo, on his way to the office.

He asked if I ate the breakfast,
I fibbed and said yes, then tried to redirect his attention. “What do you have planned today?”

“I’ll be out of the office most of the day. Going to check out a company we’ve been looking at.”

Ian Baker was the CEO of Baker Capital, an investment firm he had founded with some start-up money his grandfather had given him when Ian graduated from Yale. He was good at what he did, which is why he was worth roughly seven hundred million dollars.

That’s how he had put i
t when he told me: “roughly seven hundred million.” Like he might not be sure exactly how much it was.

You know how that can be.
Sort of like how we regular people might not be certain how much cash we have on us—is it twenty bucks, twenty-five, seven hundred million?

Anyway, t
hat’s basically all I knew about his business. Early on in our relationship I had asked about it, and he’d been vague—saying simply that it wasn’t that interesting and while he was good at what he did, he wasn’t passionate about it—giving me the sense that he didn’t want to talk about it for some reason, so I let it go. It was easy to avoid, as work never came up much in our conversations. Ian had little or no interest in my job, outside of my travel plans.

“What time will
you be finished today?” he asked.

I started to get moving, laying out
my clothes for the day. “I’m not sure. Maybe six or so.”

“What are you wearing,
Dawn?”

“Nothing
exciting,” I said, which was true. I was wearing a t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. During the night, the room had alternated between too hot and too cold, and I decided it was easier to turn the AC on low and put more clothes on rather than lie there in the stifling, insomnia-inducing heat.

“I’ve got a call coming in,” he said.
“I’ll text you later.”

“Okay.”

I was glad he had to go. I wasn’t in the mood for sexy talk, which was what he was trying to start by asking me what I was wearing. More than once, conversations like that had verged on phone sex, something I was totally not into.

I debated whether to lie back down again, but the coffee had jolted me awake, so I figured I might as well
get a start on my workday.

I took a long shower and turned on the TV
while I was getting dressed. It was still on ESPN, and they were showing clips from last night’s baseball game. They didn’t show Sam, but I heard his voice in the background.

I briefly
considered texting him. But why? What would I say? And did I really need to start talking to him, no matter how innocently, when I had so much to deal with?

I dropped my phone in my purse and headed out the door for work.

Chapter Four

Later that night, sitting on the bed in my hotel room, with yet another baseball game on the TV—the second one I’d watched in as many nights after a lifetime of never watching even one—I frantically called Rachel. Before she could say anything, I blurted: “I texted him.”

“Who?”

“Sam.”

Rachel
paused for a moment, obviously trying to place the name. “The baseball pla—oh, my God.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have.”

“No, no. You totally should have. But wait. How’d you get his number?”

“I didn’t tell you this, but—”

“Uh, yeah,” Rachel said with heavy sarcasm. “It sounds like you have a lot to tell me. Start from the beginning.”

So I told her how it happened….

.  .  .  .  .

After a rather uneventful day at the store, I went back to the hotel and ordered room service. I had planned on going somewhere to eat, but decided at the last minute that I would stay in.

The decision had absolutely nothing to do with there being another baseball game on that night, but when I saw Sam and the other announcer on camera discussing the game, and I worked up the nerve to send him a text that read:
I had no idea you were a TV star.

After a few minutes, and during a commercial break, he wrote back:
Is this Claire?

Crap. I forgot that I’d
given him a fake name. Good thing I hadn’t told him who I was in that first text. Rather than fess up, I went along with it and replied:
Yes.

Sam
:
Glad you saw my number and used it.

Me:
Pretty sneaky move.
:)

Sam
:
It worked and now I have your number and I can ask you out.

I didn’t write back immediately. I wasn’t sure what to say. Yes, I had texted him knowing full well that he hadn’t put his number in my phone so we could just be friends. And, yes, I
had just said “Pretty sneaky move” complete with a smiley face, so I was flirting. Guilty. But, still, I didn’t want to deal with being asked out.

So I texted:
You shouldn’t ask a girl out in a text.

Sam
:
You’re right.

I was texting him back when my phone rang. The
caller ID took over the screen. It was Sam.

I answered, saying, “I was just texting you back.”

“You’re right about that texting thing,” he said.

My heart was hammering in my chest. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to me that he would call to ask me out. I thought we might just have some innocent, flirty back and forth. Now I was in a position I was totally unprepared to handle.

After a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, I said, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Surprises are my specialty.”

I could hear the stadium noise in the background, along with a voice saying: “Forty-five seconds.”

“Sounds like y
ou don’t have much time to talk,” I said.

“The perils of being a TV star. Listen, I’d really like t
o have a drink with you. I should be out of here by eleven. Is that too late?”

It wasn’t too late,
but time wasn’t the issue. I had a boyfriend—at least for the next few days—so I shouldn’t be meeting another guy for a drink.

The voice in the background said: “Fifteen seconds.”

“Let me call you back,” he said. “Give me an hour?”

“Sure.
I guess. Yeah, okay.”

I watched as the commercials ended
onscreen and they went back to the game. I should have told him that I couldn’t meet him, but I’d given him the opening to call back, and I’d just have to deal with it then. Somehow.

.  .  .  .  .

“Holy hell,” Rachel said when I finished giving her the story. “So how much longer do you have until he calls?”

“
I called you right away, so I have about fifty-nine minutes.”

“Wel
l, you did the right thing. As you know, I’m an expert on stuff like this.”

I
said, “Oh, right.”

“Do you want my help or not? You called me, remember? Wait. Don’t answer that. I’m giving you my advice whether you want it or not.”

I walked over to the minibar and got a Sprite Zero, went back to the bed and tried to relax. The TV was on, but the sound was down, and Rachel launched into her advice.

“Whatever you do, don’t even think about
Ian.”

I
was about to take a sip of soda but stopped when she said that. “Good thing you brought that up. Now I’ll never think of him. Not that I’m going—”

“Uh-uh! Stop right there. Back the truck up, or however the saying goes. You’re going. You’re going to meet
this guy, have a drink, maybe three, and enjoy yourself.”

“I’m not cheating on
Ian.”

“Exactly,”
Rachel almost screamed. “It’s not cheating.”

“No, I mean I’m not going because it feels like cheating.”

“Having a drink with someone isn’t cheating.”

I went over to the closet where I’d hung my clothes. Maybe I’d pick something out, just in case. “You don’t know
Ian very well.”

“
Ian is, what, 800 miles away? Say he texts you. Big deal. You text back. If he calls, just excuse yourself and take his call. Then go back to Hottie McBaseball.”

I laughed. “
Who
Mc
What
?”

“I just came up with that. You like it?”

“Thanks for the laugh. I needed that. This is too much. What are you doing tonight?”

“
I have a date with my television” she said. “
The Bachelor
’s on.”

“Ugh. I don’t know how you watch that.”

“Hey, if I had your options tonight, I wouldn’t even own a TV.”

.  .  .  .  .

I chose one of my favorite outfits, spent a few minutes fixing my hair, and touching up my makeup, all the while thinking I couldn’t believe I was going through with this. It was just flirting, though, right? But I shouldn’t even be doing that. And what if Sam thought it was going to lead to more? He was a single man—as far as I knew, anyway…maybe he had a girlfriend?—on a business trip, probably lonely, and probably had never gone too long without a woman’s attention.

I could handle it, I told myself. I was no shrinking violet. Well, except when it came to
Ian. That was part of the personality I’d assumed early on in our relationship, something he had definitely wanted.

But with other guys?
I could stand up for myself, be firm, say no. At least I thought I could. That’s how I’d always been before Ian.

The
baseball game was coming to an end, so I knew it wouldn’t be too long before Sam called back. I sat on the bed, sans shoes, crossing and re-crossing my legs, nervous.

Then, a knock at the door, and
a guy called out: “Room service.”

What the hell? It was almost eleven o’clock at night. Why was
Ian having food brought up to my room at this hour?

I huffed, frustrated, swung
my legs off the bed, and made my way to the door with the intention of declining whatever he’d ordered for me.

I opened the door and saw that it wasn’t a room service call at all.
Why hadn’t I recognized his voice?

Ian
stood there in his perfectly fitted suit with the crisp white shirt, leaning against the doorjamb, biting his lower lip, his eyes smoldering.

Stunned
to see him, I managed to say, “Hey.”

Ian
didn’t say anything. He just grinned at me, stepped inside the room closing the door behind him, and wrapped his arms around my waist. He pulled me closer and kissed me deeply, firmly, hungrily.

“I missed you, Princess
.”

“
I thought you had business in New York.”

He kissed me
again quickly, a peck on the lips, then dropped his head lower. “I told you I had a company to check out, but I didn’t tell you where.” His voice was muffled as he nipped at my neck.

We stood like that for a moment, and my mind raced frantically. I needed to turn my phone off. Quickly.

He kissed me slowly with those soft lips that used to be so difficult to resist, then pulled back and looked me in the eyes. “Did you know I was coming?”

“No. Why?”

His gaze drifted down to my neck, my chest…he backed up a little to take in the view…his intent stare making its way down my entire body, and I could actually feel a warm rush go through my body, following his eyes. God, I hated how he could turn me on just by the way he looked at me. It was the one remaining thing that still drew me to him.

“The way you’re dressed,” he said. “
You know how much I love you in that outfit. It’s almost like you knew I was coming. But you couldn’t have. Were you going out?”

I nervously fumbled with my necklace. “No, I…I wore this today and just hadn’t taken it off yet.”

He stepped toward me again, a look of uninhibited purpose in his eyes. “Then I’m right on time.”

.  .  .  .  .

I’d never experienced anything like the type of sex Ian preferred. Or, more accurately,
required
. He couldn’t get off by having sex as most people know it, no matter how passionate.

For
Ian, it was all about control, and if I took even the slightest bit of initiative, showed the barest hint of aggressiveness, it was over. He wouldn’t get angry. He never lashed out, physically or verbally. He would simply lose his erection and interest, and it was all over.

It was nothing like I’d imagined when I read all those romance novels about the dominant male, the rich and powerful alpha who sweeps a girl off her feet, changes her life, maybe
even saves her from danger, gives her everything she wants and needs—in the bedroom and out—and just generally fits the bill of a superhero.

That’s
what those fictional guys were, only instead of capes or high-tech gadgets or webbing that shoots out of their hands, these fictional alphas’ power was in their money, materialism, and insanely perfect sexual prowess.

The men in those books were easy to love because they were protectors and providers, so
mething I thought I craved, maybe even needed. But lost on me was the full effect of being with someone like that. Inherent in those relationships is an inevitable loss of freedom, a sacrifice of individuality. At least, that’s what I discovered with Ian. Maybe it was just that I’m very much my own person, I know what I like and want, so giving up that kind of control, especially in daily life, not just in the bedroom, was something totally foreign to me.

Or maybe
the problem was on Ian’s end. Maybe he was overdoing it with the control—his insistence on having me driven around NYC in one of his limos, having me flown around the country on his private jet, having me eat certain foods at specific times of the day, and having me looked after, sometimes not only for my protection but also for his own peace of mind.

Protection. That’s what he said it was about. That he wanted to protect me.

It was fine in the abstract—when reading novels—but impossibly nerve-wracking, even soul-crushing, for someone like me who places a high value on individuality when it translated to my real life.

I’m quite sure this type of thing works for some women, so I’m not judging. But everyone has to find
his or her own way. I value my individuality. I have a career that I fought hard to get, after putting myself through school while working full-time year-round, and taking on an additional part-time job in the summers.

So,
given all that, you’re probably wondering: how did I get myself into this situation in the first place?

There was no
deeply buried reason why I gave myself to Ian. The fact that he was ultra-rich and wildly sexy was the initial enticement. But the awe that those things inspired was gone within a couple of months, and yet I didn’t stop seeing him. In fact, that’s when I moved in with him. I had wanted to make it work; wanted to break through to Ian, figure him out, help him figure himself out, whatever it was that drove his need for control.

Whatever it was, it also fed another terrible thing inside him: fear of giving himself to someone else. Maybe he perceived it a
s a weakness. Perhaps it was as simple as him believing that if he opened himself emotionally, he would be giving up control.

I’m referring to real emotion here. Not the words he spoke. Anyone can come up with
romantic or sexy things to say.