The Right Words (26 page)

I wasn’t sure why I asked. It was a vocabulary word for a subject I didn’t understand. Sports. Or soccer specifically. Michael watched a lot of soccer, and we spent a great deal of time together. I heard words and phrases like
offside
,
penalty card,
free kick
, or
foul
regularly. I supposed it was only natural I’d be a little curious about what they meant.

Michael’s smile was instantaneous. His dark eyes twinkled in amusement at my tone, which was closer to irritation than true interest. He picked up my right foot and pressed a kiss on the arch before answering.

“Offside is called when the offensive player is furth—what are you doing?”

I was still reeling from the fact he’d kissed my foot and wondering if he had a thing for feet. Some guys did, or so I heard. The thought alone was sexy as hell. I wanted more, but I pulled my foot away and sat cross-legged with my hands over my ears. “Sorry, did you say something?”

He cocked his head to the right and gave me a mischievous grin. It was a devilish look that made my heart skip a beat. I loved this playful side of him and the fact I saw more of it the longer we knew each other. Michael was undeniably more relaxed and better-natured than when we first met. I loved spending time with him. Even when we were lounging around doing different things, like him watching soccer while I sifted through design magazines. We were mutually content sharing the same space.

“Come here.”

“No. You look evil.”

“Evil? I think your dramatic side is taking over. I just want to hold you.”

I gave him a suspicious look, but I couldn’t refuse him when he said things like that. I started to crawl toward him tentatively when he reached out, plunked me firmly on his lap, and wrapped his strong arms tightly around my waist to squeeze me close. I should have known he couldn’t be trusted. The moment I sank into his body, he started tickling me. I was on my ass in between the love seat and the coffee table in my haste to get away from him while he cackled like a loon somewhere above me. I sat for a second on the floor, letting complacency set in before I lunged for him. He let out an “oomph” of surprise as I straddled his legs and attempted retribution.

“I’m not ticklish. It won’t work.” He gave me a bemused “nice try” look and sat motionless while I went for his armpits.

“That’s what they all say. You must be somewhere.” Nothing.

“Nope. Now cool it, kid.” He grabbed both of my hands to hold me still. “Let’s talk about offside.”

“No. It was a moment of insanity. Don’t worry. I’m happier in the dark, which is where I’d remain no matter how thoroughly you explained it. When you say words like
offensive player
, something shuts down in my head. I can’t compute.” My tone was joking, but it really was very damn close to truth.

“I’ll teach you. Like Spanish!” His eyebrows waggled maniacally.

“Oh. Yeah.
No gracias
.”

Michael chuckled lightly and released my hands to hug me. “You have a funny thing about words, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I told you I’m not a spor—”

“No, I mean, sure. But it’s more than that. You’re a puzzle, Lukey.”

I snorted. “Yep, and there are a couple pieces missing.”

He smiled kindly and brushed a gentle hand through my hair. “Everyone’s got that problem. So tell me words you do like,
cariño
.”

I made a funny face. “How can I answer a question like that? It’s too broad.”

“For anyone else, maybe. But you probably have a favorite phrase or poem. Tell me one.”

He looked completely serious. I looked at the men on the television running from one end of the field to the other while I tried to come up with something. When I did, I cleared my throat and quoted Charles Dickens, “Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts.”

“That’s nice. I have one for you. ‘La mejor palabra siempre es la que queda por decir.’”

“What does it mean?” My voice sounded weak to my own ears. The turn in conversation was a strange but pleasant surprise.

“The best word is the one left unsaid.” Michael grinned and kissed my nose.

“Who said it?”

“It’s a… what do you call it?” He snapped his fingers looking for the word. “A proverb. A saying handed down generation to generation.”

“It sounds very wise. I love the way it sounds in Spanish.”

Michael smiled at the compliment and ran a lazy hand through my hair.

“What does
cariño
mean?” I had a good idea the word was fairly easy to translate, but I felt brave enough to ask.

“What do you think it means?”

“Are we having a lesson?”

“Want one?” Michael chuckled as I shook my head vigorously against his chest. “Okay, okay. It means ‘sweetheart.’ It’s a term of affect—”

I sat up and crushed my mouth over his, smothering the rest of his words. He’d said all I wanted to hear and more.

Yes, I was a sucker for beautiful words. Words of poetry, prose, literature. I was known to cry over song lyrics, and a well-said turn of phrase could bring me to my knees. Perhaps I was dramatic and a little too sensitive. But I couldn’t help feeling overwhelmed. My chest burned with emotion. My eyes stung with tears I couldn’t explain and didn’t dare shed. Every nerve ending seemed to tingle. I didn’t want to embarrass either of us by trying to define the impossible, so I threw everything I had into the kiss.

When I finally drew back to catch my breath, his shrewd eyes narrowed as though he were studying me for clues.
Good luck
, I thought with a snort of laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Me. I’m—just thinking about ice cream.”

“Ice cream.” He licked a trail along my neck and back up to my chin as his hands grabbed at my ass. I moaned as his sure fingers slipped under the elastic of my briefs and slid between my crack. I arched forward instinctively, giving him room to play.

“Want some?”

“Yeah, I want you. Ice cream later.”

B
Y
LATE
January, the remodel was nearly complete. And if I did say so myself, the house was stunning. I couldn’t wait to do a walk-through with Michael when he got out of the shower. The painter had finished wrapping up his detail work that afternoon. The only thing missing now was new furniture, and that was scheduled to be delivered in two weeks. When the movers came, I’d officially be out of excuses to linger. This job would be over. I needed to find the next. I set unpleasant thoughts aside as I appreciatively eyed some of the impressive improvements.

We installed new windows and interior doors. Updated tiling and plumbing fixtures replaced the original chipped and ancient materials in the bathrooms. Brand-new, lush, neutral-colored wall-to-wall carpeting graced the bedrooms and transitioned beautifully to the gorgeous wide-plank, gray-toned hardwood flooring in the main living areas. I managed to talk Michael into switching out the outdated lighting as well. The electrician ended up doing more than my client bargained for, but the result was spectacular. The ugly chandeliers and wall fixtures throughout the house were replaced with tasteful modern lighting that sublimely complemented the other improvements. My mother liked to say chandeliers were a home’s jewelry, and I tended to agree.

I was extremely proud of the results. I’d brought a relic from the past century into the current one and managed to maintain the post-modern vibe Michael wanted. The space had a “retro meets contemporary” quality any hip young soccer pro would be proud to call home.

Well, except for the kitchen, I mused as I took out the bottle of champagne I had chilling in the old fridge. There was new flooring, but that was all Michael agreed to do in that room. He never shared his reasons for not wanting to update the space. I’d seen the state-of-the-art kitchen in his Santa Monica condo, so I really didn’t understand. It was another thing I had to let go. I wouldn’t be involved in the kitchen when and if he did decide to remodel it. Once we severed ties, I knew that would be it. I could never come back here and pretend to not have fallen hard for him. The next couple weeks were all we had left, and I was determined to enjoy them. I found a bucket of ice to chill the bubbly wine and two flutes and brought them outside to wait for Michael.

Michael stepped out on the terrace toweling his hair a short while later. He’d been training all morning with his team, and I could tell he was pumped up. His eyes twinkled mischievously when he spotted me. I gave him my best warning look as he approached my chair with his arms outstretched.

“Give me a hug, honey. I missed you.”

“Stay away. You’re wet,” I said primly, turning my attention to the beautiful ocean view.

Of course he ignored me. He crept up from behind and wrapped me in a bear hug as he planted a wet kiss on my cheek. I jumped up and squealed.

“Yuck!” I wiped at my cheek dramatically, loving the sound of his sweet, low chuckle.

“Sorry.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“No, I’m not. Champagne? How did you know?”

“Know what?”

Michael grinned and motioned for me to sit. He pulled a chair next to mine, close enough that our knees touched. Then he picked up the flute and lifted it in a toast. “My contract for a one-year extension is being prepared even as we speak. I’m heading back to LA tomorrow to sign it.”

I jumped up, plunked myself in his lap, and threw my arms around his neck. I pulled back to rain kisses all over his face and down his neck until he grabbed my arms and held me away.

“Congratulations. That’s… fantastic, amazing, wonderful! I’m really happy for you, Michael.” I beamed at him.

He held my face in his hands and stared in my eyes as though he were searching for an answer. He looked like he had something else to say but didn’t know how to phrase it. I cocked my head and reached out to run my fingers through the short hair above his ears. I caressed the outer shell and his earlobes before leaning in to kiss his mouth just as he closed his eyes. A strong current passed between us. I was getting used to the wild sexual pull that could send us diving at each other and ripping at our clothes in an effort to be naked and writhing as quickly as possible. This was different. It wasn’t about a physical connection. It was something bigger.

I licked my bottom lip, willing him to break the silence. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I was sure to say the wrong thing.

“Thank you. I was thinking you mi—”

His cell phone rang loudly. I scooted off his lap when I realized it was in his pocket. He pulled it out and grabbed me around the waist to keep me in place. “Don’t go. I’ll tell whoever it is to go away,” he said with a wink.

I settled back on his knee but turned my attention toward the clear blue expanse of the Pacific. It may have been the dead of winter, but Southern California did not get the memo. The day was picture perfect.

“Hi. Let me call you back. I’m with Lu— What? What do you—oh my God.” I turned back to Michael, alarmed at the sharp change in his tone. I stood up when he gave me a gentle push. He switched to Spanish and paced the length of the terrace and back again. I wondered if something happened with his contract. Suddenly the sun seemed too bright. Whatever was being discussed didn’t mix well with celebratory champagne.

“Yeah, I’ll see you. I will. Bye.” I looked up when Michael finally stopped pacing. His expression was thunderous. He radiated tension and fury.

“What’s wrong?” I could practically feel his tumultuous thoughts spinning.

“It looks like I have to go back now.” He swiped his hand through his hair in agitation.

“Oh. Did something happen with your con—”

“I can’t talk—I don’t really know what’s going on. I need to go see. Okay? I’m… I’ll call you.”

I was more worried about the fact he didn’t make eye contact with me than the fact he was leaving for LA when he’d just returned. He kissed my cheek and squeezed my arm absently before bolting toward whatever crisis was unfolding an hour away.

I
FIGURED
he’d call that evening. He didn’t call. He didn’t text. He didn’t leave any message whatsoever. Obviously I didn’t know what the urgent call had been about, so I had no basis for assuming anything. Maybe there was a death in the family. But no, he didn’t look devastated when he left per se. He looked shaken, angry, and upset. I wished I knew. I hated useless speculation.

I busied myself with writing, thinking he’d try to contact me the next day. He didn’t. Nor did he answer any of my messages. I was making myself crazy with worry. There was nothing more to do in the house until the furniture arrived in a couple weeks. I was basically alone in a secluded home far from friends, family, and the guy I’d hoped to spend the next two weeks naked with. I was beginning to think I might be better off going back to Brandon’s when I tried Michael’s phone for the tenth time, and finally he answered.

“Hi.”

“Hey. Oh my God. Are you all right? I haven’t hea—”

“I’ll be okay.”

“That sounds cryptic. What happened? Something must have happened. You were fine until—”

“Jamie.”

I hadn’t heard that name in a long time. Fuck.

“What did he do?” I heard the gravelly tone in my voice. My mind reeled with the implications.

“I can’t go into it, Luke. I’m sorry. There are a bunch of closed-door meetings and frankly, I’m not sure….”

“About wh—”

“Shh. That’s all I have now. I’ll be in touch when I can, okay?”

“Okay.” I blinked against the tears I felt behind my eyes while I madly tried to think of some way to keep him talking. I couldn’t think of a single word. A long silence passed.

“Luke?”

“Yeah?” My voice caught with emotion.

“I need to figure this out on my own. But I’ll get there. Be patient.”

I stared at my cell after we disconnected and wondered as I always did: What came next?

F
OR
THE
first time in my twenty-eight years on the planet, I immersed myself in the world of sports. Brandon was mystified. He sat next to me on the sofa in his living room observing me closely as I switched from ESPN to Fox Sports to three other stations that primarily focused on soccer. I had no clue so many sport-specific channels existed. There was a golf channel, a tennis channel, and a basketball channel, to name a few. Of course there would be multiple soccer channels, televised in many languages, no less.