Hard Wood Read online

  This time I take it as a compliment, because from Mia, I know it is.

  9

  I'd like to say that later we pick up where we left off, but that doesn't happen. Instead, I take off for a bike ride to burn all this excess energy, my version of taking a cold shower.

  As I power along Hudson River Greenway on a titanium-grade custom bike that my buddy Carlos shipped to me, I weigh what to do next.

  Well, the very next thing I’m required to do by the Competitive Guy Act is to pass the cyclist in front of me, which I accomplish with a quick burst of adrenaline, leaving the dude in the banana-yellow jersey ample opportunity to enjoy the view of my back tire.

  With a clear path in front of me, I try to approach the Mia quandary like a trail I’m guiding some newbies along. Do I keep marching down this path? Or is it time to fork left and veer away from my preconceived notions of how a relationship should unfold?

  The wild card, though, is her—her presence.

  And that changes the game.

  She’s in town for the next eight days, and she’s only five floors up from me. Theoretically, I could see her every day. We could start a crash course in whether we are a good idea or a bad idea. I could take her out every night, plan things I know she’d enjoy. Go all in for eight days. That has to be enough time for us to figure out what the hell to do with all this tension between us.

  But as I shoot past another cyclist—I’ll have to let Carlos know his custom ride, paired with some good old-fashioned energy, is a winning combo—I ask myself what actually changed this afternoon in the elevator.

  Not that much, to be honest.

  Logically, the only thing that has changed is information. I have evidence that she has the hots for me, too. Whoop-de-do. That doesn’t fix the big hurdle between us—the motherfucking continent.

  Or does it?

  Do the miles truly matter?

  I’d like to call my sister and ask her advice. Maybe find out if she’s ever successfully set up a man and woman who live so far away from each other. Several weeks ago, Evie asked if there had ever been anything between Mia and me, saying she had seen the way I looked at her at the dinner party.

  But my sister is away for the weekend with her new guy, and now that she’s finally found a match of her own, I don’t want to interrupt. I need to make this choice on my own. Is it worth pursuing something while Mia is here for the rest of the week?

  As I burn off the rest of this lust, I feel I’m close to an answer.

  But when I return home, the decision is snatched from me, courtesy of an SOS message from my East Coast manager.

  Harvey has food poisoning! And the whitewater trip with Greenstone–Harrington Capital starts tomorrow afternoon.

  My shoulders sag, and I drag a hand through my hair. Harvey is my most experienced guide. That means I just booked myself a trip out of town, and that also means there’s no chance with Mia this week.

  I write back to my manager and tell him I’ll cover for Harvey. That’s my job. I didn’t start this company to sit at a desk and tell other people where to go, like an air-traffic controller. I started this company to be a pilot, flying the damn plane.

  To be outside.

  But ideally, not during the one damn week when the woman I’m crazy for is in town. But so it goes.

  I flop onto my couch with my pussycat in my lap and dial my buddy Carlos in California. “Your bike kicks ass,” I tell him after he picks up. “I lapped twenty people, including Lance Armstrong look-alikes.”

  He chuckles. “Only the finest for you. And how are the other models working out for your business?” he asks, since I’ve stocked his more economically priced models for the bike tours we recently launched.

  “The customers love them. A few have even said they want to buy one, so maybe you’ll let me use that cabin of yours in Blue Canyon next time I’m in California. It can be my commission.”

  “Ha. I loan it to no one. That’s my baby.”

  I snap my fingers. “Shucks. I wish there were something I could do to convince you. Like, say, buying another dozen of your bikes for the East Coast, too.”

  He’s silent for a few seconds. Then he clears his throat. “What did I say? I believe I said you can use it on your next Tahoe trip.”

  I grin, and stretch my arms across the back of the couch. “Excellent.”

  When I end the call, I spot a text from Mia, and my heart bounces around in my chest like a tennis ball. Jesus Christ, I have it bad for this girl.

  Mia: At dinner. Still thinking about good ideas and bad ideas. How about you?

  Patrick: Ideas are all I can think about. Have you landed one way or the other?

  Mia: I’ve landed on, I hope that woman’s groceries were absolutely delicious for making us miss a chance in the elevator.

  Patrick: Yeah, me, too. Feel free to stop by later.

  My finger hovers above the last message for a few more seconds. Finally, I hit send, even if it might be a little too pushy, a little too suggestive.

  Maybe it is, since her reply is straight down the middle of the I can’t read it road.

  Mia: I wish I could. The dinner is running late. But we’re having fun!

  I rub my hand over the back of my neck and heave a sigh. I want to tell her I’ll wait up. But that sounds really fucking lame. And that’s not where we are—we’re not hovering in I’ll wait up for you territory.

  In fact, we’re not anywhere at all on the relationship road map.

  We’re back to where we were yesterday. Friends who’ve never kissed.

  10

  Zeus meows his displeasure as I head for the door.

  His green eyes narrow as he unleashes a needy, distrustful meow that loosely translates into what on earth could possibly be more enticing out there than spending time with me in here?

  I kneel and scratch his chin. “Dude, I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  Another wounded mewl makes it clear how abhorrent he finds the idea of my departure.

  But that chin rub is so good he emits a little rumble, even though it’s clearly against his will.

  “You’ll be fine. Daisy will visit you twice a day to give you food,” I say, reminding him that his favorite cat-sitter will pop by for regular visits. “You love her.”

  His tail twitches like it does when he’s annoyed I haven’t fed him yet, when a bird is on the other side of the glass, and when I leave for a trip.

  “I’ll be back in a few days.” I scratch between his ears. He arches his back and cranks up the volume. I’m forgiven. For a second.

  In the elevator, I check my phone and find a missed message from last night.

  From Mia.

  It’s a picture of the douchey kangaroo she mentioned, only she’s edited the meme. The kangaroo has boobs now and is wearing a white bikini and red lipstick. The caption reads in blocky white letters: “Hey, guy, wanna see my pouch?”

  I laugh hard, right from the gut.

  Jesus.

  It’s raunchy and goofy at the same damn time.

  I peer closer at the time. She sent it after midnight. And I have half a mind to analyze what that means.

  But I don’t.

  Sometimes a meme is just a meme.

  And sometimes a kiss never happens, and not even a kangaroo in drag can change the score.

  Besides, she’s busy. Hell, I’m busy, too. It’s all for the best that the grocery lady came between us. Now, Mia and I can remain as we’ve always been. Friends. And we’ll always stay friends. This most excellent photo of a drag queen kangaroo is proof that we’re better off as buddies.

  There are other fish in the sea. Hell, my own sister is a matchmaker. She might very well know someone. But when I reach the lobby and stride to the glass doors that open to the sidewalk, the woman I want to be with is running toward me.

  She wears neon-green running shorts and a form-fitting white tank top. That is all.

  Well, running shoes, of course. But I’m not lingering t
oo long on the shoes. I’m looking at her trim body, those toned arms, her shapely legs, and then, my favorite part—her face. Her gorgeous, beautiful face, all rosy-cheeked from a morning run.

  She beams when she sees me and practically rips her earbuds from her ears.

  “Good morning,” she says with a cheery, infectious smile.

  The corners of my lips curve up. “It is a good morning, indeed. What are you listening to?”

  “A podcast.” She flashes the screen at me, and it’s a business-centric show.

  I nod. “Ah, back in all-business mode?”

  She narrows her eyes and wags her finger at me. “Yes, but it’s good because . . .” She lifts her arms and chants “ahhh,” as if she’s an angel sent from on high to issue a heavenly pronouncement. “I had an epiphany.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  She drops her arms and pokes my chest. “You were right. Stepping away from work cleared my head. All these ideas for where to go next with Pure Beauty came rushing in.” She adds a whoosh sound effect like a stream.

  I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Really?”

  “Yes, really! I swear, Patrick. Everything came together for me yesterday in a mad rush. Then it crystallized last night.”

  “Like new product lines and stuff?”

  “Maybe,” she says, a little coyness to her tone.

  “Ah, I know. It’s beauty products for cats, right?”

  “Absolutely,” she says, in mock seriousness. She strokes her cheek. “It’ll make their fur even softer.” She notices the gear in my hand and on my back and stops to stare at my bags, then at me. “Do you have a tour?”

  I nod. “That I do.”

  Her smile disappears. Her lips turn into a sad line. “For how long?”

  “Most of the week.”

  “You’re not around the next few days?”

  I shake my head. “I’ll be back in time for the wedding.”

  “Wow,” she says under her breath, as if she’s been thrown for a loop. Her reaction intrigues me, makes me wonder if she wanted me around. But before I can noodle on that, she seems to find her bearings. “What about Zeus? Do you need me to feed him?”

  I smile. “He has a regular cat-sitter.” I cross my index and middle fingers. “He and Daisy are like that.”

  Her mouth drops into a full-on frown. An absolutely magnificent pout. “Please. I want to spend time with him. He’s so cute. Let me do it. I’ll be here all week.” She makes the sign of the cross on her chest. “And I swear I won’t look through your medicine cabinet.”

  I laugh. “You are more than welcome to check out my toothpaste and deodorant. It’s Crest and the Trader Joe’s brand.”

  “You spoiled the surprise,” she says, stomping her foot. She screws up one corner of her lips as if she’s plotting something nefarious. “Well, there’s always your fridge.”

  “Condiments, Jackrabbit. Condiments as far as the eye can see. All the mustard varieties in the world are at your disposal. But feel free to paw around in my boxer briefs drawer.”

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “Is your high school yearbook there?”

  I sigh. “Mia, I didn’t keep a copy of it, and you just made sure that Daisy will remain my sitter.”

  She parks her hands on her hips. “I promise I’ll be good. I really want to help you, since you helped me immensely yesterday. And I like the . . . pussycat,” she says, tiptoeing and leaning close to my ear. Just like that, with her body near me, her dirty words on my neck, I give in.

  “Fine. You can feed him. I’ll text Daisy and let her know I have it covered, and I’ll get you a key.”

  She claps her hands. “Excellent.” Then her smile burns off. “About last night . . .”

  I wave a hand dismissively. I need to get in the zone before this rafting trip. No need to bring any baggage over what didn’t happen. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “The picture?”

  “No,” I say slowly, pointing behind me to the building. “The elevator, right?”

  “Sure. The elevator.”

  “It’s fine. No big deal,” I say, keeping it light and easy. Casual even. “We’re friends, right? It’s all good.”

  She blinks as if she’s startled. “Right. Friends.” Each word comes out at the speed of molasses. She sounds sad about that prospect, but isn’t that what we are? We almost kissed, and then she didn’t come over later. No big deal. It happens. The elevator was a blip, a moment in time. Now, we need to be friends again. Friends who’ve never kissed.

  “You’re taking care of my cat. We’re clearly friends.”

  She smiles, but it’s a kind I’ve never seen on her before. A smile I can’t read. “We’re totally buds.” She smacks my shoulder like a dude would do.

  I head back inside, grab my spare key from the concierge desk, and hand it to her, along with instructions on feeding the cat. Then, I remember one last detail.

  “My suit is coming back from the cleaners on Wednesday. They’ll deliver it, but any chance you can grab it from the concierge? I don’t like to leave things there too long. Those guys are pretty busy and deliveries pile up.”

  “I’ll grab it, no problem. You spent your day off with me yesterday. The least I can do is get your suit and feed your cat.” She smiles again, that same unrecognizable variety, before she adds, “It’s what a friend would do.”

  Ah, got it. It’s the friend smile. It’s clear that’s what we’re going to be. That must be what she’s preferred all along.

  Good thing I have the next four days on the raging waters to reset our relationship to the friend zone.

  11

  Conversations with the Cat

  Zeus

  It was days later.

  Or, really, it might have been hours. His belly was convinced it was longer. He’d tried in vain to find a mouse, even a mole. He honestly wouldn’t mind a moth for a small snack, either. But the place he lived remained as fastidious and mouse-free as it had ever been.

  Fortunately, as the sun dipped in the sky, the door creaked open.

  At last.

  Someone had remembered the cat existed. Surely, it would be the red-haired woman with the jingly bracelets on her arms. That woman was a favorite person of his. She seemed to have one purpose in the world.

  Serve him.

  He liked it when humans had that purpose.

  But that woman didn’t wander in. It was the bird woman. The woman who wanted to nibble on the man he lived with.

  Well, hello, lady.

  The cat rubbed against her leg both in greeting and a clear command—FEED ME NOW.

  “So good to see you, too.” She bent down to stroke his head. “I’ve missed you so much. I’ll be taking care of you for the next few days. But I promised Patrick I would be a very good girl. So if you see me rifling through his things, you have permission to scratch and claw me.”

  She was taking too long. He needed food, and he needed it stat. He’d have to try her other leg. Perhaps rubbing that one would activate the can opener.

  “Oh, you’re too sweet. Do you want me to pick you up?”

  The woman scooped him in her arms, and he pushed his head against the bare skin of her chest. Ah, that was nice. No wonder his master seemed fascinated with that area of the woman.

  “I’ll give you your tuna, and I’ll tell you all about the exciting things I’m working on.”

  She set him down, and he paced across the tile, waiting, waiting, waiting, as she entered the feeding zone. The sound of metal opening metal rang out like a joyous song. Food was coming at last.

  He turned in ceremonious circles, round and round, unable to contain his sheer excitement.

  She set the dish on the floor, and he nearly wept with feline ecstasy—tuna and kibble. He purred as he ate. Meanwhile, the woman perched on the counter, kicking her feet, chattering on and on, perhaps to him.

  “So that’s what I want to do with Pure Beauty. Because beauty products for cats is such a brilliant idea,
right, Zeus? We can call it Purr Beauty then.” She stopped and winked at him, then hummed. “But then, there’s the other issue. What about Eric?” she asked, and her tone shifted. It was the sound of frustration, like how he felt when there was no longer a warm body on the bed in the morning. “I have to tell him about what happened with Eric. But I don’t want to go there, because this doesn’t seem remotely the same. The way I feel for Patrick is completely different. It’s like night and day.” She sighed and went quiet for a spell. “But I know it’ll have to come up. I need to be upfront about what’s held me back. Don’t you think?”

  After he finished his feast, the woman stayed with him a little longer. He rewarded her excellent can-opening skills by deigning to sit in her lap as she tapped away on her little silver machine, chatting on the phone with someone she called Felicia and someone else she referred to as Lisa.

  When she arrived another time, she carried a bag with her. “Look, Zeus. It’s a suit. Isn’t it to die for?” The woman ran a hand down the covering, almost as if she were worshipping the item. He rubbed against the bag, too. He was unable to resist clothing in bags. Or bags in general for that matter. “Seeing Patrick in this suit might possibly make me ovulate. I swear, I can’t be held responsible for my actions. Wait. Wait. Of course I’m responsible. I have to be good. Must be good. Even though that body in that suit might very well be the ever-loving death of my restraint.”

  She walked into the other room, and he trotted after her instantly, since she seemed to have forgotten his needs.

  A meow here and there and he’d successfully lured her back to the kitchen where she opened a can and fed him, then rattled on and on.

  “I wonder what tie he’ll wear. If he’ll need help straightening it. If he’ll need help taking it off.”

  He had his own issues to noodle on as he devoured the feast—was trout tastier than salmon? Was mackerel better than yellowtail? Those were interesting questions he contemplated as he dined.