The Girl He Loves: A Second Chance Romantic Comedy Read online

  Looking back at the restaurant crowd, and I see Jayne rushing toward me, my purse in her hand. Behind her, Dax’s friends are picking up the bikes I knocked over.

  “Are you okay?” she asks as she presses my purse into my chest, covering my see-through shirt and booby area.

  Because, yeah, I’d worn a T-shirt bra, and now everyone has been gifted with x-ray vision and can see through my shirt.

  “Other than I want to die from mortification? Yeah, I guess so.”

  “I assumed you wouldn’t want to stay.”

  Over her shoulder, Dax moves away from the bikers and toward me. He gives me a thumbs up.

  The long-haired biker yells across the parking-lot-turned-restaurant to me, “Don’t you worry about anything, pretty lady, and I hope they figure out why you have those muscle spasms.”

  I glance from Jayne to the guy then smile and do a small wave because I don’t know what to say.

  Jayne shakes her head and says under her breath, “It’s anyone’s guess what Josie told him.”

  I say to Jayne, “If there’s damages, will you let me know?”

  She shakes her head. “No, because you’ve got enough on your plate.”

  “Heather?” Dax says, having come up behind Jayne.

  Jayne’s eyes go big.

  I fake smile and rapid blink to keep from making eye contact. “Dax, this is my friend Jayne. Jayne, this is Dax. We went to college together.”

  Jayne swivels and goes into her work-the-customer mode.

  “Dax, it’s lovely to meet you.” She puts my purse behind her back.

  I take it and attempt to slip away. More like limp away. My hip and leg throb, and putting weight on them is excruciating. With my day, I wouldn’t be surprised if I broke something.

  “Heather,” Dax calls.

  But I keep going, putting the restaurant behind me and doing my best to blend into the biker crowd that fills the streets. Thankfully, a girl covered in beer doesn’t stand out in this crowd.

  I push through a hodgepodge of motorcycle buffs dressed in ensembles that would make the men of Queer Eye faint in horror.

  As I make my way toward my minivan and away from the restaurant, I begin to breathe easier, believing I’m home free. From seemingly nowhere—yes, I kept checking over my shoulder—Dax appears and pulls me to a stop by tugging at my elbow.

  I yelp in pain as the movement pulls me sideways and requires me to put more weight on my injured side. He releases my elbow with a flurry of apologies. I shift and hop on my uninjured leg, giving my hurt side a break.

  “I was going to ask if you’re okay, but I can see that you aren’t.” He frowns down at me.

  People swarm around us. We’re like two fish blocking the flow of a stream as we’ve stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “I’m fine. Really. What was it you used to say when one of the other players got hurt on the field? Just rub some dirt on it? That’s what I’ll do. It’ll be fine.” I try not to wince as throbbing aches course through me.

  “You’re not fine. Let me call your husband. He should come and get you and take you to the emergency room or something.”

  I shake my head. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “How about I get one of your friends to take you?”

  Someone bumps me, and I grit my teeth to keep from showing any discomfort.

  Dax rolls his eyes and leans toward me. “On three, I’m going to move you out of the way. Ready?”

  “Wait, what?”

  “One, two, three.” He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me up so that my boobs are slightly below his chin. I bet I smell great. Like beer and sweat. Every man’s dream.

  He’s gentle as he moves me off the sidewalk into a small alcove against a building. We’re still in the thick of things, but no longer in anyone’s way. He lowers me ever so slowly, like I’m floating on a cloud, and leans me up against the building.

  “Which friend do you want me to go back and get?”

  “They can’t leave. They’ll be too shorthanded to run the restaurant, and the money is for a good cause.”

  “You’re a good cause, too. If you won’t let me get one of them, then give me your phone.” He puts his hand out expectedly.

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to call your husband.”

  “Nope,” I say. “I’ll drive home and can take care of everything when I get there.”

  “If you don’t give me your phone, I’m going to track him down myself on my phone.” He slips his phone out of his back pocket and begins to do what I assume is scrolling and keying in something in a search engine.

  I put my hand over his phone. “Stop, Dax. Please.” I don’t want to tell him the truth.

  “Why don’t you want him to come help you? That’s what a partner is for.”

  I have two options. I can continue with the lie and maybe get away with it. Or maybe I’ll dig myself in deeper. Or… “Because we’re divorced,” I whisper.

  A beat of silence passes.

  Dax nods his head twice. “Good, that’ll make this easier.”

  “What?”

  “Count of three,” he says and begins counting.

  “What?”

  On three, he bends over and scoops me up, carrying me like a groom does a bride when they’re about to cross over the threshold. I clench my teeth, not from the pain this time, but sheer determination not to get lost in the memories of our time together and the what-ifs that are sure to follow.

  “Where’s your car?”

  Mutely, I point in the direction. “I’m getting your clothes wet.” It’s the only thing I can think to say. Our faces are so close, and everything about him is familiar.

  “Who cares,” he says.

  I’ve heard people talk about muscle memory. Is that the same as body memory? Because my body remembers Dax’s. Nestling up against him brings back a host of wonderful memories. Kinda like when you hear that one song or catch a whiff of a certain smell, and the memory overcomes you. If my shirt wasn’t sopping wet and clinging to my skin, if my hip wasn’t throbbing, this would be a great moment. A sexy one. A moment I’d consider letting myself get lost in. After all, two years have passed since I was last naked with a man. And here is a gorgeous one who smells like sandalwood with a hint of vanilla and…hops? Nope, that’s me.

  But one truth holds me back.

  Having an entanglement of any sort with Dax would be stupid. Getting over him had taken what felt like a lifetime, and I can’t go through that again. Not that he’s even propositioned me.

  Briefly, I let myself enjoy being close to him, savoring the short, wonderful fantasy.

  “I don’t mind carrying you, but if we’re coming up to your car anytime soon, you might want to give me a heads up. If we were headed toward the beach instead of away, I’d assume I was carrying you to your house.”

  I startle and put my focus on my surroundings. We’d gone twenty feet past my mom-mobile. My worn-out minivan. Definitely not the vehicle of a successful person.

  I point over his shoulder, behind us. “It’s back there. But you can drop me here, and I’ll be good.”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m going to drive you home or to the emergency room. I’ll let you pick.” He does an about-face and walks toward the parking lot.

  “Mine is the minivan. The blue one.” As if the lot is overrun with minivans. Mine is the only one. I almost add, “With the damaged front panel,” but why point out the obvious?

  “Don’t take this wrong, but you’re the minivan type.”

  “Every woman in the world would take that wrong,” I say.

  “Well, you shouldn’t because you’re the kind of girl that runs a mean carpool, the mom who brings the best snacks, and has a minivan full of kids.”

  “You mean the worn-out-looks-harried mom?” I’d long given up trying to compete with the stay-at-home moms. Not that they asked to compete, but I gave myself permission not to do it. Life was too bus
y for me to sweat those things.

  “No, I mean the hot mom that looks good doing everything. She’s the dream, watching her slide out of the minivan with her tight jeans and ponytail. Every guy's dream.”

  “Except yours,” I say without thinking.

  He stops walking and lowers me to the ground. We’ve reached my van.

  “We were kids, Heather. Yeah, I was focused on building my foundation for the long-term.”

  “You sound like your dad,” I said. Because this was the repeated message from his dad. “Don’t get serious,” he’d tell me, “Dax has big plans that don’t include settling down.”

  I blew him off. Secretly questioning how well he knew his kid when I was the one sleeping with him. Didn’t that mean I knew him better?

  Guess not. Because when Dax was making career and life choices, I wasn’t invited into the conversation.

  “Let’s not argue, please.” He sighs heavily. “I love that we’ve run into each other. I want this to be a good memory.”

  As if spilling beer all over myself and knocking down motorcycles could be a good memory for me.

  “Thanks for getting me to my car. I can take it from here.” Truth is, I need him to walk away. I need to get into my minivan and have a good cry. Part of me wants him to take care of me. Part of me wants him to make sure I get home safely and that nothing is wrong with my hip or leg. It's been forever since a man has done that for me. And maybe I shouldn’t want a man to take care of me, maybe feminists everywhere would revolt, but a partner would be glorious. And in my case, that partner would be a man.

  But even if I were to give in, I wouldn’t dare give in to Dax. That would be just plain stupid.

  I’ll end this day on a positive, for him at least. “I’m glad you sat at my table tonight. I’m not glad that I knocked over four bikes or that my hip is throbbing something awful. But seeing you again is… nice.” That‘s true, but if I’m given a do-over, I’m not sure I’d keep the running into him in the picture.

  “Nice? Huh. No one’s ever said that to me.”

  I snort-laugh. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve had a lot of smoke blown up your butt since you entered the NFL.”

  He chuckles and holds out his hand, palm up. “I guess that’s probably true. I think I might have become desensitized to it. Or accustomed to it. Because you saying seeing me again is ‘nice’ doesn’t feel all that good.”

  I point to his hand. “What do you want me to do with this? And I’m not going to stroke your ego. Nice is all I got.”

  He jiggles his hand. “I want your keys.”

  “Dax, I need to end the night here.”

  His gaze meets mine and he holds it, then searches my face. A small, slight smile crooks up one side of his mouth. He drops his hand and says, “Okay, I guess I’m just so happy to see you I don’t want it to end.”

  I appreciate his candor. It's refreshing, even if it’s a line.

  “How about we end on a nice gesture?”

  He smirks. “There’s that word ‘nice’ again.”

  I point to his damp shirt. “Considering I’ve already left my mess on you, how about we say goodbye with a hug?”

  Not that I think contact is a good idea, but it seems like a fitting goodbye. And it would be a better end than the time we broke up. I believe I slapped his face and then burst into tears. Dax was my prince charming, unknowingly setting the bar so high, in hindsight I wonder if no other man had a chance.

  He lifts a damp lock of hair from my neck. “I know you said you wouldn't give me your keys, but if I don’t make sure you get home okay and aren’t in need of medical attention, I won’t be able to live with myself.”

  “How about I text you when I get home and then again in the morning to prove I’m okay. It’s the best I can offer,” I say.

  He appears to consider it for a moment then holds out his hand. “Hand me your phone, and I’ll put my number in.”

  I dig through my purse and do as he asks. While he’s putting in his information, I unlock my van and toss my purse inside.

  He hands me my phone. “Promise you’ll text?”

  I shrug. “Sure, unless I’m dead.”

  His eyes narrow.

  I laugh. “Okay, terrible joke. Sorry.”

  His frowny face is cute. “So, this is it?” he says.

  I nod.

  He opens his arms. “Come here. I’ll take that hug now. We have too much history for anything less. Don’t you think?” Dax side-eyes me. “Unless you’re afraid a hug from me might make you fall head-over-heels.”

  “Puh-lease, I spent six months with you and never fell head-over-heels. I doubt one little hug will do me in.” All lies. Maybe I’m trying to rewrite history. Maybe I want him to think differently about the time we spent together and wonder if he misread it, too.

  Dax opens his arms wider, as if possible, and steps closer. “Then bring it in, Lowell.” His arms drop slightly as he says, “Wait, that’s not your last name anymore. What is it?”

  “Michaels.” I haven’t been Heather Lowell in years. That girl was curious and adventurous. That girl sunbathed topless on a roof. Heather Michaels is serious and cautious. She wears sunscreen at night.

  I step into his arms and, keeping at least an inch between us, give him what I’d call a casual hug. One without real meaning.

  He wraps his arms around me bear-hug style and crushes me against him. “Man, running into you made my day. You were the one positive constant in college while I chased my football dreams.”

  He sounds wistful.

  “Do you regret pursuing an NFL career?” Especially knowing now what it cost his health.

  “I didn’t at the time or while I was in it, but now, on the other side…” he trails off.

  I’m tucked under his head. My wet shirt and chest press against his solid one. His hug is so encompassing I feel sheltered from the world. He’s got me. My entire weight is against him and I’m fully supported. I exhale and let someone else carry me, if only for a moment.

  “On the other side of what? You’re older? You wish you were somewhere else in your life? What?” My words come out faint with my face against his chest. I can’t imagine his life being too hard. Sure, a football schedule is tough, grueling. But he’s well compensated. Money can’t buy everything, but comfort is a wonderful place to start.

  “Are my early thirties too soon for a midlife crisis?” He chuckles, and the deepness of his laugh reverberates against me.

  “Yes.” I return the laugh. Then I'm pulled back in time to the game we used to play, a game I still play. “If you had one wish, right now, what would it be? You remember the rules. It can’t be for more wishes.”

  We started this game as a lark, as a way to get what we wanted. Usually sex. But sometimes, when drinking, it would become philosophical.

  Dax snuggles into me, not letting go of the hug, and I rest against him. Part of me says, what harm can this do? Another smarter part of me tsks and shakes her head at me.

  “Ah, man. I haven’t thought of this in a long time.” He strokes my head. “My one wish would be to make the most of this moment. I spent so much time trying to get to the next milestone that I forgot to enjoy the now. And right now, I’m enjoying the hell out of this.”

  Me, too. And I know I shouldn’t be. But I am. And I want more. More of this moment right now.

  Chapter 6

  Friday

  Maybe it’s because the day was so stinking awful. Maybe it’s because Dax’s hug comes when I need one the most. Even though I totally embarrassed myself in front of him. But that doesn’t seem to matter. Right here, right now, I don’t want this moment to end. I don’t want to go home with a bruised and aching hip to a dishwasher that doesn’t work, a toilet that runs off and on, a yard that needs mowing, and the host of other issues that will greet me in the morning.

  I want to be Heather Lowell one last time. Heather Lowell who only has to think about today.

  I ask, “What was one th
ing about our time together you remember the most.”

  He says without hesitation, “We laughed a lot. All the time. I can’t even remember why we laughed sometimes, but we did.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “We did. Usually some competition we’d dream up.” I worked at the gym where Dax and the team worked out, and I’d always challenge him to some silly race or weightlifting reps.

  “Or sex,” Dax says. “We laughed a lot while having sex.”

  I pushed away in mock annoyance. “Not during sex. Before and after sex.” My keys are in my hand, so I press the unlock and the back-passenger door open button without looking. “There was nothing funny about our sex.”

  Dax tosses his head back and laughs. “No, but it sure was fun. We found some creative places to, ahem, connect.”

  I pitch my purse in the van along with my keys and sit on the floor, my back resting partly against the seat. I stretch my leg and aching hip, rubbing the spot where I hit the foot peg.

  “Yeah, I’m not sure I had an ounce of modesty back then. Now, I’m horrified to think about all those places. It was a miracle we weren’t ever caught.”

  He kneels by my leg, pushes my hand away, and takes over the massage. “I’ve had plenty of injuries in my day. I’m good at massages.” He kneads the area.

  And I moan with relief. “Man, that feels good.”

  “It’s all about getting to that muscle belly. That’s where the muscle fibers can be tapped.” He taps the length of the muscle that runs along my outer leg, then goes back to the center of it and rubs his thumb into the muscle.

  I shift so I can lean back. I reach under the passenger seat, the one where my kid’s booster seat is latched to, and pull up on the adjuster handle to scoot the seat back and give me more room.

  Dax peers into the back of the van. “Wow, these have lots of space.”

  “There’s a third row there, but I keep it down to haul all sorts of things but mainly groceries.” I had to haul Tyler’s sleep monitor last week since his doctor is doing a sleep study to assess if seizures happen at night. I also keep blankets, a bin of food, and water for emergencies. I’m ever the practical person these days.