The bar rattles against the weight rack as I drop it back in place. Sitting up on the bench, I wipe a towel across my forehead. I glance around the weight room, noting the other guys on my team.
Devon’s doing shrugs, his eyes trained on his traps in the mirror. Beau Turner is chuckling at something Damien Barnes said. The two of them, easygoing and affable, remind me of Cohen. I frown, taking in the way Beau grins without a second thought, how Damien cracks jokes like he can’t not find amusement in something as dull as weightlifting.
Shit. I take a swig of water. Did I mess everything up with Maisy?
Our date wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t what I wanted it to be. I wanted perfection. I mean I wore a mock freaking turtleneck and drank wine and ate fancy French food. I thought that would count for something. Instead, I said good night to Maisy feeling even more unsettled than when I picked her up hours earlier.
Sighing, I drop back to the bench and grip the bar, doing another set of bench presses. My knuckles pop and sweat drips down my forearms as I continue to lift, wanting to work the aggravation and disappointment I feel out of my system.
“Hey, man,” Devon greets me when I finish my next set.
I nod in his direction, guzzling water instead of responding.
“Have a good weekend?” His tone is too innocent.
“It was fine.”
He arches a perfectly shaped blond eyebrow.
I groan. “What’d Mila say?”
“That you haven’t called Maisy yet.” He responds so quickly that I chortle. Innocent and casual my ass. “Date not go well?”
Fucking hell. This is why I don’t date. This is why I don’t rush things. When you rush into them, there are expectations and labels and gossip. Three things I can’t stand.
“It was fine.” My tone is clipped and Devon grins.
“Look, I’m the last guy who should pass out relationship advice—”
I nod in agreement. Just a few months ago, Devon nearly burned what he was building with Mila to the ground.
“But if you like her, call her. Sooner rather than later.” He gives me a pointed look before moving toward Barnes and Turner. The three of them laugh at another one of Barnes’s wisecracks.
Would Maisy be better off with a guy like one of them? Well, not Devon, but Barnes or Turner? A man like Cohen?
I growl as the thought circles in my head again. It’s been on a loop since I saw that sunshine smile she gave him at Le Papillon. It doesn’t matter that he was on a date with a fiery redhead. The way he looked at Maisy, the concern he held for her, speaks to a history.
My stomach churns. I’m not jealous. I just…I want a real shot with Maisy Stratford, and I’ve got no clue how the hell to do that without coming on too strong. She just got out of an awful working environment and a shitty relationship. I don’t want to be her rebound. But I sure as hell don’t want to be the guy standing on the sidelines, watching men like Cohen, or Barnes, or hell, like Asher—why can’t I be more like my brother?—schmooze her either.
Jesus, what is wrong with me?
Biting back a swear, I do another set for the hell of it. When I leave the weight room, I don’t feel any less pissed off than before my workout. But I do consider Devon’s advice.
Call her. Sooner rather than later.
The sentiment is echoed later that night when I have dinner with Lola and Jasmine.
“You haven’t called her yet?” My daughter glares at me.
“What’s wrong with you, D?” Jas shakes her head.
“I didn’t want to smother her,” I say, defensive. So defensive, I shove a handful of French fries into my mouth, effectively destroying the extra sets I performed at the gym this morning.
“She’s probably confused,” Lola advises. “Especially if the date didn’t go well.”
“It didn’t go badly,” I counter.
Asher’s text—how’d your date go?—circles through my mind, calling me a liar. If the date was awesome, I would have messaged him back.
Jasmine gives me a sympathetic look that has me reaching for her fries.
It did go badly. It wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t what I wanted for her. For us. Recalling the disappointment in her gaze, the way her expression flattened after each question she asked was met with my usual taciturn response, makes my chest feel funny. I let her down.
But God she looked so gorgeous. And the collar on my shirt was so damn tight. And I didn’t know which wine to order, or which fork to use or how to do anything right. Not like Cohen, who waltzed in and had every woman in the damn place beaming at him.
“Call her,” Jasmine advises, pulling the fries out of my grasp.
“Better yet, ask her out again. To do something fun, not frilly,” Lola adds. “What does she like to do?”
I furrow my eyebrows, thinking.
“Like, for a hobby,” Jasmine says slowly, spelling it out.
“I know what you mean,” I snap. Hobby. Didn’t Maisy ask me that? Am I the only person who doesn’t have hobbies I do regularly? “She likes art. Crafting. That kind of thing.”
Lola and Jasmine stare at me like I’m hopeless. Maybe I am. Maybe it’s not supposed to be this hard and I’m not cut out for it, dating, anymore. Maybe I should back off and—
“She mentioned that at Corks,” Jasmine says, looking at Lola.
“I got it!” Lola snaps her fingers. “Wine and paint.”
“Ooohhh,” Jasmine squeals. “That’s a great idea. You’ll love this place, D.”
“Doubt it.” I sulk, since I rarely love anything with the same enthusiasm as the two pipsqueaks devouring all the French fries.
“You will,” Lola determines, unaffected by my tone. “There’s an art studio, not too far from campus, that started a series of wine and paint nights. They have classes focused on nature, abstract, portrait. They have theme nights and different charcuterie boards to pair with the wine. It’s super cute.”
“Totally date night appropriate.” Jasmine nods along with Lola.
I heave out a sigh. “Wine and paint.” I’m not the kind of man that wines and paints but—
“She’ll love it,” Lola decides.
“And you owe her a better date,” Jasmine reminds me.
“I’ll look into it,” I say, noncommittally. By the satisfied smirks on both girls’ faces, they know I’m lying. I’m going to book it. Because they have a better pulse on what a woman would want to do on a date than I do. Because I need all the advice I can get.
Whether I take it or not is up to me but that night, after dinner plates are cleared away and Lola texts me that she and Jasmine are back on campus, I click on the link she texted me.
An entire world—an artistic world—opens up on screen. Mom would have loved this and thinking of my mom, of Mom and Maisy meeting, makes me smile. They would have hit it off. As I check out the class offerings, everything from formal instruction to casual wine and paint, I’m impressed. I see what Lola and Jasmine meant. Hell, I understand what Maisy was hinting at with hobbies. I need one. An outlet. Something other than fishing, which I don’t do regularly enough.
I crack open a beer and take a deep pull. Then, I sign Maisy and me up for a wine and paint class. Now, I just need to convince her to attend. I need to make it up to her and show her that even though I have no clue what the future holds, we have something worth exploring in the now. I haven’t liked a woman, felt a pull toward anyone of the opposite sex, for years. Now that I have, I can’t waste it. Not without giving it a chance.
But will Maisy want to give me another chance? Will she say yes to wine and paint?
I don’t have to wait long for my answer.
The following day, at The Honeycomb, Ms. Maisy Stratford marches up to me and squares her shoulders. “We should talk.”
Her tone, decisive, confident, and serious, gives me pause but also makes me want to smile. Because she’s unwavering and so goddamn beautiful.
“Okay,” I agree, following her into an empty conference room located near the front office.
She closes the door behind us, her eyes darting around the space before settling on my face. Maisy crosses her arms over her tangerine sundress, pushing up the sleeves on her white cardigan in the process. She bites her bottom lip uncertainly and I feel like a jackass for mucking up our date so badly.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out before she can start.
Surprise flares in her irises. “For what?”
“Our date. I was nervous,” I admit.
“You were?”
A slow chuckle rumbles through my chest. “Didn’t you notice? I didn’t know what to say, what to order. Hell, I could barely breathe in that stupid sweater.”
“Mock turtlenecks look good on you,” she murmurs, a hint of amusement in her eyes.
“I wanted it to be perfect.”
“Me too,” she whispers. “And I was nervous. I, I feel a lot for you, Axel. Considering we hardly know each other, you affect me.”
“I haven’t dated anyone in a long time, Maisy. Each step is a stumbling block for me. I know I should have called, but I didn’t know what to say.” I sigh, “Our first date wasn’t great—”
“It wasn’t awful.” Realizing what she said, her eyes widen, her mouth dropping into an O.
But her honesty, so real and refreshing, causes me to smirk. “I can do better.”
She laughs and shuffles closer to me. “I think we can both do better. My last relationship—” She pauses, pursing her lips as she chooses her words.
Fucking Josh.
“Always made me feel like I was walking on eggshells. I don’t like feeling insecure.”
“You have nothing to feel insecure about,” I tell her truthfully, moving closer to her. It’s as if I’m drawn, unable to stop myself from reaching up and brushing her honey-colored hair over her shoulder, my fingertips brushing the soft material of her sweater.
“You’re difficult to read,” she admits, watching me closely for a reaction to her words.
“I know,” I admit. “But I don’t want to be that way with you.” I clear my throat, stuffing a hand in my pocket. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
“Really?” Her voice is hushed and something about it scrapes at the walls of my chest.
“Really.”
She lets out a slow breath. “I don’t want to date someone and feel like I’m always on the outside. I already did that and…it wasn’t great.”
I take a second to absorb her words, to understand what she’s truly saying. We don’t have a shot, at anything, if we can’t communicate. And fuck, communication is tough for me. It’s something I’ve been told countless times, mostly by Lola’s mom when we were still dating, and then afterwards, as we navigated co-parenting. It became easier when she married Ben and our friendship solidified, but the same issues plagued me in my last serious relationship. And with my teammates on the Rams and here. “I keep things close to the chest,” I try to explain. “For a long time, Lola, and my brother Asher, have been the people I talk to. But I obviously can’t talk to my daughter about everything.”
“You have a brother?” Maisy asks.
I snort, rolling my lips together as I nod. “Point taken.”
She softens, a small smile flitting over her mouth. “Older or younger?”
“Younger by three years. He’s a free spirit, roaming around the world seeking adventures.”
Her brow furrows, almost like she doesn’t believe me.
“You’d love him,” I admit, not adding that he’d adore her too. They’re very similar. I reach for her, brushing my hand over her arm. “Can we try again? I want to take you somewhere.”
Maisy stares at me for a long beat, her eyes searching. “Okay,” she agrees.
Surprised by her quick response, I backtrack. “Don’t you want to know where we’re going?” I’d hate not knowing, not having any control over the plan.
She shakes her head. “No. I like surprises. Spontaneity. I want to trust you, Axel.”
Her words infuse my stomach with a warmth I haven’t felt in years. I want to be the man she trusts. I don’t want to disappoint her. I want to be a man, the man, who builds her up. “Wear old clothes.”
She frowns.
“It’s going to get messy. Maybe,” I tack on, confusing her further.
As her nose bunches and her brow furrows, I grin. Maisy Stratford is adorable and sweet. She’s authentic and real. She’s giving me another chance to prove that there’s something between us. That there could be more, if we allow it.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow. At six.” I squeeze her forearm.
“I’ll be ready,” she agrees.
I move to walk past her, but her hand darts out, stopping me. I pause, inhaling her sweet floral perfume, and turn to look at her.
Her blue eyes, bright and deep, hold me captive. “Thank you, Axel.”
I shake my head. “Just give me a shot, Mais. And don’t ever feel like you can’t talk to me. I know I don’t make it easy, but I want to know everything you’re willing to share.”
“Okay,” she murmurs.
“See you tomorrow?”
“At six,” she confirms.
I head to the ice after that, grateful for the skate. With my mind finally at rest, and my frustration quelled, I focus on practice.
And then, I go home and think about my date with Maisy.