Changing Teams (5 page)

People had complimented my work before, but it had never made me blush. Now, my face was so hot I could have fried an egg on my forehead. “Um. Thank you.”

Sam looked at his food, giving me time to get my face under control. “What’s a fine artist like you doing modeling for romance novels?” he asked.

“Modeling wasn’t really part of the plan,” I admitted. “Since the term starving artist is around for a valid reason, I picked up some modeling work. I’d modeled a bit when I was younger, and my agent is an old family friend. My mother’s family,” I amended.

“What did your mother and stepdaddy think of your career change?”

“Mom was cool, but according to stepdaddy, artists are too lazy to find real jobs,” I replied, remembering his red face as he screamed about me throwing away a perfectly good future as an accountant or legal assistant. “As for modeling, he says it’s a scandalous way to make a living.”

“That’s my Britannica Lynn—scandalous,” Sam said. “If you don’t mind my asking, if you’re a trust fund girl, why do you sit for art classes?”

I gave him a wry smile. “That trust fund was just north of fifty thousand. It got me my down payment on my current apartment, a year’s rent, and held me over while I built up my portfolio. My paying modeling gigs picked up just as the money ran out.”

Sam nodded. “It would seem that in your mad scramble to thwart your stepfather’s plans for you, you might have missed out on some of the best, cheesiest parts of New York City.”

“What, like the tourist traps?” I asked. “I’ve been to Times Square, just like everybody else.”

“Not Times Square.” Sam signaled for the check. “Finish up, darlin’. I’m taking you to the Mecca of tourist traps.”

***

It turned out that Sam’s idea of the ultimate New York tourist destination was the Statue of Liberty. However, Sam didn’t take me to Battery Park and to the boat chartered to Liberty Island. Instead, Sam and I boarded the Staten Island Ferry.

“It’s a nice, relaxing ride,” Sam explained when I asked why we were getting on the wrong boat. “Besides, it’s free.”

In addition to being free, since it wasn’t rush hour the ferry was nearly empty. We found a spot against the railing, and after the ferry launched we watched the Manhattan skyline move off in the distance.

“Tell me whose shirt I’m wearing,” Sam said, gesturing at the NYU logo across his chest.

“It’s my shirt,” I said. “My two years in college were at NYU.” When Sam’s brow furrowed, I asked, “Worried you were wearing my boyfriend’s shirt?”

A panicked look skated across Sam’s face. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

I laughed. “No, Sam, there isn’t any boyfriend.” I didn’t add that I’d been single for so long I could hardly remember what it was like to be in a relationship. “You’re the only man in my life right now.”

Sam draped his arm around my shoulders. “I like that,” he said.

“Do
you
have a boyfriend?” I asked.

“I do not,” he replied. “Looks like we’re two single girls in the city.”

Since we were just two single girls, I thought it might be fun to tease him a bit. I reached across his body to where his hand rested on the railing and stroked his long fingers. “Maybe we can make out from time to time, to take the edge off.”

I don’t know what I’d expected Sam to do, maybe huff that despite last night he was only interested in boys, or even storm off and leave me standing all alone at the railing. Instead, he glanced around the ferry. When he confirmed that we were relatively alone, he tilted up my chin and kissed me. I moaned against his lips, my knees turning to water.

There was no reason for me to react that way; I mean, it wasn’t the first time we’d kissed, or even the most passionate. But there was something about Sam’s hesitant nature, how he gently touched his mouth to mine, that made me feel like one of those heroines in the romance novels that bore Giovanni’s image. I was the damsel with her bodice ripped open, and Sam was my hero. No, he wasn’t my hero; he was my kryptonite.

“That take any edges off?” he asked when we parted.

“I think it added a few,” I mumbled, burrowing into his arms. “You’re really bi, aren’t you?”

“What’s your criteria for bi?” he asked. When I looked up at him, he elaborated, “You have all these rules as to whether making out counts or not. What are your rules for someone to be bisexual?”

“I never really thought about it. Kissing both genders the same amount of times?”

Sam nestled me closer, resting his chin on the top of my head. “Then I am definitely not bi. The only other woman I’ve kissed is my mother, and my grandmother before her.”

“Oh,” I mumbled as my heart fell. Sam’s admission meant that there really wasn’t any hope for us, and stupid me had fallen for New York’s most eligible gay man.

“Hey,” he said, tilting my face upward. “Doesn’t mean I like kissing you any less.”

“I like kissing you too,” I said, then I stood on my toes and showed him just how much I liked it. Maybe I didn’t have to have a real relationship with Sam. Maybe we could be friends with benefits. Hopefully lots of benefits.

Once we parted, Sam pointed out toward the harbor. “Look, there’s our girl,” he said as the ferry chugged by the Statue of Liberty. “Wave, darlin’.”

I did, then I wrapped my arms around Sam’s waist, ignoring the voice in the back of my mind as I laid my head on his shoulder. Maybe Sam and I could make this work. Maybe love didn’t have to make sense.

Chapter Seven

Sam

Since Nash didn’t work Saturdays, Sundays, bank holidays, or any of the Catholic high feast days, Saturday morning found me bored and lonely, two states I have never enjoyed. I contemplated calling Britt, but every time I tried to dial her number, I chickened out, just like after that night at the tapas bar, and before Astrid’s party. What was wrong with me that I couldn’t call this one particular girl?

Shoving all thoughts of Britt aside, I texted Michael. We’d broken up over a year ago, but somehow had managed to remain friends. Scratch that; Michael wasn’t just a friend, he was my best friend, one of those rare souls that I knew had my back no matter what, just like I had his.

Sam: What are you doing?

Michael: Sculpting. Show next week, remember?

Sam: How could I forget?

Michael: Let me guess, the prince is bored.

Sam: Little bit.

Michael: Come on by, cowboy.

My invitation thus secured, I shoved my phone in my back pocket, hopped in a cab, and made my way to Soho. While Michael’s living quarters were near his cousin Astrid’s, he also kept a one thousand square foot studio space funded by his various daytime pursuits. Since I’d met Michael he’d worked as a waiter, doorman, escort, actor, messenger…and those were just the jobs I knew about. Who knew what other nefarious pursuits he’d engaged in to fund his work?

“Hey, buddy,” I greeted as I stepped inside the studio. Courtesy of our past relationship, I had a key. “What’s the good word?”

“Samuel, your expressions are so old they qualify for Medicare,” Michael replied from behind his work in progress. “What kind of old fogeys raised you back in Iowa?”

“The usual sort.”

Michael wandered out from behind his creation. In its present state it was nothing more than a wood and wire armature, though it was shaping up to be a water buffalo or some other behemoth. The artist himself was stripped to the waist, a pair of red gym shorts hanging precariously from his hip bones. “What brings you by, Sam my man?”

“Wanted to see how the water buffalo was doing.” Michael had been having a hard time bringing this one to life, which meant that I teased him about it whenever I could. I walked up to the sculpture and patted it on the nose. “How ya been, Walt?”

Michael’s nostrils flared. “That is a horse, and his name is not Walt.”

I grinned. “Not Walt is an awful unusual name. All the other water buffalos will tease him. Gonna give him a complex.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “You’re hopeless.” I followed him as he walked to the back of the studio. Michael had a little crash pad in the rear, complete with a futon and mini fridge. He grabbed two bottles of water and tossed one to me. “Are you planning on explaining your little disappearing act after Astrid’s party?”

“The explanation is I was so drunk I could hardly walk,” I replied. “You remember Britt, the model I introduced you to?” He nodded. “I slept it off at her place.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “You got yourself plastered and went home with
a girl
? Lord, Sam, I am signing you up for AA.”

“Come on, man, it’s not like that,” I said, though it was actually a lot like that. “Britt’s real cool. You’d like her.”

“Would she call my horse a water buffalo?”

“Only if it looked like one.”

Michael threw back his head and laughed. “Okay, maybe Not Walt turned out a little stockier than I intended. Why don’t you take off that fancy jacket and help me with the armature?”

I tossed my leather jacket onto the futon and strode toward the mess of wood and chicken wire. I rubbed my chin as I studied it, then I said, “Now then, Not Walt, I am putting you on a diet.”

Chapter Eight

Britt

Sunday afternoon found me lazing around my apartment—bored, lonely, and accomplishing a whole lot of nothing.

Earlier, I’d gone out for brunch with Astrid and stuffed myself with eggs Benedict and home fries, then gone window shopping while she went actual shopping. I didn’t mind—much—that Astrid’s financial situation was so much better than mine. What I did mind was when she dropped an extra hundred or so on something just because of the label sewn into the back. But it was her money to waste as she saw fit, so I held my tongue.

Once Astrid was laden down with elegant paper shopping bags—hmm, I wonder why those boutiques charge such high prices?—we both retreated to our respective apartments. I played on my laptop for a while, then I doodled at my art table. The fourth time I sighed I threw down my pencil and stretched.

I could always call Sam.
I picked up my phone and stared at it, wondering what Sam was doing. Probably working, or on a date with some guy. Some guy who was a much better fit for Sam than I’d ever be.

My phone vibrated with an incoming call, startling me so much I dropped it. I picked it up and checked the display, smiling when I read the name.

“Hi, Daddy,” I greeted. No matter how old I got, I’d always be a daddy’s girl.

“Hey, pumpkin,” he replied. “How’s my big girl?”

“Oh, you know,” I replied. “Just waiting for my art to be discovered and become a millionaire. Or maybe a billionaire.”

“Only a matter of time.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, the twins’ birthday is in a few weeks. Emily and I would really like it if you came up.”

And the real reason for the call was revealed. Emily was my father’s girlfriend, though I knew he’d rather she wasn’t. Let me give you some backstory.

That incident in the school library that had resulted in my existence happened when my parents were only fifteen. Apparently Dad offered to marry Mom as soon as he’d heard the good news, but both sets of grandparents decided that my parents were too young for such a lifelong commitment. Not too young to bring a child in the world, but definitely too young for marriage. Whatever.

Anyway, Mom and Dad had stayed single. After I was born, Mom and I lived with her parents, but Dad was always a big part of my life. He was his high school’s star baseball pitcher and was always taking me to practice, and me and Mom cheered him on at every game. As far back as I can remember Dad always said that he’d earn a college scholarship, make a ton of money, and finally marry Mom. I wanted that nearly as much as he did.

After they graduated high school, my parents got an apartment and the three of us lived together as a family. Mom always said that money was tight, but all I knew was that I finally got to be with my two favorite people all the time. Well, all the time when I wasn’t in school. Then Dad went and won the lottery and ruined everything.

Mom had wanted Dad to buy us a house with his winnings, but he invested in a comic book store instead. He invested in a few other things as well, namely that trust fund for me, but Mom freaked and walked out. Then Mom got that job at the law firm, and ended up meeting and marrying my stepfather. The only shouting match I’ve ever heard between my parents was when she told him she’d met someone; the only time I’ve ever seen my father cry was at Mom’s wedding.

After Mom married my stepfather, Dad was so heartbroken he stopped dating altogether, then a few years ago he met Emily. She was nice, I guess, though her blonde hair and blue eyes reminded me an awful lot of my mother. Emily was about eight years younger than Dad, and turned out to be one of those women that thought getting pregnant was a great way to keep a man. Only this time around, Dad didn’t offer marriage to the woman carrying his child. That was about the time Emily decided I was her competition.

I’d been invited to Emily’s baby shower, and had dutifully picked up a set of pink blankets and a package of diapers for my soon to be siblings; yep, Emily had gotten herself knocked up with twins. When I arrived, all of Emily’s relations assumed I was Dad’s sister, partly because of our strong resemblance, partly because how could thirty-five year old Sean possibly have a twenty year old daughter?

“Your daughter is ruining everything,” I’d overheard Emily say. “Can’t you just pretend you’re her brother?”

“Why would I do that?” Dad shot back. “You knew we had Britt young. You never had a problem with it before.”

“Yeah, well, now my parents are asking me questions,” Emily said. “They’re wondering if you’ve got some string of illegitimate children out there.” She sniffed. “They’re wondering if you’ll be here for the twins, or if you’ll just run off and get some other girl pregnant.”

“First of all, you told me you were on the pill,” Dad said, his calm tone doing little to hide his anger. “Second of all, I do not abandon my children. I was always there for Britt, even when I was a stupid kid up to my eyeballs with algebra homework. Britt is the most important person in my life, and that will never change.”

“But what about our babies?” Emily wailed.

“I will always be there for them too. I will love them just as much as I love Britt.” Dad cleared his throat. “But don’t you ever try to push Britt away. She’s my daughter, whether you like it or not.”

“Hey,” I said, stepping into view. “If it’s a problem, I can leave.”

“How much did you hear?” Dad asked.

“Enough.” I looked at Emily, and wanted to give her a speech about how awesome my father was, the best father in the history of fathers. Instead I said, “Sorry I’m too old to be the twins’ sister.”

Emily frowned and stomped away. Dad shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “I swear to you, Britt, I don’t know how this happened.”

“She’s just cranky. Hormones or something.” I leaned my head on Dad’s shoulder. “I really don’t want to upset the pregnant woman. It’s no big deal if I have to leave.”

Dad smiled, then he wrapped his arms around me. “Greatest daughter ever,” he declared. “Such a big heart, just like your mother.”

I left the shower shortly afterward, and since then I’d only seen my father once, right after the twins were born. Emily had conveniently been out when I arrived, which was fine with me. I wasn’t there to see her, anyway.

“Are you sure Emily wants me to come?” I asked. “Or is she going to tell everyone I’m Auntie Britt?”

“I really don’t care what she says,” Dad replied. “Come on, you know you want to play with your sisters.”

I sighed. I did want to know my baby sisters, that much was true. I just didn’t want me or my father ridiculed by Emily’s stupid family. “Will Grandma be there?”

“Of course.”

Hmm, sisters
and
Grandma were just enough to sway me. Before I could say as much, my phone beeped. “Hang on, Dad, I have a message. Might be my agent.” I swiped to my text messages, and smiled when I saw the sender.

Sam: How are you, baby?

Sam called me baby. Those four letters made me grin literally from ear to ear, maybe even around to the back of my head.

Britt: Home, bored. My dad invited me to a birthday party.

Sam: Today?

Britt: No, it would be around October 1. It’s for my sisters.

Sam: Sisters? Thought you were an only like me.

Britt: Twins, Penelope and Veronica. Dad’s kids. They’re going to be two. Hang on, talking to Dad.

I put the phone back to my ear. “Sorry, Dad. I got a few texts.”

“You’re smiling,” Dad observed.

“How would you know that?” I demanded. “It’s not like you can see me.”

“I can hear it in your voice.” When I neither confirmed nor denied, he said, “Okay, tell me his name.”

“What makes you think I’m smiling because of a boy? Maybe I just got a gig, or sold some art?”

“You sound exactly how I sounded when I was with your mother.”

How he sounded before Mom had married my evil stepfather, that is. “Dad—”

“I know, I know,” he said. “Listen, I’ll make you a deal: I won’t question you about the boy as long as you say yes to the birthday party. You can even bring the boy.”

“You sure about that?”

“Sure. His presence will give Emily something new to complain about. You know how she loves complaining.”

We laughed, and I wondered for the millionth time why my mother had chosen my stepfather over my real father. “I accept your offer, and I’ll ask Sam about the party.”

“Sam,” Dad repeated. “Nice name, sounds like Sean. Good choice.”

I laughed again. “Email me the party information. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, pumpkin.”

I ended the call and went back to my text messages.

Britt: You like kids?

Sam: You expecting?

Britt: No! Want to go to my sisters’ birthday party?

Britt: It will be in Oct, up in Western Mass.

Sam: Sure. I’ll make balloon animals.

Britt: You know how?

Sam: No, but I have almost a month to learn. How hard can it be?

Britt: Thank you. You’re the best.

Sam: No, we’re the best.

Britt: :-)