Chapter 3

THREE

Saylor

I don't have escape-a-bad-blind-date-with-a-hunky-hockey-player on this year's bingo card, but I'm currently in said hockey player's gorgeous Ferrari speeding away from Russell and the date from hell.

It wasn't as bad as it could have been. Hell, it isn't even in the top five bad dates I've ever had, but it was awkward, and everything is exacerbated by the fact that I care about Russell's aunt. She's more than a customer. She came into the gallery while I was still setting up a few days before the show and immediately ordered several pieces to be delivered.

Then she sent me a handful of friends who showed up at the grand opening and practically wiped me out of inventory. They also commissioned a few pieces that will pay the rent at the gallery for the next year or so.

It's a big deal, but that's not the only reason I don't want to ruin the relationship.

Bertie is smart and funny, and we've become fast friends despite the age gap, since she's old enough to be my grandmother.

"You okay?" Canyon asks me as he pulls into traffic.

"Yeah. Just thinking about Bertie and hoping she's not upset with me."

"If she cares about you the way you care about her, she'll understand it wasn't meant to be. I mean, she has to have an inkling about what kind of guy her nephew is."

"You never know. People tend to be blind to the faults of people they love."

"I guess so."

"I'm sorry if I ruined your evening."

He shakes his head. "Not at all. Let's be serious—spend the evening hanging with my buddies at a bar or go for a drive with a beautiful woman? I'm pretty sure I got the better deal."

I laugh. "That's a good point."

"Anyway, Marty and his wife are separated, so that's pretty much all he talks about."

"That's sad."

"I guess. But the divorce rate among pro athletes is high, so it's not unexpected. My gut tells me she's cheating."

"You think?" I'm surprised, simply because it's usually the guys who cheat. That's probably unfair, but that's my experience.

"Marty's a good guy," Canyon said quietly. "Like, a really good guy. Solid. Reliable. A great dad. Generous with both money and time. A leader in the locker room. Never so much as looks at another woman no matter how drunk he gets when we're partying. He's the real deal." He pauses. "He's the kind of guy you should go out with."

"What makes you say that? You don't even know me."

"I can tell. You're beautiful, smart, and hard-working. You need a guy with a good head on his shoulders."

"What about you?" I counter. "Are you saying you're not the kind of guy I should go out with?"

"Definitely not. I'm kind of an asshole. I'm a good time, but only short-term, you know?"

"So, you're one of those I-don't-do-relationships guys?"

"Pretty much. I'm just not good at it, so why start something I already know is going to end badly? My focus is hockey. Maybe in ten years I'll mellow and start looking for something more serious, but right now, I'm the personification of love-'em-and-leave-'em."

"I think I'm ready for more than one-night stands," I say slowly. "But I'm not willing to settle. I refuse to get into a relationship with someone who doesn't fulfill my needs. I have money, friends, and a very satisfying career. The last thing I need is some guy who doesn't love me and doesn't make my life better."

"I kinda feel the same way. Like, I have a great career, make a lot of money, have good friends, and enjoy life. I'm not interested in some gold-digger who doesn't really care about me and is only interested in my money. I'm watching what Marty's going through with his divorce and it makes me wary as fuck . I work too hard to give half of everything to someone who doesn't care about me."

"Exactly." For someone who's anti-relationship, he seems to have put a lot of thought into why he feels that way. "But it's hard for someone like me to meet men. Everyone takes one look and makes assumptions about who and what I am. Men seem to be intimidated by a successful, independent woman. I don't imagine you have that problem."

"Not really. But meeting women with substance is something else. I don't even try, to be honest. Slam, bam, thank you, ma'am." He pauses. "Does that make me a dick?"

"Not if you're honest about your intentions. Don't pretend it's more than dinner or sex or whatever. If she's still down for sex, then it's all good." I sigh. "Hell, at this point, I'd be okay with just sex. Except, you know, most guys aren't that good at it."

Oh, hell.

Did I just say that out loud?

"I feel like I should defend my penis-wielding brethren," he says, chuckling. "But I know what you mean. Nothing worse than hooking up with a pretty lady and then she goes down on me using her teeth."

"Ouch," I say, grimacing. "Or when a guy has absolutely no idea what a clitoris is, much less where to find it."

"Or when they complain I last too long."

"That's a thing?" I ask, glancing at him. "Most guys have zero staying power. Two minutes and they're done."

"I feel like we need to set up everyone we've slept with, with each other," he says.

"Sounds like they're made for each other," I agree.

"Well, if you're ever interested in no-strings dinner and conversation, I'd be down. I promise you won't be disappointed."

Has he just offered to take me to bed and show me a good time?

It's been a while since I've had sex.

And somehow, I know he won't disappoint me.

"What are you doing Friday night?" I ask after taking a beat to think about it.

No-strings sex with a hunky hockey player sounds like fun.

"Picking you up at seven?"

"Make it seven-thirty."

"Then I guess it's a date."

* * *

I've just opened the gallery the next morning when Bertie sweeps in, the scent of her perfume hitting my nostrils before I even see her.

"What did he do?" she demands as she strides up to me.

"Bertie, I'm sorry. He's just not my type," I say.

"I need to know what he did. How else can I fix him?"

"It's not up to you to fix him," I say gently. "He is who he is."

"I promised my sister, on her deathbed, I'd help him find a wife, and I can't do it if I don't know what he does wrong," she says. "Look, I knew the two of you weren't going to work out. Don't be ridiculous. But this was the only way for me to figure out exactly what he does wrong."

Relief floods me, but I also feel a twinge of guilt.

How can I tell her that her dead sister's child is an arrogant misogynist with zero redeeming qualities?

"Come on," she says, making a hurry up motion with her hands. "Let's hear it."

"Well, he's a misogynist, first and foremost. Talking about how I'd need to stop working so I can take care of him."

"Oy." She rolls her eyes.

"He followed me to the ladies' room because he thought I might get lost."

Her eyes widen.

I fill her in as best I can, hoping I won't offend her, but she appears to be taking mental notes.

"I appreciate your honesty," she says when I finish. "Now tell me about the young man who took you home."

"Canyon. He plays for the Phantoms and?—"

"Canyon Marks!" She throws back her head and laughs. "Now that's the guy for you."

"You know him?"

"Been a season ticket holder for years," she says. "But anyway, he was the first overall draft pick when he came into the league. Been watching him since he started playing in Toronto."

"He's not into relationships," I say. "We're just friends."

"Please tell me you're going to see him again."

I grin playfully. "Well, a girl has needs, you know? And he looks like the kind of guy who'll show me a good time."

"We all need someone who'll show us that kind of a good time," she says. "Just make sure you keep a good grip on your heart. He sounds like the kind of guy you can fall for."

I laugh. "I think I'm safe from falling for a hockey-playing playboy. I'm older and in a completely different place in life. That doesn't mean we can't be friends, though."

"True enough!" She glances around. "The walls are getting bare, Saylor. You need to spend more time painting, less time hooking up with hot hockey players."

"Says the woman who used me to get information about her nephew by setting us up on a date," I say drolly.

"Well, I'm rich, old, and crafty. I can get away with shit like that." She looks around again. "You should book another artist's show to bring in some money until you have more of your own stuff to sell."

"I'm working on it," I reply. "Just haven't found the right person I want to work with yet. I only want to show artists I know and trust. The gallery is in the black, so I'm not going to rush into booking someone I'm not comfortable with."

"That makes sense. I'm sure you'll find someone."

"I've also got half a dozen pieces in the works, paintings I started and never finished, so I'll have them ready in another month or so. At least, that's the plan."

My phone rings, and it's the garage my car had been towed to. "I have to take this," I tell her as I lift the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

"Ms. Bonetti? This is Dwayne from Tires Central."

"Good morning. Are you able to replace the tire today?"

"Yeah, but it's not just one tire."

"It's not?" I asked in confusion. "Was there more than one? I just got a new set a year ago. They shouldn't have worn out already."

"No. But you had a slice in the one that was flat that was definitely done on purpose. No way that happened by accident. And two other tires had nails in them, causing slow leaks. Can't say it was done intentionally, but it sure seems odd to me."

"So, three new tires?"

"Looks that way."

He gives me a breakdown of costs, and though I'm not worried about the money, it's frustrating to hear that it was an act of vandalism. My gallery is in an affluent part of town, in an area known as the Miracle Mile. There are tons of galleries and restaurants and other high-end shops, so we don't get much crime.

"I can bring it to you by the end of the day," Dwayne is saying.

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

I hang up just as a customer comes in, so I don't have time to think about the situation with my tires.

Or my upcoming date.