At the time, my feelings for Gunnar felt like an obsession, and the distraction was the reason to worry. Those things are true, but more than that, I’m terrified of my heart being broken, and Gunnar could slash it in two.

  “I suppose it is,” I say.

  But recognizing the truth doesn’t change my reality. Soon, we buckle in and take off, and he’s even farther behind me.

  40

  SMILE FOR THE CAMERA

  Gunnar

  The whole time I model the new designs, I give the camera my best smolder. And the whole time I hope that when we’re done, the door will open, Rafe will ask everyone to leave, then he’ll walk up and tell me he’s been fighting like hell to resist me, but it’s impossible.

  But when the shoot ends and the photographer thanks me, there’s no surprise appearance from the tall, lean, dark-haired man who looks like sex in a suit.

  With heaviness in my bones, I put on my street clothes, leave the studio, and give the proverbial middle finger to my foolish hope. Theresa waits for me outside the door then escorts me down the hallway. “That went so well,” she says, full of enthusiasm.

  “It was a fun shoot,” I say, trying to muster some of that energy. Mostly, I love doing these gigs, and I did enjoy this one. But not as much as I wanted to.

  “And I’m so glad you’re doing work for us. Personally, I love the Dragons. Good luck tonight.”

  “Thanks. I’m psyched to hear that you’re a fan.” It’s easier to find the passion for the game, so I focus on that. Only the game.

  She smiles, a little giddy. “A big one. I love when you blow kisses for the fans.”

  “I’ll do what I can to hit a home run for you, then.” I add a wink because I love my fans, and I am damn grateful to have them.

  “I wouldn’t say no to that,” she says with a laugh. We stop near the exit and tie up loose ends. “A few details. We have the New York kickoff next month, but we’ll be sure to schedule it around your baseball games.”

  “Excellent. I’m looking forward to that.”

  “We’re so excited to show you off. It’s going to be a fantastic event.”

  “Is . . .” But I stop myself from asking if Rafe will be there. If he wanted to see me, he’d reach out. He hasn’t. I’m not going to fish for intel.

  I glance around the mostly empty warehouse. Besides, if Rafe isn’t here today, he probably won’t be at the New York event. Rafe is my past.

  Baseball is my future.

  That night at the ballpark, I put everything into the game. It pays off with a home run in the seventh. When I touch home plate, I blow a kiss to the stands.

  A few innings later, we finish with a glorious W, clinching a playoff spot, and I rush the mound to pile into a hug with the pitcher, the catcher, and the rest of the team.

  I am raring to go and celebrate with my teammates, but before I can hit the clubhouse, Erin, the sports reporter, pulls me aside for a quick interview on the sidelines.

  “Congratulations on making the postseason. I know our viewers would love to know who the kiss was for tonight.”

  This time it wasn’t for a secret lover.

  “For a friend and a fan,” I say from the bottom of my heart.

  I go inside the clubhouse with my teammates, high-fiving them and putting Rafe all the way behind me.

  I’m sure he’s kicking ass as he works his new deal just like I’m kicking ass here on the field. Life is good. It’s so fucking good.

  I don’t miss him.

  I don’t miss him at all.

  I don’t miss him one bit.

  But when I get home and my phone flashes with a text, my insides jump with excitement. Maybe I do miss him a whole hell of a lot.

  41

  RUNNING FROM HIM

  Rafe

  I run along the River Thames, fog chasing me, tiny raindrops nicking my skin. My mobile is getting wet but I’m not putting it away for anything. The San Francisco Dragons are one out away from clinching a playoff spot, and I’m streaming the game. Gunnar said radio is better, but some things you need to see with your own eyes.

  Like how he plays.

  Gunnar mans third base, fierce concentration in his stance and the set of his jaw.

  “C’mon,” I mutter, desperately hoping they win.

  When the Devils batter delivers a sharp line drive Gunnar’s way, he lunges for it, sticking out his glove, and claiming that ball tight in the leather.

  “Yes!”

  I shout into the early dawn as Gunnar runs to embrace the pitcher, then the catcher, then the rest of the team. I beam at the melee on the mound. “Fucking yes!”

  Another five AM runner smiles and gives me a nod then cruises on by. I keep running, watching the jubilation on the field. He must be ecstatic. I’m so damn happy for him but devastated I can’t be a part of his celebration.

  A reporter pulls Gunnar aside and asks about his home run in the seventh.

  When he answers that he blew that kiss for a friend, I nearly stumble. It’s as if a fist reached into my chest and ruthlessly squeezed my heart.

  Who is this friend?

  He first blew a kiss for me, dammit. It was a secret sign, and here I am, thousands of miles away as he does it for a friend.

  I’m so ridiculously far away and still I can’t escape my feelings. I’m stupidly jealous and terribly empty when I should be happy.

  I slow my pace to a jog, tuck the phone into my pocket, and gaze at the boats that cruise along the murky brown ribbon that cuts through my hometown.

  Where are they going? Where are they coming from? What are they doing?

  What am I doing?

  I have meetings day and night while I’m here and a deal to finalize. But afterward, in the larger sense?

  I don’t know how to navigate this empty ache in my chest when I return to San Francisco. I thought I was safe from my obsession. I’ve put an ocean between Gunnar and me. Yet he still occupies my head and my whole damn heart.

  I take out my phone, click on my texts, and set my jealousy aside. Whether he’s with someone or not, I do want to congratulate him.

  Rafe: Congratulations on winning your division. The postseason looks good on you. Also, that was quite a catch.

  I peel off another mile as I wait for any response. It’s late in San Francisco, and surely, he’s celebrating.

  Thirty minutes later, he replies.

  Gunnar: Thanks, man! Not going to lie, I am seriously stoked.

  I laugh. His excitement is endearing. But I’m a little sad that he slipped so quickly into buddy mode, calling me man.

  What did I expect, though? I designed my own situation. If we were together, he would have written back saying, I am quite a catch, and I’d have laughed and said, you are and you’re my catch.

  Instead, I reply with something friendly. I hate being just friends with Gunnar Ford. I want more, but I’m clutching at the crumbs I have.

  Rafe: I am certain you’ll have an amazing postseason.

  God, I sound so businesslike when I miss him fiercely.

  Gunnar: Wait . . . Did you watch it at five AM? Theresa mentioned you were in London.

  I smile at his deduction and how he sounds like he’s busting me for being a fan. Or perhaps he’s simply delighted to know that I’d still tune in.

  Rafe: It’s six AM now, but yes, I watched it while I was running. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

  Gunnar: And you didn’t trip and fall from epic excitement? Damn, you got game on your sneakered feet.

  Now I laugh for real. Gunnar is so very Gunnar. Fun, outgoing, bold. Always teasing me. My God, he loved to knock me down a peg or two. And I loved when he did it.

  I’m glad I reached out, even though I know I can’t survive on crumbs.

  Rafe: This is the extent of my athletic prowess—running solo while watching my new favorite sport.

  That feels a little like a big confession, but I think it’s one he’ll enjoy.

  Gunnar: Yes! I knew you’d become a baseball fan. Greatest sport ever.

  As I pass Big Ben, I stare at the note, a little hollow. That’s all I am now. Just a fan. He’s friendly to me, like he is to all the fans.

  So when I ask myself where I am going, I now know the answer. I am going into this stage of connection with Gunnar—being a fan. That is all. That empty feeling grows like a cavern inside me.

  I put on a brave face as I type out a reply.

  Rafe: I’m definitely a fan.

  And yet I’m still a horribly jealous man. A hungry man. A man consumed. My banked jealousy ignites, and I can’t stop myself.

  Rafe: Who was the kiss for?

  He’s quiet. There are no dots to tell me he’s typing. I’ve gone too far.

  I probably don’t deserve an answer. My phone is quiet as I turn away from the river, slow to a walk, and head to my penthouse suite at the luxury hotel where I’m staying.

  But at last, he replies.

  Gunnar: A friend, like I said to the reporter. That friend’s name is Theresa. At the photo shoot today, we talked baseball and playoff hopes. She didn’t know it, but that conversation lifted my spirits. I’d been pretty fucking bummed because some pathetic part of me hoped that you’d be there. But talking to her cheered me up.

  I didn’t think I could miss him more, but I do. I didn’t think I could feel worse about my decision, yet here I am, aching everywhere.

  I’m such an arse.

  I reach my hotel room, make it inside, and slump against the wall. I sink to the floor, my head falling against my knees. That fist squeezes my heart so hard it’s strangling it. But I choke out an answer.

  Rafe: I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I had to leave town to tend to business in London.

  I hit send but I hate myself for lying.

  Gunnar: Enjoy the boats. Bye, Rafe.

  It feels like goodbye forever.

  42

  PARTING WORDS

  Rafe

  Over the next week, I move through London like a robot. I go to meetings with bankers and connect with lawyers in boardrooms overlooking Kensington. We work out terms for the acquisition.

  I take the CEO of Bespoke out for curry, and over naan, Priyam says he’s glad that Rafe Rodman will acquire his company.

  “I built this from the ground up into a multinational business and I’m ready to move on,” he says.

  “What do you hope to do once the deal is final?” I ask, sipping my beer.

  He smiles so wide it meets his dark eyes. “Spend time with my grandchildren.” It’s the simplest of answers and a lovely one. Then his expression turns serious. “But I want to leave Bespoke in good hands. You seem like you’ll take care of my people. Even my partners, like some of the athletes I’ve signed to sponsorship deals. Such as Zane Archer. I want to keep him on. I like positive representation for my brand.”

  “As do I.”

  “And I hope that you can continue to show me that you will take care of my employees.”

  I lean closer, letting him know I’ve heard him in my heart and mind. “It’s my top priority.”

  “Good. That’s good, Rafe. That matters to me and I want to be sure of it before I give the final signature.”

  The message is clear—if I continue to demonstrate good stewardship as the deal heads into its final stages, he’ll be sure to sign off. But if he sniffs out something he doesn’t like, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the plug.

  I respect his stance. “I’ll take good care of Bespoke,” I tell him. “And the people.”

  I leave dinner with Priyam with renewed determination to fulfill my promise.

  Who cares that I’m a shell or that my heart is hollow? I’m in London to work and, it turns out, to celebrate Christine’s success.

  She’s had a brilliantly fruitful trip and just inked a deal with a new distributor, so the next night I take her out to celebrate.

  We go to her favorite pub, a place called The Magpie, where a friendly blonde bartender pours me a scotch and my friend a martini. Taking our drinks, we grab a booth near the back. I lift my glass and clink hers as Miles Davis plays overhead. “Cheers,” I say.

  “And to you. Everything seems to be ticking along for you to become an even bigger player in the fashion world.”

  “It is. But I want to talk about you. I’m proud of you. This new distribution deal is incredible.”

  A hopeful grin lights up her face. “It’s been quite a ride. I’m really excited about this.”

  “You’ve worked hard for it.” In business school, we shared our dreams, bonded over how we wanted to find success, help our families, and make a difference.

  She smiles softly at me then pats my hand. “And you work hard too. But the difference between us right now is I haven’t met Mister Right.”

  “What makes you think Gunnar was so perfect?”

  “I didn’t say he was perfect.” She flips her dark hair off her shoulder. “But he may have been perfect for you.” She takes a drink, then gives me a stern stare. “You’ve really been having a good trip with the way you miss him?”

  I contemplate her question. Of course I miss Gunnar. I’ve been watching all his games. But I’ve been relentless here. I’ve been the me that I’m accustomed to. The person I felt slipping away the more time I spent with the cocky, charming baseball star.

  “I feel like myself again. Like I can finalize the Bespoke deal. I’ve given it my all, and that’s what I’m meant to be doing.” But as I say it, I steal a glance at the TV, hunting for the sports scores.

  When I turn back to her, she’s smirking. “You’ve watched every game Gunnar’s played. You’ve checked scores.” She points to the TV. “You can’t stop watching his games or thinking about him.”

  I bristle. What does it matter that I follow his career? “The postseason is exciting to watch,” I insist.

  She snort-laughs. “And you’re still mad about him.”

  This woman. She’s too right, but I can’t waver now, not after Priyam’s shrewd parting words.

  I stab the table with my finger. “If you want to know what I’m mad about, I’m pissed that the Dragons are losing in the league championship series.” And that is the absolute fucking truth. I hate that the Seattle Storm Chasers are beating Gunnar’s team.

  She tosses her head back and laughs. “Look at you. Talking baseball. It’s adorable.”

  “What? It’s a fascinating sport,” I say defensively.

  “You’ve never cared for sports before. You love books and music and business and deals and clothes.”

  She’s not wrong. But I have an open mind. I’ve come to love the game. “But baseball is intense, especially when Gunnar plays. I should take you to a game sometime when we’re back in San Francisco.”

  “I would love to go. But my point is you can’t get him out of your mind or your heart.”

  I wince, but I can’t do anything about my annoying feelings. “I’m just worried he’ll be devastated if they lose.”

  “Listen to yourself. You should talk to him.”

  The Bespoke deal won’t close until the end of the year. Priyam delivered a message. I need to keep my head in the game. “I can’t afford to lose my focus again.”

  Her eyes laser in on me. “But can you afford this?” She waves at my chest.

  “This what?”

  She points at my chest. “Being hollow.”

  I am hollow. But I’m also a liar. I lied when I told Gunnar I came to London for business. I do have business here, but I left early to escape the temptation of him.

  A lot of good that did.

  “I don’t know what I can afford anymore,” I say with a sigh. I have to be honest with her and honest with myself.

  Four days later, I give in fully to my obsession. I invite Christine to my hotel suite to play midnight poker and watch the Dragons game. We nosh on crisps and drink beer while I pace because his team is losing. I hate it. But he’ll hate it more.

  When the final pitch is thrown and Holden strikes out, my heart plummets.

  I have to say something. I have to do something, even if it’s to send one simple note.

  Rafe: Are you doing okay? I’m thinking of you. You played great.

  Many hours later, he responds.

  Gunnar: Thanks for checking in. Not going to lie. I’m fucking sad. But there’s always next year. And this just gives us another chance to go all the way. Besides, I just made plans to take Jamie and Charlie and my mom on a trip soon, and I’m seeing them for Mom’s birthday, too, after the campaign kickoff. I already can’t wait to see them. It’ll give me something to focus on besides this sucky loss. How are you?

  I stare at that question. How am I?

  I am torn. I am pulled. And I miss you terribly.

  Rafe: I’ve been better.

  It’s true enough.

  Over the next week, the lie I told by the river eats away at my conscience, gnawing at me as I go from meeting to meeting. I need to come clean.

  A week later, I make plans to get on a plane to New York.

  I promised I’d always be honest with him, and I haven’t been honest about this. I have to fix that.

  And I have to fix it as soon as possible.

  43

  I’M SO OVER YOU

  Gunnar