Page 8 of Players Like Us
“So, interior design. What’s your specialty?”
Neal Alexander’s voice pulled her back from thoughts of disaster and moving home. “Specialty?” Interior design was about utilizing function and space through a creative lens, and she’d only done that in the classroom. Rachel’s past jobs were more aligned with the broader definition of interior decorating, but even that was a stretch. The only designs she’d created since graduation had been repurposed outfits with the help of a second-hand sewing machine. She loved re-imagining new looks from items that had been tossed aside as dated and useless. Plus, she was good at it. A few women even asked where she’d purchased her clothing, especially the evening attire. There’s a unique style that’s compelling, one said. Another handed her a business card and smiled. Have your designer call me. I have an event coming up, and I could really use a new look.
No way would Rachel admit she was the clothing designer, not when that might lead to more questions, ones she didn’t want to answer. Oh, she could hear it all.
Didn’t you say you were an interior designer?
How do you find the time to make dresses?
And then there would be eye narrowing and pinched lips, seconds before the snooty Are you an interior designer?
And there it was... The unspoken question that would once again reveal her lack of experience and absence of clients. These people utilized the services of designers—fashion and interior—and they had a decent idea what that involved and especially, what it did not involve. As in a woman who admitted to creating her own clothing with vintage items from second-hand stores, was most definitely not a designer of anything worthwhile. In fact, the “creations” were made out of necessity and not artistic passion.
“No specialty?” Neal Alexander’s words pinged her brain, pulled her back to the room and his intense stare. “Still feeling your way around?”
“Exactly.” She forced a smile, held it in place until her cheeks hurt.
“I like the dress.” His gaze slid from the deep neckline of her cocktail dress to the jeweled embellishments on her shoulders, shifted to the asymmetrical hemline three inches above her knees. “Do your design capabilities extend to clothing as well?”
Before she could answer, Simon interrupted. “Get your own date, Alexander. This one’s mine.”
The man who’d stolen too many hearts and women’s reputations eyed his friend. “She’s yours for the evening?” Pause and then “Or something more?”
“Too soon to tell.” Simon sipped his drink, finished with a bland “But don’t all relationships begin with a memorable evening?”
“Depends on your definition of relationship. Just make sure she knows what you’re offering.” Neal Alexander turned to Rachel, the lips that undoubtedly had tasted too many women pulled into a smile. No warmth. No charm. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.” He lifted his glass in salute, then turned away and blended into the crowd.
Simon dragged a hand through his perfect hair, muttered, “That man can be a real nuisance.”
She thought the two were friends but now she wondered if adversaries might be a better term. Whatever they were to one another, it was definitely none of her business, and yet, curiosity won out. “You’re not friends?”
A cold laugh, followed by a harsh “That depends on your definition of the word. We’ve known each other a while, shared similar...interests.” A faint blush crept over his cheeks, implying the sharing was not limited to events but might also include women. “He used to be more fun, but these past few years he’s just different. Odd.”
“Odd?” Neal Alexander was a lot of things, a heartbreaker, a seducer, a jokester, a tease...but odd? No, she’d never call him that. Memories of high school and junior literature flashed through her mind. When he approached her one afternoon, she had to suck in several breaths before she faced him. He leaned against the locker next to hers, smiled. So close she could make out the tiny gold flecks in his blue eyes... And the smile? Mesmerizing.
How can you tell the difference between a plot and a theme? The smile spread, the dimple on the right side of his cheek deepened. I’m barely reading chapter books.
She’d laughed, more a howl which is what she did when she was nervous and who wouldn’t be nervous around the hottest guy in school? What could he possibly want with her?
Seconds later, she found out.
So, since I’m horrible with plots and themes, and you’re obviously stellar at it...
Yes? He wanted her to help him! That meant spending time together...in close proximity...so close...
How much would you charge to write my papers?
Of course, she flat-out refused him. He tried again the next year, and this time she accepted. However, she’d had an entire year to think about what she’d say if he ever offered again and when he did, she was ready for him. The request to “hang out” as payment, surprised and maybe even embarrassed him because his tanned face paled, then burst bright pink. Still, he agreed, shook her hand, and told her to name the date. Perhaps she should have been more specific about exactly what she wanted from him, but a drive to a secluded area of Goose Creek that included a back seat and a bottle of her father’s whiskey, should have given him a clue. Besides, Neal Alexander’s reputation pegged him as a guy who didn’t need an invitation or a playbook where a female was concerned and he was interested in all females.
Just not her.
She’d prayed she’d never see him again, never have to relive the mortification and humiliation of that night. Maybe deep down that’s why she always picked the wrong guy and dumped them before they could dump her.
5
Rachel avoided Neal Alexander for the rest of the evening as she chatted with Simon Bainbridge who introduced her to his lawyer friends, golf buddies, even two of his cousins. Simon was handsome, charming, and very intelligent. But he did not possess the magnetism of a man like Neal Alexander, the cool detachment, the steady gaze, the disarming smile. The man she wanted to avoid stood across the room sipping his drink and engaging in conversation with a group of people, his stance relaxed, his demeanor casual. He seemed to have forgotten she was there, which gave her hope that maybe he didn’t recognize her. She held onto that possibility until he blew it up a short while later in a voice filled with humor.
“Rachel Reese. All grown up.” He leaned toward her, said in a low voice, “Should we still pretend we’re strangers? I’m up for the intrigue if you are.” Those blue eyes sparkled, shifted to silver. “It would definitely spice up the night. Just give me the details and I’ll be happy to oblige.” He straightened, rubbed his jaw. “I would like to know the story behind the story—you know, the reason we’re pretending we’re strangers.”
