by RC Boldt
He tosses his head back on a laugh, and I allow myself a moment to appreciate the handsome man seated across from me. His smile, laughter, personality—they’re all spot-on, especially once you get a chance to know him. Of course, the rest of him is just as appealing.
Yet I feel no attraction toward him. Zero. Zip. Nada.
What. Is. Wrong. With. ME?
I dart a longing glance at my purse dangling from the little hook just beneath the table. I wish I could text Dax. Maybe he could help me figure out my weird hang-up and get me out of my own head.
Except he’s on his own date. Tonight. With Monica, who’s freaking perfect for him.
She’s gorgeous, just over five feet tall with curves for days and skin a light mahogany. Not only that, but she’s also intelligent, speaks her native language of Spanish as well as French, and is employed by the Department of Immigration office in downtown Jacksonville.
“Can I interest you in…?”
With a polite smile, I listen to our waiter mention some special menu items for the evening before we place our order. The small restaurant is quiet for a Friday evening, even this early. I’d overheard the maître d’ mention to one of the waitstaff that two celebrity reservations were made tonight. I assume Kyler counts as one, since the Jags players are practically revered as gods around this city, but I’ve been wondering who else they might be referring to.
Once the waiter leaves to put our orders in with the chef, Kyler glances around before leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table. “Word on the street is that Forbes magazine contacted you for a feature.”
I rear back slightly in surprise. “And you heard that how?”
He winks. “A friend from college works there and happened to mention it.” His mouth widens, and his expression is one of unabashed pride. “That’s cool as hell. You should be proud.”
Uncomfortable with the attention, I try to play it off casually but fail. My smile ratchets up, and I’m sure I look borderline manic. I lean forward and lower my voice. “It really is cool. I can’t believe it.”
“One of the highest-rated small businesses with considerable revenue.” He nods, clearly impressed.
I can’t restrain my smile. Ivy and I—with Leif working behind the scenes, of course, as he prefers—built the company from the ground up. There are never any guarantees in the business world, and we took a huge gamble by creating a unique and extremely unusual company compared to the norm.
“Plus that recent article with Wired.” He leans in and murmurs, “Guess I should call you Duchess, now, huh?”
Every instinct screams, No! Irrationally, I want to tell him that’s Dax’s nickname for me. I scramble to form a better suited response while, in my periphery, I catch sight of movement. Perhaps the “celebrity” has arrived for their dinner reservations.
“I still can’t believe it,” I confess, deflecting and avoiding his question. “A part of me keeps thinking Forbes will send an email to say it’s a mistake and...” I trail off, realizing his attention has veered from me. Instead, his eyes focus on someone two tables to our left. With the way he’s gawking, he knows the celebrity diner.
I don’t bother tossing a glance in the direction of his gaze because, God knows, the majority of celebrity clientele I’ve worked with are uncomfortable being in the limelight or having extra attention fixed on them. They’d much prefer to operate as everyday folks.
Kyler clears his throat in what sounds like a half cough, half chuckle, but I don’t pay him any mind since our waiter approaches with our dinner.
The waiter blocks my view of the guests drawing my date’s interest. The man carefully sets the plates of food on the pristine white tablecloth in front of each of us. As soon as he steps away, I stare down at my delicious pasta. I’m silently employing a food version of dirty talk to my dinner. Oh, yeah. You’re going to taste so creamy on my tongue.
The sound of the familiar deep, husky male voice causes me to jerk in surprise.
“Nice to see you, Miss Cole.”
29
Dax
When Darcy tips her head on a little laugh, amused by whatever Watson said, I can no longer deny the nausea that’s been plaguing me. It grates on my nerves that he’s making her laugh.
The hell of it is, I have no fucking clue why it bothers me.
My eyes flick between Monica and the cell phone in her hands. “Is everything okay?” She doesn’t have any kids or anyone she’s responsible for, so I’m sure my question leaves the implied can you not be on your phone right now? hanging between us.
Already distracted by her cell phone, she raises her eyes to mine for a split second before refocusing on whatever the hell she’s doing on that thing. ”Absolutely okay…” She draws the words out slowly, obviously distracted.
I clear my throat quietly and attempt to subdue my rising irritation. I toy with the flat handle of the butter knife neatly laid on the linen tablecloth. “I always do my best to be present when I’m with someone else, you know?” I force a casual laugh. “Not be a slave to technology.”
“Mmmhmm.”
That’s it. That’s her response in its entirety.
I stop fiddling with the knife. “I never want to miss out on any moments because I’m too busy trying to take just the right photo or send a text that can wait at least a few hours.” My lips twist wryly. “Life’s better when you live in the moment.”
When nothing but silence greets my comments, I lift my gaze and discover her immersed in whatever is on her phone.
I drag in a deep breath, hoping it will calm me as I try to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Is it work?”
“Hmm?” Her gaze finally meets mine. “Oh! No. Sorry.” A sheepish smile forms, her red lips curving upward, as she—finally—sets her phone aside. “I was caught up in a crazy barrage of texting with my mother, who, first, didn’t believe I was on a date instead of working and, second, didn’t believe me when I told her you weren’t an escaped convict.” She laughs, and it’s easy and warm. Genuine. “I apologize. She still treats me like I’m eight and just got skinned knees from being pushed down by the neighborhood bully.”
A fraction of my agitation subsides, and I quirk an eyebrow with a teasing smirk. “And do you normally go on dates with escaped convicts?”
Monica’s smile widens. “Definitely not. I’d have some issues with my job if I did since I have certain security clearances.”
Something draws my attention over to Darcy’s table. Darcy and Kyler. At that exact moment, he catches sight of me, and the edges of his mouth turn up into a knowing smirk. When the waiter blocks my view of them while delivering their food, I find myself rising from my chair and offering a polite smile to Monica with the excuse that I’d like to say a quick hello to someone. She responds with both an understanding smile and an, “Of course.”
I stride over to their table. Darcy’s staring down at her plate of linguini and shrimp as though it’s her last meal when I say, “Nice to see you, Miss Cole.”
Her head snaps up in surprise, and confusion lines her features. “Dax? What are you doing here?”
I slide my hands into my pockets, attempting to be as casual as possible. “Monica and I decided to have dinner here.”
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. She parts her lips, but before she can form a reply, Watson pipes up.
“Hey, man.” There’s that damn smug grin. “What a surprise.”
The way he says it, as though he expected me to come by, pisses me off. He holds out a hand for me to shake. I admit I hesitate in accepting his hand before the logical adult part of my brain reminds me this is my QB and to stop being childish.
That doesn’t mean I don’t accidentally-on purpose deliver a hell of a strong handshake. Sure, it’s petty, but this odd sort of protectiveness pulsating through me demands I do it.
A highly amused stare meets my hard glare, and it grates on my damn nerves. His eyes flick over to Darcy before returning to me. “Funny how c
oincidental this is, huh?”
The unspoken message is clear. He’s calling me out on showing up here.
I force a nonchalant shrug. “The Charter is one of my favorite restaurants.” I glance around, as if taking in the ambiance. “Great atmosphere for a first date. Good for getting to know someone.”
It might rank at the bottom of my top ten favorites, but there’s no need to disclose that. Nor does he need to know that this joint moved to the top of my list so I could horn in on my friend’s date.
“Why don’t you and your”—Watson leans around me to set his eyes on Monica, offering a wide smile—“lovely date join us?” He gestures to the available table nearby. “I’m sure we can slide these two tables together.”
I dart a questioning glance at Darcy, whose expression mimics a deer in the headlights.
“Darcy? Oh my gosh, I didn’t realize it was you!” Monica’s now approaching, and it’s clear to see Darcy’s fortifying herself and shifting back into businesswoman mode.
“Monica.” Darcy draws the cloth napkin from her lap and delicately lays it on the corner of the table before rising from her seat. She holds out her arms, and the two women exchange a brief hug. “You look fantastic.”
“Thank you.” Monica waves a hand to gesture toward Darcy’s dress. The one that I knew, even just seeing it on a hanger, would look fucking spectacular on her. “You look amazing. I absolutely love that dress.”
“Thank you.”
“Please, I insist that you two join us,” Watson says.
“Oh… if you’re sure it’s okay,” Monica hedges.
“It’d be our pleasure,” he asserts.
In what seems like seconds, the waitstaff have repositioned the other table flush against theirs, and we take our seats. I sit to Watson’s right with Monica across from me beside Darcy.
“The whole city knows all about this guy”—he tosses a thumb in my direction, addressing Monica—“so I’d love to know more about you.”
“I work for the government, specifically the immigration department.”
He raises his eyebrows, obviously impressed. “That’s fascinating.” He darts a glance at Darcy, who is now toying with the stem of her wineglass, seeming lost in thought. “It’s interesting, the contrast to what you do, Darcy. How we all fill a need somehow.”
At his remark, my spine goes ramrod straight. The rational part of my brain knows he doesn’t mean anything by it because even though Watson and I aren’t nearly as close as Becket and me, the one thing he’s not is a condescending asshole. His comment is genuine.
It doesn’t do shit at tamping down my instant urge to jump to her defense.
I lean back in my seat, adopting a casual pose. “You want to hear something interesting?” I wait barely a second before continuing, lifting my chin in Darcy’s direction. “Her average success rate for matching clients is 99.97 percent. Nearly all her matched couples are now married or in long-term, committed relationships. The others are planning their wedding.”
Darcy’s head jerks up, and her lips part in what looks to be surprise. As though she didn’t realize I did my own homework on her.
Like she doesn’t realize just how damn proud I am of her.
Watson narrows his gaze on me, his features laced with a hint of confusion. “I’m certain Darcy works very hard at her job.”
“Pretty damn hard considering she has to peel back everyone’s pretty packaging to get to the bare bones. She’s the one who spends her time interviewing people and asking them thought-provoking questions to gain a better understanding of what the person’s looking for. Not only that, but what kind of person would be best suited for them.” I hold Darcy’s blue gaze. “And she’s damn amazing at what she does.”
“Thank you,” she mouths with what seems like an almost shy smile. A moment later, she rises from her seat to quietly excuse herself to use the restroom.
Watson gives me serious side-eye, evidently wondering what the hell I’m up to. I’m grateful when he strikes up a conversation with Monica, asking her more about her job.
With a polite excuse, I ease away from the table, and thankfully, neither of them pays me much notice. I escape down the hallway at the rear of the restaurant leading to the restrooms. Hesitation overwhelms me when I find myself staring at the women’s restroom door. I force myself to take a step back and lean against the wall, waiting for Darcy to emerge.
Less than a minute later, the door opens, and she steps out, only to jerk to a stop at the sight of me.
“Dax.” She darts a glance down the hallway. “What are you doing?”
“Watson’s not good enough for you.” The words spill out before I can even think about it. She lets out a huff in response and shakes her head, averting her gaze. “You deserve someone better.” Someone like me.
My head rears back in shock at the powerful and immediate thought. Instantly, I’m grateful she’s avoiding my gaze.
She raises her head slowly, her expression edging on caution. “How did you… know all that stuff?” she asks softly. “About my work?”
“Your website.”
The crease between her eyebrows deepens. “My website?” she sputters in disbelief. “But no one ever reads that section.”
No one except me.
I lower my gaze to skim a path down her body, which leaves a confusing and unsettling mix of emotions in its wake. “Did he compliment you tonight?”
Appearing dazed and caught off guard, she breathes out, “What?”
My eyes lock with hers, and I advance until her back presses against the closed door. “Did he compliment you tonight?” I practically growl, jaw locked tight. “Did he tell you how stunning you are in this dress?”
“N-no.” She stumbles over her answer, peering up at me warily. “Dax, what’s going on?”
I pinch my eyes closed and drop my forehead to rest on her bare shoulder. God, she smells incredible. Like brown sugar. I wonder if she’d taste as sweet…
She turns her head to whisper, “Dax?”
I release a long sigh but still don’t make an effort to move. “He’s not good enough for you.” I lift my head up just a fraction, enough to dust my lips against her shoulder in a gentle kiss, and just barely resist the crazy urge to dart out my tongue and taste her. I repeat myself. Only this time, it’s a barely audible whisper. “He’s not good enough for you.”
Without meeting her gaze, I abruptly back away and turn to enter the men’s restroom.
After Darcy left with Watson, and I realized she didn’t go back home—I may or may not have gone by and knocked on her door—I’d felt something similar to a stinger: a football injury that pinches the nerves and sends shooting pain throughout your upper body. When she didn’t answer, that pain intermixed with the turbulence of my stomach walls, much like the time I’d gotten a bad case of food poisoning.
I sure didn’t want to go back home and mope, letting the possibilities eat away at me as I wondered what she and Watson were doing. So I decided to go see the one person I knew would be able to lift me out of this damn funk: my goddaughter.
Becket answers the door with a warm welcome, and we exchange a quick hug with a slap on the back. The sound of nails gently clicking on the hardwood floors greets me before Daisy bounds toward me and I drop to a crouch to pet her. Then I kick off my shoes on the mat in the entryway, not registering the pair of heels already lying there.
I follow Beck into the living room, where he’s paused some action flick, and he settles back onto the couch, eyeing me curiously. Daisy quietly settles into her doggy bed in the corner of the room.
He makes no attempt to start his movie but simply continues to watch me with an amused look. “It’s always good to see you, but I can tell you have something on your mind.”
With a wry smile, I say, “It’s that obvious, huh?”
He gestures to my clothing. “You’re here looking like you’ve been on a date or something. You won’t sit down, and you’re antsy as he
ll.” He raises his eyebrows expectantly. “So?”
With a slow exhale, I drag a hand over the top of my head and down the back of my neck, gripping the tense muscles there. “I had a date. And it was good. Great. But I saw Darcy there.”
Beck’s hand flies up to stop me. “Wait. You saw Darcy where?”
“At the restaurant. And I…” I hesitate with a wince, knowing I’ve got to come clean. “I changed my reservations to go where she was meeting her date.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and his tone is calm, serious. “And the reason for that was…?”
I start pacing back and forth on the hardwood floor. “Because I wanted to make sure she was okay. I mean, she doesn’t have anyone to look after her. And Watson’s rep isn’t exactly pristine when it comes to women and—”
“Whoa.” He holds up a hand to stop me. “Watson, as in your QB?”
“Yeah.”
He frowns. “Watson’s a good guy. I’ve met him at Heisman ceremonies.”
Shit. It’d slipped my mind that my friend—a unicorn in winning the highly touted award twice during his college football career—would know him.
I pause my pacing. “Just because he won a Heisman doesn’t mean he’s perfect.”
My friend’s eyes narrow sharply. “What’s the real issue here? That she went out with Watson?” He jerks his chin in my direction. “Or that she didn’t go out with you?”
I fight the urge to squirm beneath the weight of his gaze. “No, it’s not that at all.” It takes me a second to come up with what I consider a solid explanation. “I was just… I was worried about her.”
His dark brown eyes study me. Then, with brows slanted, he repeats slowly, “You were worried about her.”
“Right.” I nod and continue pacing. “She needs a guy who’ll treat her with respect and look at her like she’s the amazing woman she is. Who’ll understand that she struggles with letting people fuss over her and take care of her even when she needs it.