Hope narrows her eyes, and her voice becomes colder. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head.
Hope stares at me then nods, but the movement of her neck is somewhat robotic. “Good. I don’t need another friend preaching to me. Mitch might not have a superb job—yet—but he’s ambitious. We have this in common.”
“I see, well then…” I lick my lips. “What will you do with your free time? Or will you work next week?”
“Nope.” Hope sighs, brushing her blond bob behind her ear, making her coffee mug waver dangerously in her hand. “I wish I could, but I’ve already handed my open cases to Jennifer. She was thrilled with the extra workload. I think she needs it as a distraction. Poor thing just discovered that her husband’s been cheating on her.” She pauses.
My eyes flick to her.
Is she weighing the same hypothesis that I am?
Before I can inquire, our doorbell rings.
“This must be Bill,” Hope says. “You need to go.”
I jump up, even if I’d love to stay and speak with Hope. “I’ll see you later.”
She winks. “Have fun! Perhaps tonight, your brain and your gut will play in synchrony.”
I hurry to the entrance, counting my steps. If I get to a prime number by the time I reach the door, tonight will be better than expected.
My hand reaches for the handle at twenty-eight.
I stop and stare at the almost nonexistent distance between me at the door. I suck in a breath and squeeze in another small step, one that barely allows me to touch my toes down.
Still, it’s twenty-nine, right?
I plaster on a smile and open the door.
Bill’s beaming face greets me. “You look stunning!” He holds his arm out to me. “Shall we go?”
I blink at the ground, then take a small hop to land over the doorstep. “Yes, I’m ready.”
Chapter 22
(Ellie)
I glance around the restaurant Bill chose for us. My brain runs through Cora’s list of requirements for a successful first dinner date.
1.Cozy atmosphere. Check. The dimmed, light-diffusing lamps create a homey yet elegant ambiance.
2.Stylish and modern decor. Check. Plus point for the very comfortable seating in a beige hue.
3.Cleanliness. Oh, yeah. Enough to look at the staff’s crisp, spotless white uniforms. Do they have a miracle detergent for food stains? If yes, I should buy that for Hope.
4.High-quality food. Yes. Though I haven’t tasted anything yet, the descriptions in the menu made my mouth water.
5.And finally, price. I think back at the numbers I saw as I thumbed through their offers, and I swallow. Double check. Bill either wished to impress me on this front or his salary must be considerably more than mine to allow him to live this high on the hog.
This place scores five out of five.
And I didn’t even consider the complimentary bottle of champagne on our table waiting for us when we arrived.
Bill lifts his flute filled with bubbly and smiles at me. “You like it here?”
“Absolutely. It’s a perfect location. You made a splendid choice.”
His face relaxes. “Good. When you didn’t get back to me on my suggestions, I had to go on and book something on my own.”
I draw a hand to my chest. “Oh, I’m so sorry about that. You left the printouts in my locker, but I didn’t go into the office until Friday, so I didn’t have enough time to choose.”
To be honest, even if I’d picked up the thick folder Bill had prepared for me a day earlier, I probably wouldn’t have gotten through it in time. There were at least twenty-five suggestions in it, including detailed reviews and pictures.
But I don’t say this out loud because I don’t want to sound ungrateful for the attention Bill poured into preparing our date.
Bill’s brows lift, giving his face a genuinely surprised look. “Where did you conduct your therapy session then?”
“In Wyatt’s house.” His jaw drops, and I add, “You know the AC broke down in our wing.”
“Didn’t it get repaired?” Bill says.
“It did, but Wyatt felt more comfortable addressing his issues in a more casual setting.”
Bill rolls his eyes and chuckles. “Ah, those rich athletes. Fame and money turn them into drama queens, no?”
“Not really. Wyatt is a down-to-earth person. Much like he was before he got drafted to the NFL. He likes simple things, and when you’re with him, you can barely tell that he’s a millionaire.”
Bill studies me with furrowed brows, while his thumb moves up and down on the casual navy blazer he’s wearing. The blue color matches his eye color and my dress. I’m not sure if it’s a sign that Bill unknowingly coordinated his outfit with mine, but I tell myself that it must be.
I might be using this detail as a pep talk to inflate my enthusiasm about tonight, but I can’t help it. I want to enjoy this evening.
No, I need to enjoy it. If I do, then maybe I’ll be able to keep my thoughts away from Wyatt for good.
“You seem to be very sympathetic to Wyatt Harrison and his requests,” Bill says.
“Wyatt didn’t request anything,” I say, a tad more heated than I intended. “I just realized I could coax Wyatt to open up more when we weren’t in the clinic. We’ve got a tight timeline to respect with his therapy, so I went with my gut. I checked with Stephanie on the phone first, of course, and she was fine with my decision.”
Bill taps his chest. “Far be it for me to doubt your decision, Ellie. I’m just worried because I know clients can develop feelings for their therapists. That’s why a sterile setting like a clinic is useful. It helps to keep boundaries.”
Bill gives me a warm smile, and I realize he only said what he did out of his interest for me. This discovery should make me joyful, but it doesn’t. Instead, it awakens some guilt.
I should tell Bill that he has no reason to worry. That Wyatt and I always stick to a strictly professional frame no matter where we are. But Friday night comes to mind, and I can’t bring the words to my tongue.
There was nothing professional about how I felt when Wyatt leaned in to kiss me.
I keep my eyes on the tablecloth as my hands automatically adjust the champagne bottle, until it sits directly in the middle of the table. “I believe that Wyatt has a hard time accepting his anger. Having a more neutral ambiance allows for his guards to stay down.”
Bill nods. “It’s your call.” He clears his throat. “I don’t want to talk about Wyatt Harrison. He’s a flipping good quarterback, but I’d rather learn things about you. There is so much I don’t know. Like, why did you just move that bottle?” An eager glint shines in his eyes like I’m an interesting case study.
I shift in my chair. “I don’t know. I guess I just like it more this way.”
Bill chuckles and taps the glass. “You just couldn’t accept that it wasn’t where you wanted it to be, right? The geometrical middle of our table?”
I shrug. “I like symmetry.”
Though I know that external order gives me a sense of inner control, I have no desire to discuss the relation between my quirks and insecurities.
Especially not on a first date.
Bill gives me a knowing glance that somehow annoys me immediately. “An obsession with the place of physical objects could be a leading sign for—”
“Bill,” I snap, “are we here so you can analyze me or to have dinner?”
He shakes his head. “You’re right, sorry. I’m just always observing these details. I guess it’s hard to take off my analyst’s hat.”
I know the feeling. I can’t stop pondering about Wyatt when our sessions are over, either.
I flash Bill a smile. “Our profession is dealing with people, so it easily pervades our lives. Nevertheless, let’s just act like we’re on a date, shall we?”
He nods, grinning. “I like the sound of that. So, tell me, what did you do yesterday?”
“You like Indian food?” he asks, his tone becoming enthusiastic.
“Yes, though not as much as Mexican.” Let’s hope he won’t interpret my statement as a weird revelation about my personality.
To my relief, Bill grins and says, “Mexican dishes give me heartburn, but I absolutely adore Indian food. I have a conference in Mumbai this autumn, and I can’t wait to hit the local places for some authentic taste.”
“Mumbai? I’ve never been there.” My shoulders start to relax. I’m happy our conversation flows smoother now. Even if I’ll never invite Bill to El Placer, at least we share a love for Indian cuisine.
“Really?” Bill’s brows round. “Then perhaps I could take you one day. It’s such a lively city, full of contradictions, of course, but still mesmerizing.”
Our dishes arrive, and we pause our conversation while the waiter places our plates in front of us.
The smell of steamed rice and grilled shrimp waft around us, and my stomach growls. This food promises not only to be high-quality but also incredibly yummy. The waiter refills our champagne glasses, then retreats.
He placed my flute beside the napkin I laid out previously, so I reposition it on the wrinkle-free paper. I’d hate for the beautiful tablecloth to get ruined.
Just as I pick up the fork, Bill says, “Many women I treat with anorexia have associated compulsive habits. I could hypnotize you if you want. I bet that after a few sessions, you’d get a grip on your symmetry quirk.” He winks at me.
I freeze.
I knew going out with a coworker could mean ending up in a discussion related to work. Still, I never imagined I’d become the subject of Bill’s zeal to cure people.
This restaurant might satisfy Cora’s requisites about where an ideal first encounter should take place, but I’m sure that even my roomie would object to the doctor’s small talk skills.
But I’ve already committed to making the best of this evening, so I pull my lips into a smile instead of telling him off. Likely, he didn’t mean it the hurtful way it sounded. “I’m fine the way I am, but thank you for offering your help. How is your shrimp?”
“Delicious. Want to try them?”
I shake my head. “No, but thanks.”
He studies me, then leans back on his chair. “You know, Ellie, I have wanted to ask you out for a very long time. I just never had the courage before.” He tops his puzzling statement with a boyish smile.
See? He’s redeeming himself. I knew he would…
Cora’s bragging voice resounds in my head, but I don’t feel any better at the realization that Bill is once more acting like he should on a date.
While I stay silent, Bill compliments my hair and my eyes, but his affectionate words do nothing except remind me of what I shouldn’t ponder.
Or whom.
I try to stop my thoughts from going where they don’t belong. Still, as Bill’s lazy drawl continues, my busy mind adds blondish curls behind his ears and switches the blue of his eyes into a mesmerizing toffee shade.
And soon enough, I’m back on Amp Island with Wyatt, and he’s leaning close to me, his breath whipping up a tempest of forbidden desires in me as it reaches my skin.
I dig my nails into my thighs below the table.
The pain jerks me back to reality just in time to realize Bill has stopped his monologue to ask me a question.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” I say.
“I asked which movie you would pick for a cozy Saturday night in November?” He shoves a pink shrimp tail into his mouth and chews it while he studies me.
When I don’t launch into nominating any films, he swallows and adds, “I think it’s fun to play these little games, don’t you agree?”
“Ah, yeah, sure. I think… I’m drawing a blank here, sorry,” I murmur.
I keep silent about the fact that my mind is in shutdown mode after the unsettling fantasy it conjured.
Bill leans toward me and pats my hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you three choices, okay? So, let’s see…Casablanca, Sleepless in Seattle, or—”
I zone in on his moving lips while my neurons reboot, launching one question at me: Oh, goodness. When will this dinner be over?
Chapter 23
(Wyatt)
Jazzy tunes and a sweet cigar scent drift in the air as Joe and I step into Pete’s downtown loft.
Pete dashes over, and I introduce him to my teammate.
“It’s great to meet you, Joe.” Pete shakes Joe’s hand enthusiastically. “I’ve seen so many of your games, I feel like I know you already. Thanks for coming tonight. If it weren’t for you, we would be too few to try out my new table.”
Joe’s eyes zero in on the circular poker table that occupies half of Pete’s living room, and his jaw drops. “Well, that just dills my pickle. That’s what I call a professional setup. Wyatt didn’t tell me you’re a fellow World Series of Poker aficionado.”
“I’m just an amateur, but I enjoy the thrill of a friendly game,” Pete says modestly. Still, it’s apparent that he’s thrilled about Joe’s compliment.
Pete invited Devon, Jimmy—the owner of the jazz club where Devon and Pete love to go—and me for a Sunday night Texas hold’em party. I’d extended his invitation to Joe with Pete’s permission because I know my running back mate fancies gambling much more than I do.
To be honest, I don’t even like playing cards. I only came because it’s a nice occasion to chat with my buds.
And to forget about Ellie having dinner with Bill.
Pete strolls over to his new acquisition and caresses the table’s black gloss surface. “I bought this gem from a club that recently closed in the warehouse district. What do you think, Wyatt?”
The hand-crafted table rests on a pedestal with legs in the shape of dragon’s feet. It screams swanky to me, but I’d hate to burst Pete’s bubble, and also, the table blends in well with the rest of his interior design, so I say, “It fits with your place.”
“You’re right. It screams Scarface to me, too.” Devon’s baritone reaches my ear before his head emerges from behind a large cushion on Pete’s purple plush sofa.
Pete rolls his eyes and huffs, “At least my hub got character.”
“That it does.” I chuckle.
Though both my friends live in skyscrapers, their respective homes couldn’t be more different. Devon’s place is light, practical, and simple in design—a private hideaway where only his closest friends ever get invited.
In Pete’s condo, the colors red and black dominate, mixed in with a lot of plush and gold. His bigger-than-life at-home bar, opulent furniture, and fluffy carpet turn his loft into an excellent backdrop for his two favorite activities: throwing parties and inviting girls into his bachelor pad.
“Are you guys hungry?” Pete asks. “I’ve ordered some hors d’oeuvres from the bistro on the corner.”
Joe taps his belly. “I’d eat the north end of a south-bound polecat. You mind if I start?”
Pete shakes his head. “No, go ahead. We need to wait for Jimmy, anyway. He’s bringing a bartender from his club, so the booze will be taken care of, too.”
Joe fetches a plate, while Devon steps over and pats me on my back.
“Want to go for a jog tomorrow morning?” he asks.
“Don’t you work on Mondays?”
“I took a day off because Laia and I are going to visit a few potential locations for the wedding.”
“I wouldn’t want to tear you away from your lovely fiancée,” I answer.
Devon waves. “It’s Laia who suggested we should work out together in the morning. She’s busy until midday.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I can’t.”
“You’ve got somewhere to be?” Pete inquires.
“Yes, I do. In the morning, I have ther—” I pretend to cough as I realize what I was about to blurt out. If Devon
learns I’m doing anger therapy, it won’t take long for him to connect the dots.
Devon furrows his brows. “You have, what?”
“Thermo weightlifting,” Joe chimes in, while he flashes me a You can thank me later for saving your butt glance. He marches to us with his plate filled with thinly sliced ham, aged cheddar, and a bunch of samosas.
Pete and Devon both stare at him with confused faces.
“Thermo weightlifting?” Devon asks. “What’s that?”
“It’s a…uhm, it’s weightlifting in a hot room.” I hope my explanation covers what Joe had in mind.
“That doesn’t make much sense,” Pete says.
“As much as udders on a bull.” Joe glances at me, and from the line of his lips, I deduce that I didn’t score the correct definition. Then he smiles at my friends. “It’s basically a new gig our strength coach came up with to torture us during our supposed vacation time. Or what’s left of it, anyway.”
“Right, training camp starts soon,” Devon adds.
My belly cramps at the timeline’s mention.
For the first time since I heard Coach Fielding’s verdict, it isn’t the possibility of not playing that causes my innards to contract. Though I have only two weeks left before Ellie prepares her closing report about me, I’m not worried about what she’ll write. What gives me the chills is that if she deems me cured, I won’t have an excuse to see her every morning.
The bell rings.
Pete opens the door, and a chubby, round-faced man with a silver beard enters. Based on his black T-shirt logo, he must be Jimmy, the jazz club owner. He’s accompanied by a larkish young guy, dressed in a server uniform.
After the round of introductions and some small talk, we settle around the poker table. The boy goes behind the marble counter to fix us all drinks. I’m inclined to ask only for a virgin cocktail, but since even Joe orders a scotch, I go along with the others.
Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) Page 18