by Scott, D. D.
Celia felt her chest tightening with anger. How dare he rifle through her things and demand she go see a stupid basketball game! “How am I supposed to get to the Garden when you’ve got my wallet?”
“You borrowed a phone from Beth, was it? Must be a good friend considering the ring tone. Haven’t heard Queen’s You’re My Best Friend in while. Borrow some cash. Your best friend won’t mind.” She heard rustling and the sound of her phone being dropped. “Okay, I’m in section 342, row K, seat 12. I’ll be the one with the purse.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mumbled.
“Afraid not,” he said. “What better way to spend Valentine’s Day?”
“I know people,” she threatened. “My brother’s a cop.”
“Good to know, Celia. I’ll see you at the game.”
“Wait,” she pleaded. “What’s your name? What if I can’t find you?”
“It’s David. David Willingham.”
Celia huffed out a breath when she heard the connection go dead. She passed the phone back to Beth.
“What in the world was that?” Beth asked.
“I’m going to watch the Knicks play tonight with David Willingham.”
“The Knicks aren’t in town.”
Celia stopped walking and turned to look at Beth. “How do you know?”
“Gary? The world’s biggest Knicks fan. Why do you think he’s taking me to dinner? There’s no game on tonight.”
“I just assumed it would be the Knicks,” Celia said. “Who else plays at the Garden?”
“I don’t know. The Harlem Globetrotters?”
“Very funny, Beth.” Celia grabbed her arm. “I need cab fare. Do you have any cash?”
Beth rooted through her purse. “You’re going to go meet a stranger? Alone? Are you out of your mind?”
“Out of options is more like it. He’s buying me a ticket, with my gold card nonetheless, and I’m to meet him at his seat.” She stopped talking and stared up at the twinkling lights of her favorite city before closing her eyes in defeat. “I completely forgot what seat he said he was in. What am I going to do?”
Beth handed over forty dollars. “I guess you’ll have to page him. Thank goodness you got his name.”
“I’ll pay you back,” she said, and stuck her arm in the air to hail a cab.
“Cel, I’m not comfortable with you doing this,” Beth shouted over the hum of traffic. “I should go with you.”
“On Valentine’s Day? No way. I’ll be fine.” She felt anything but as the cab pulled over to the curb.
“Call me as soon as you get your phone,” Beth insisted. “I mean it, Cel. If you don’t call me within an hour, I’m calling your brother.”
“Trust me.” Celia opened the door. “If I don’t call within the hour, I want you to call my brother. I’ll grab my purse and get the hell out of there.”
• • •
The Knicks weren’t at the Garden that night. It wasn’t even a basketball game. Perfect. After a day spent dodging delivery boys with flowers for everyone but her, and an afternoon downpour, she stood in line at Will Call for tickets to a hockey game. Celia hated hockey. And it wasn’t only one ticket he’d bought at Will Call.
“You mean he bought two tickets?” she asked the girl behind the counter.
“He took one and left one for you.”
“Great,” she said. Just great. She looked at the ticket stub. He’d charged two tickets for $89 dollars each. That purchase, on top of her new purse, put this Valentine’s as her most expensive yet. She was going to give David Willingham a piece of her mind.
Two
David kept half an eye on the game and half an eye out for Celia Mason. He felt a little foolish with a bright yellow purse on his lap, but he wanted to be sure she found him. He’d had a better seat with the ticket he’d pawned, but he figured she’d have forgotten his row, aisle, and seat number, and knew the extra expense would save them both a lot of time and aggravation. Besides, her picture had been intriguing enough to pique his interest.
He was already pissed that he was running late when he’d heard her phone ring. He was rooting through her wallet, trying to figure out what to do with the purse he’d spotted on the floor of the cab. Between the irritated look on her face in her driver’s license picture, the miles of curling hair, and the little zipper bags she had to keep her purse neat and organized, he wanted to meet the dark haired beauty.
The phone call had done it. He listened to her sultry sounding voice and he knew that she’d just as soon hit him over the head with her purse when she finally got it back. Celia Mason would fight for what she wanted and worry about the consequences later.
When he spotted her inching sideways along the row, he knew his gamble had paid off. Dressed in head-to-toe black, from her knee-length parka to the knee-high black boots, she wore a yellow scarf to match the yellow purse he still couldn’t figure out how she’d left in the cab.
She glared at him with eyes as dark as her coat and reached for the bag on his lap as she pivoted to leave. He grabbed her hand and got a whiff of her perfume — something sexy and dangerous. “I don’t even get a thank you?”
She put her free hand on her hip and looked down her very attractive nose at him. “Thank you.”
“Sit down!” someone yelled from behind where she stood. With a roll of those very alluring eyes, she plopped down in the seat and huffed out a breath.
“Everything in here?” she asked.
“Check for yourself.”
After going through her purse and, much to his chagrin, carefully counting the cash in her wallet, she leaned back and placed a half-hearted smile on her face. “I suppose I should thank you for real this time, even though I’m out $178 for a game I can’t stand.”
“I take it you’re not a Rangers fan?”
“I’m not a hockey fan.” She plucked the beer from his hand and took a generous sip. When he stared at her with raised brows, she only shrugged and handed it back. “I figured I bought that as well.”
“You thought wrong. I’ll be happy to get you one of your own.”
She considered his offer with puckered lips, and then looked toward the ice when a Capitals player slammed a Rangers player into the glass and the crowd went crazy. “I’m not staying,” she said.
He liked her looks, her style, and her smell. He knew worse ways to spend an evening. It was time to play hardball. “Oh, I see,” he said. “You’ve got a Valentine’s date.” When he saw the irritated line between her brows, he knew he’d touched a nerve and hoped like hell she didn’t leave. “Don’t let me keep you.”
She spared him a glance. “I told you I don’t like hockey.”
“What’s not to like?”
She glanced around. “It’s as cold in here as it is outside, I can never keep track of the puck, and at what other sporting event do grown men wear jerseys as if the coach might call them onto the ice at any moment?”
David mentally thanked the Lord he hadn’t had time to go home and get his jersey before the game.
“Most major sports,” he answered. “So what do you like?” He deliberately shifted forward and stared at the Bloomingdale’s bag between her feet. “Except shopping.”
Her mouth twisted into a pout. “I like baseball.”
“Baseball’s too slow.” He kept his eyes on the ice in a calculated move and spotted an intentional tripping. He was missing a pretty good game, but so far she’d proved worthy. Besides, there was always ESPN.
“See,” she said, pointing at the ice where two players had shed their gloves and started throwing punches, to the delight of the crowd. “This game is barbaric.”
The refs broke up the fight and sent each player to the penalty box. He sat back down and resumed their discussion. “It’s fast moving, fun, and entertaining.”
“Is that your criteria for a successful night out?”
He locked eyes with her and inched closer to her ear. He only tortured himself on her scent. “I don’t h
ave criteria, but if I did…” He looked her over from head to toe. “You and hockey would fit the bill.”
When her gaze slid to his mouth, he nearly groaned. “I think I’ll take that beer now, Dave.”
He gave himself a mental high-five. “Be right back.”
• • •
Celia let out the breath she’d been holding as David’s impressive backside slid in front of her view and continued down the aisle. She watched him ease through the sports fans, excusing himself along the way, and felt her brows lift as he took the stairs two at a time to fetch her beer.
She unwrapped the scarf from around her neck, and then fished her phone from her purse to call Beth, something she’d forgotten to do when she’d gotten a look at her purse-snatcher.
“Are you okay?” Beth asked in a frantic voice.
Celia plugged her ear with her finger and shouted into the phone. “I’m fine, and so is my purse-nabber. He’s hot and very sure of himself. This may be the first hockey game I’ve enjoyed.”
“You’re staying to watch the game?”
Celia unzipped her makeup bag and applied some gloss. “What else have I got to do?”
“Wine and your favorite movie?”
“Can’t compare to David Willingham.” She mashed her lips together and dropped the gloss back in the bag. “I think he’s my Valentine’s present.”
“Celia, please be careful,” Beth warned. “You don’t even know this guy.”
“I’m in a packed arena, not alone in his apartment. I’ll be fine. Stop worrying and have a nice dinner with Gary.”
She tucked the phone back in her purse and tried to tame her hair and straighten the hem of her black jersey dress. She really liked the way he looked, from his dark blonde hair and moss green eyes to his blue work shirt and navy pants. She felt at a huge disadvantage that he knew so much about her.
David handed her a beer and sat back down in his seat. He offered her a salted pretzel. “I like a little salt with my beer,” he said.
“I feel like we’re not on even ground here, David.”
“Look,” he said with a smile that had dimples popping out from his cheeks. “I apologized for the tickets.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” She took a sip of her beer and carefully set it in the cup holder by his calf. He smelled male and musky. “I think you should let me look through your wallet.”
“Why?” he sputtered. “So I can pay you back?”
“You’ve gone through my purse,” she reminded him. “You know where I live, what I do for a living, where I shop, what brand of tampons I use.” And birth control, much to her embarrassment.
“Fine.” He shifted to retrieve a leather wallet from the back pocket of his pants and handed it over. His fingers brushed hers in the exchange.
“Let’s see…” She flipped open the wallet and pulled out his license. “Not so flattering yourself,” she lied. He looked young and cocky, and incredibly handsome, with a sideways grin and longer hair.
“My misspent youth,” he said.
She flipped through his meager credit cards. “Only two? American Express and Visa. That’s it?”
“What else would I need?”
“Men.” She rolled her eyes and moved on. She plucked his business card from a slot. “David Willingham, Senior BPM Engineer, MacGiven.” She looked at his profile as he watched the game. His slightly crooked nose and five o’clock shadow left him just short of pretty. “I have no idea what that means.”
“I manage end-to-end business processes for corporations.” When she stared at him blankly, he said, “Consulting.”
“Oh, okay.” Satisfied that she’d never understand if he tried to explain, she continued to rifle through the well-worn leather. Her stomach clenched as she pulled out a picture of a young girl smiling from a woman’s lap. “Is this your wife and child who are right now waiting at home for you?”
“Celia,” he said with a tsk in his voice. “That’s my sister, Rebekah, and her daughter, Maddie. They live in North Carolina.”
Okay, she thought. He’d answered too quickly to have lied. She’d been suckered too many times by married men without a ring or a conscience. “Is that where you’re from?”
“Nope. I’m from upstate New York. My brother-in-law works in the research triangle.”
“So,” she said as she folded his wallet closed and held it out to him, “do you have any at home?”
“Any what?”
“Wives or children?”
He turned his head and looked her in the eye, even as the crowd cheered and everyone got to their feet around them. “No wife, no kids, at home or anywhere else.”
Celia could feel the look he gave her all the way to her toes. She hadn’t expected to meet a really attractive guy at the end of her crappy day.
“So why are you alone on V-Day?” he asked. “There’s no lucky guy waiting for you at a fancy restaurant?”
“No lucky guy.” Not since eight months ago when she and Michael had agreed to see other people and she discovered she preferred being alone.
“Only me,” she heard him mumble before he turned his attention back to the game.
Her blood was pulsing. Every nerve ending in her body felt alive and it had nothing to do with the game or the energy from the crowd. She let her arm graze his leg as she reached for her beer. “What about you?” she asked. “Hockey on Valentine’s? That’s a little pathetic.”
“Some of us like hockey.” He reached over and tore off a piece of her pretzel and popped it in his mouth. “And Valentine’s is just a made up holiday.”
“Really? Made up by whom?”
“It’s a collusion between the card, flower, and restaurant industries.”
“What about the candy industry?”
“How could I forget about candy?” he joked.
“And jewelry,” she added. “And you may as well throw in the fashion industry, because any woman worth her salt has to have a new outfit for the big night out.”
“Exactly,” he said. “An entire holiday invented so people — guys mostly — will spend money.”
“Some women appreciate gifts from men,” Celia said with a deliberate bat of her eyelashes and a lifting of what was left of the pretzel he’d bought for her.
He leaned over and kicked her Bloomingdale’s bag with the toe of his very nice Italian shoes. “And some women buy their own gifts.”
She shrugged and leaned down to deposit her beer in the cup holder. “What can I say? I didn’t get any gifts from a man today.”
He regarded her with one raised eyebrow. “What about the pretzel and the beer?”
“Lovely gestures from a man who owes me $178.”
“Ouch.” He laughed and drew his eyes back to the game. God, he was cute. Ask me out, David, she willed him silently. Ask me out now.
“How about if I buy you some dinner after the game? We can call it even.”
Yessssss. “Even would mean a nice restaurant with tablecloths and a waiter.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “What kind of guys have you dated? Of course I mean a nice restaurant. Do I look like the kind of guy who’d buy you a hot dog from the street corner?”
“No,” she said. “But there isn’t a restaurant in town with a free table tonight.”
“Okay, okay.” He rubbed his chin in thought. His fingers looked long and sturdy. “We could get some Chinese, go back to my place?”
“David.” She patted his arm with her hand, grateful she’d had a manicure and gone with the dark purple. “I’m not going to have sex with you tonight.”
He jerked his head back in surprise, his eyebrows disappearing beneath a lock of his hair. He gathered his wits and leaned in close. “Celia, you weren’t going to watch a hockey game tonight, either.”
“You’ve made quite a leap if you think one thing equals the other.”
“One thing doesn’t equal the other, just like inviting you to my place for takeout doesn’t mean I p
ropositioned you.”
“No, no, but the assumption was there.”
“How do you figure?”
“David. You’re an attractive guy. You invited me to your place at night. You feed me, ply me with wine. With the vibe going on between us, it would be natural to assume one thing would lead to another. I’m just telling you straight out I don’t play that way.”
“What way?” He blinked in surprise. “Are you telling me you play for the other team?”
“What? No, for goodness sake.” She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Your ego is astounding. Just because I won’t have sex with you, you think I’m gay?”
“I didn’t say that, but you made it sound like…never mind.” He cleared his throat and sat up in his seat. “Jeez, how did we even get here?”
“You invited me to your place.”
“For dinner!”
“Which implies sex. Look,” she said with a shrug. “I’m done playing games with men. I have brothers. I know how this works. I’m telling you up front I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Okay,” he said with his hands in the air. “I withdraw my offer.”
She felt the sting, swift and lethal. Their flirtatious banter, her honest communication about sex and dating, had morphed into something ugly. Was she being overly cynical, overly honest, or just plain bitchy on her least favorite day of the year? “Fine.”
“How about a slice of pizza? No tablecloths and waiters and no assumptions.”
“Really?” she asked, almost giddy with relief. “You’d buy me pizza?”
He pursed his lips. “You bought me a hockey ticket. It’s the least I can do.”
“Yes,” she said, and laid her head on his shoulder. “It is the least you can do.”
Three
David glanced at the scoreboard at the beginning of the third period and was shocked to realize the Rangers were up by two. He was even more shocked to realize he didn’t care. Not with Celia’s husky laugh in his ear or her leg resting against his pants. For a guy who didn’t want a date for Valentine’s, he sure couldn’t be happier to have found one in a cab.
When he heard Queen’s You’re My Best Friend, he knew Beth was calling. He watched as she fished the phone from her purse and declined the call. She immediately texted her friend and set the phone back in her purse.