Frank smiled over his shoulder. “Subway?”
“I mean, that’s not an ideal place to eat anything, especially avocado. And then to offer me some?”
“You mean the sandwich place?” he asked. “They offer me avocado all the time.”
“No, no. A man on the subway offered me half.”
“Oh, got it. Yeah, weird,” he agreed, turning forward again.
Weird, yes, but maybe not enough to mention. I should’ve gone with the silence. I had all sorts of interesting work anecdotes and factoids to stimulate conversation, but this probably wasn’t the right audience to inform that magazine covers with the word climax sold better to women than ones with orgasm.
After five minutes that felt like thirty of watching the game, two hands appeared from behind me, one holding a loaded hotdog, and the other a full beer. Condensation dripped over the long fingers of a large male hand attached to a brawny, dark-haired forearm.
How I knew that it belonged to my frustratingly gorgeous and just plain frustrating coworker, I wasn’t sure. I turned in my seat to meet Sebastian’s amused green-blue eyes. From beneath the shade of his baseball cap, he gave me a megawatt smile, showing off nearly all of his straight, white teeth. “Thirsty?” he asked.
I just stared at him, opening and closing my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you I’d need proof.”
Sweat trickled down my temple. I’d already been warm, but with Sebastian’s presence, the afternoon seemed to get a few degrees hotter. “I thought you meant a selfie or something. You said you only go to Sox games.”
“Did I?” He thrust the food and drink at me. I took it, but only because I’d never been more grateful for a cold beer. “We noticed you weren’t drinking, and that concerned me . . . us.”
At the top of the steps, Justin balanced armfuls of hotdogs and beer. He started to wave and nearly fumbled it all, catching himself at the last second. “Where are you guys sitting?” I asked.
“Same section as you.” Sebastian gestured a few rows behind us. “What’re the odds?”
Shit. The only thing worse than a boring date was Sebastian witnessing a boring date. He couldn’t know how bad I was at this, or I’d never hear the end of it. I had to make more of an effort. “This is François,” I said.
Frank shifted around in his seat and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Sebastian.”
François lowered his hand. “You’re brave to wear a Sox hat around this place.”
I pulled back and sure enough, the Boston Red Sox logo looked back at me. “You can’t wear that here!”
“I’m not.” Sebastian removed it and dropped it over my hair. “You are.”
I shook my head hard since my hands were occupied. “Take it off. I wouldn’t be caught dead—”
“You need it, Keller. You’re starting to look like a stick of cinnamon gum.”
“I don’t care how I look. I’m no turncoat.”
“Come on, now, nobody’ll even notice,” he said, adjusting the cap as he settled it on my head. “Small price to pay to maintain such flawless skin.” He winked, then turned and met Justin four rows directly behind us.
“The nerve,” I growled, turning forward again. Cinnamon gum? Flawless skin? Did his sarcasm know no bounds? “Can you believe him?”
“You want my hat instead?” François asked. “You are a little red . . .”
I sat back in my seat. I didn’t want François’s hat, because—I hated to admit—I liked wearing Sebastian’s. It was like being back in high school, and the quarterback had just draped his letterman jacket over my shoulders.
“It’s fine,” I said. “It’s just a hat.”
But it wasn’t just a hat—and the beer in my hand wasn’t just a beer. They were exactly what I needed in that moment. What did it say that my enemy was taking better care of me than my date?
As the game rolled into the next inning, I began to cool down with the help of the beer and the baseball cap. Except now, I was faced with a different kind of heat—Sebastian’s eyes on the back of my head. Was he watching me or the game? Why would he be watching me? Why did I care? Now that I’d wondered it, I couldn’t think of anything else.
Frank glanced at my beer. “How was it?”
Too small, I thought since I only had a few sips left. Based on his earlier comments, though, I assumed he’d judge me for having a second one. “Satisfying.”
He smiled at me. “You’re cute.”
“Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Well, I just . . .” I hesitated. “I was worried you weren’t having a good time.”
“I’m having a great time.” He put an arm along the back of my seat. “This is my kind of date—Yankees and a sweet girl. Now, if only we were winning.”
“Want me to go down there and have a chat with them?”
He laughed. “How’s someone like you still single?”
“I, um . . . just got out of a relationship.”
“Ah. Me too. I wasn’t planning to get back out there so soon, but here I am.” He angled toward me. “Honestly, I was shocked when you asked me out. My ex never would’ve done that—too shy.”
If I’d been the type to set the record straight, I might’ve pointed out that I hadn’t really been the one asking—only pretending to. Because I was his ex. I never would’ve approached Frank if I hadn’t been forced to.
“You even look good in a Sox cap,” he said, wetting his lips. “That’s something.” Nothing about the moment screamed first kiss, but Frank dropped his hand to my shoulder and brought me closer. I didn’t even have a chance to pull away before the bill of his cap knocked into mine. I laughed nervously and silently thanked Sebastian for saving me from afar.
“Hey, Keller,” Justin called from behind me. “You on a date?”
I glanced back at a grinning Justin. Sebastian had his eyes on us, his knee bouncing a mile a minute. Without his hat, his hair was messy, and he was dressed as casually as I’d ever seen him in a hoodie, gray t-shirt, and jeans that definitely did not double as pajamas.
“What’s with those guys?” Frank asked. “You told me at the bar that guy was your coworker.”
“He is. They both are. They just like to mess with me.”
“They came all the way here to hassle you on a Saturday?”
“I don’t know how, in a stadium this size, they ended up right behind us, but whatever. Don’t pay any attention to them.”
“All right,” he said, playing with my hair. “I’ll pay my attention elsewhere.”
This time, I recognized the look in his eyes—and then he removed his hat. He hadn’t given up on the kiss.
As Frank reached to remove Sebastian’s cap from my head, Sebastian called down to us. “Georgina.”
I needed to take my own advice and ignore him—after all, he was probably interrupting us on purpose to annoy me. Except that I was more relieved for the save than anything. Frank paused as if he was also deciding whether or not to acknowledge Sebastian.
I looked back. “What?” I asked.
Sebastian pushed his sleeves from his forearms to his elbows as he glanced between the two of us. “Come up here a sec.”
I had a decision to make. I’d told Sebastian once I wouldn’t come when he called—but it was either that, or stay and get kissed.
13
SEBASTIAN
If François had felt confident enough to go in for a kiss before the fifth inning, I could only assume Georgina’s date was going well—and thanks to my big mouth, I was about to find out.
Georgina followed me up the stairs toward concessions. Behind me, she said something, but the chatter between innings drowned her out. I angled sideways, putting a hand on her upper back to urge her in front of me. “What’d you say?”
“I asked where we’re going.”
I leaned down to her ear as we reached the concourse. “Beer.”
&nb
sp; “I must look pretty thirsty,” she said.
I caught her drift. I’d picked a fine moment to interrupt the date. I’d tried to convince myself witnessing the kiss wouldn’t bother me, but I couldn’t tell if Georgina had invited it or had been trying to pull away. When François had reached a grubby hand for the hat I’d put on Georgina’s head—my hat—I’d reacted without thinking and blurted out her name.
In line at the concessions stand, I got out my wallet. “What’re you having?”
“I’m not sure I should drink any more.”
“How many have you had?”
“Only the one you brought me, but Frank seemed weird about the fact that I was day drinking. How would it look to get drunk on a first date?”
I refrained from telling her it was a bad sign if he was already making her feel guilty about something—only because I didn’t want her to think I was judging. “Who knows,” I said, “he might start to look better.”
“Is that why Justin is drinking?” Georgina asked while we waited.
Jokes about Justin and I dating were a dime a dozen, but ruffling Georgina’s feather was a rare opportunity I wasn’t about to pass up. The cashier called us forward. I ordered two beers, then leaned down to Georgina’s ear. “You have a point there. Justin and I haven’t even bumped hats yet.”
She shifted feet. “That wasn’t what it looked like.”
“No? It looked like he tried to kiss you. So why didn’t he?”
She looked back at me, holding my gaze until the register’s cash drawer popped open with a ding. She was saved by the bell—for now. I paid for our drinks, picked them up, and steered us to a two-top table when she tried to walk back toward the stands. “Want to sit?” I asked.
She took her drink. “I’ll stand.”
I took a tall stool to put us at eye level. “So, why didn’t you kiss him? Bad breath?”
She gasped into her hand. “My breath is fine.”
“I meant his. I’m sure yours is pure relish on a hotdog.”
She made a face. “Gross.”
“I happen to love relish,” I said. “But does François?”
Each time I said François with flourish, she flinched. I didn’t care. Something about him bugged me—I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
“We didn’t kiss because you interrupted us,” she said.
“So? If I were in his position, and we both wanted that kiss, I wouldn’t let anyone stop me.”
“Frank and I are clicking,” she said, scowling. “There was even mention of spending time at his summerhouse.”
“Hamptons?”
She coughed into her fist. “Boca Raton.”
The idea of Georgina spending a summer with a closeted vampire in Boca Raton was tragic enough that I almost smiled. I got the sense she was playing up the date. If it was so great, why wasn’t she sitting here with him? And why was I more relieved than smug about that? “Meanwhile, Justin and I will be clamming in Montauk.”
“You two should really just make it official and announce your love to the world.”
“But then I wouldn’t get to flirt with pretty girls.”
“For someone who pretends to have as much game as you,” she said, “I still haven’t seen you successfully flirt with any girls since I’ve known you.”
“How do you know I’m not flirting with you right now?”
The slight tint of her cheeks was worth stepping out on a limb. “I said successfully,” she retorted.
I didn’t mean to ask it, but the question had come out, a natural response. Because flirting came easy to me, and I had flirted with her once. Before I’d known who she was. I’d been wondering whether I’d jumped to conclusions about Georgina since my talk with Libby, and I couldn’t forget she was a threat to my job—but could she be more than that too? The way her personality flipped on a dime, I still couldn’t tell. Seeing how someone her size handled Bruno, not just physically but shouldering the weight of his illness, caring for him the way she did . . . it aligned with the strength she’d exuded in front of a roomful of strangers. But it also hinted at the sweet, vulnerable side of her I’d only gotten glimpses of. Which had left me only more confused about who Georgina really was.
At the moment, she was pink-nosed, sweet smelling, and throwing snark in my direction. “What was that?” I pretended not to hear her so I could scoot to the edge of my stool.
“I said I still haven’t seen you flirt successfully.”
I set an elbow on the table. “Maybe I ought to come down and get some tips from Mr. Boca Raton. Or you could ditch him and come sit with us.”
“What would be the fun in that?” she asked. “I know you and Justin are having the time of your lives analyzing my first-date moves.”
I wasn’t sure about that. Watching them had made me want to interrupt, the same way I’d had to refrain from interjecting when they’d met at happy hour. Was it just François who got under my skin, or was it her with him? That sounded an awful lot like jealousy.
“Can I give you your hat back now?” she asked.
If her flushed cheeks were any indication, Georgina burned easily. Those little freckles were endearing, but there was nothing cute about skin cancer. “Not ’til the sun goes down, buns.”
Her mouth fell open. “Buns? What does that mean?”
“Your nickname.”
She gasped and covered the seat of her jeans. “Did I sit in something?”
“Buns doesn’t have to mean butt. It can mean hotdog buns, hamburger buns, sticky buns.”
“Man buns,” she offered, her eyes glimmering. “Oh, I know. This is because I tried to wear my hair in a bun the other day.”
“I remember that.” She’d come to work in glasses with her hair spooled on top of her head looking like she’d walked out of the sexy geekette spread Derek had been trying to get us to run since her PowerPoint. I reached up and fingered some strands of her hair. “Little pieces kept falling out . . .”
“I was running late that day, and I ran out of time to . . .” She seemed to lose her train of thought as I twirled the hair around my index finger. “Have you guys been calling me that the whole time?”
“It’s not a bad thing. It could also mean honeybuns.” Honeybuns? Christ, I was cheesy and nearly on the edge of my seat, but I couldn’t seem to tear myself away. I released the tendril. “Or my personal favorite—cinnamon buns.”
“Your fascination with cinnamon borders on troubling.”
Tell me about it. Dunkin’ Donuts made a mean cinnamon bun, but it was the sprinkles dusted on her nose that had my attention.
“Cinnamon doesn’t annoy me. Being likened to a cinnamon bun does.”
I’d never called her one, and damn if her response hadn’t been cute, especially with her pouting over it the way she was now.
“You’re not seriously going to call me that in public?” she asked.
Of course I wouldn’t. Justin would string me up if he ever heard me wax poetic over a pastry. I kept my voice low. “We can keep it between us if you like.”
“But you hate nicknames.”
“Says who?”
“Justin.”
I sniffed, easing back a bit. “He only thinks that because my sister complains that I refuse to call my niece caramela instead of Carmen.”
“Why won’t you?”
“Because she’s not a piece of candy.”
“So how come you can’t see the rest of us that way?”
The exposé had blasted me for referring to women as food. I was about to tell Georgina she shouldn’t believe everything she read—obviously, I didn’t actually disregard her as some empty-calorie breakfast treat. But I had called her that when I wouldn’t do the same to my niece, so maybe she had a point. “Does it make you uncomfortable?” I asked.
“To be seen as a lowly cinnamon bun?”
“Nothing lowly about it.” I leaned in. “Don’t tell anyone, but most days, I prefer buns over donuts.”
&nbs
p; She sighed. “It doesn’t bother me, because I don’t think it’s coming from a malicious place. But you can see how some women might find it belittling.”
I’d wanted to best Georgina, challenge her, run her out of the job—but I never wanted to make her feel small. “Yeah,” I admitted. “I guess I can see that.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Are you only agreeing to get me off your back?”
“No.” If it wasn’t her job to be on my back, having her there wouldn’t have sounded too bad. I didn’t relish the idea of admitting I’d been wrong, but I got where she was coming from. “I hate nicknames because I grew up with them,” I explained. “As a twin, and with a Hispanic surname, sometimes they were cutesy and other times derogatory. So I do understand.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, sliding her fingers under the edge of the hat. “I wouldn’t have thought Quinn would give you any trouble.”
It’d given me plenty of trouble all right. “It’s Quintanilla,” I said. “When my sister and I entered middle school, my mom chopped it off. Kids made fun of it. Teachers couldn’t pronounce it. She worried it would hold us back.”
“I . . . I had no idea.”
“Nobody does.” I looked her over. I’d shared something with Georgina, someone who could possibly end me, that only my immediate friends and family knew. “It isn’t public knowledge.”
She hid her hand in the sleeve of her shirt and asked, “Why are you telling me this?”
It was a valid question without an answer. Nor could I explain why I’d gone overboard just to tag along on this date with her. I searched her eyes, and though the idea of Georgina scared me in more ways than one—both what she meant for my career and the fact that she’d brought out a side of me I didn’t like—I wasn’t afraid of the person I saw right then. We were even closer now. Had I moved, or had she? She wore the same alarmed look that’d crossed her face near the end of our walk in the park. Fear that I might kiss her? Or anticipation? The old Sebastian might’ve taken what he wanted, consequences be damned, but I was trying to be better. For my mom. For my job. “I don’t know why I told you that,” I said, except I did. I trusted the Georgina in front of me. It was George at the office who made me wary.
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