Page 36 of The Fake Out

FOURTEEN

I’d like to take you to the movies, but they don’t let you bring in your own snacks.

—SARAH M.

“Seriously, Kyle,” Amanda said. “They’re your kids. Carson’s growing like a weed. He needs new shoes, and I can’t do this without—”

It was Friday night and I’d just popped into the changing room at Chicky’s for a quick fifteen-minute break. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop but, besides Amanda, I was the only other person here and it was not a big room.

“I hate him,” Amanda growled and tossed her phone on the counter next to me. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“Ex-husband?”

“What did I ever see in him?” She grabbed a tissue and carefully dabbed under her eyes. “He quit his job. Said he was just working to pay for child support so why bother. Meanwhile, I’m working two jobs just to pay the rent and keep the lights on.”

“I wish I could help in some way.” And I meant it; Amanda was good people.

“Maybe some poor drunk soul will get sloppy and give me a five-hundred-dollar tip.” With a tired chuckle, she pushed off the counter and pasted on a smile before walking out the door.

Another name to add to my list of Reasons to Avoid Men At All Costs. It included: my father, Peter, Ali’s ex-boyfriend, and now Amanda’s deadbeat ex-husband.

I’d just finished calling Mama to check on her when Amanda returned. “There you are. That guy from last week is back.”

I stared at her in horror. “The guy I spilled the food on?”

“No.” She hopped on the tips of her high-heeled boots. “The hot one. The football player. What is his dang name?”

“Oh.” My relief was short-lived. “Wait. He’s here?”

“Yup,” She smiled broadly, flashing straight white teeth and a single dimple. “He asked specifically for you. He’s at the bar.”

What could he possibly want? If he was here to make fun of me, he had another thing coming. I didn’t have the time or patience for games. He’d have to understand not all of us were sports heroes with fat paychecks and no problems.

I’d gotten myself good and riled up by the time I spotted him at the bar. He was laughing at something Kara, the bartender, was saying to him. With a giggle, she leaned over the counter (conveniently giving him a very good view of her cleavage) and playfully smacked him on the shoulder.

I had a momentary desire to rip that arm off Kara’s body and throw it in the nearest meat grinder. Which was ridiculous. I liked Kara. She was funny and smart (currently in her second year of law school). If she wanted to flirt with Chris, she could have him. I did not care a whit. I was whit-less, indeed.

Witless was more like it.

How had my life gotten so weird? Here I was, marching across a crowded restaurant dressed as a show extra for The Dukes of Hazzard to a real-life football god.

When I was about ten feet away, Chris turned and saw me. His smile widened and, for a split second, I faltered under the full wattage of it. A powerful weapon, that thing was. Not to mention the rest of the package wrapped in faded jeans and a t-shirt, baseball cap firmly in place. The whole slightly scruffy, casual clothes thing worked for him.

It was sure working on Kara.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Chris’s smiled dimmed a little; two little tick marks appeared between his brows. “Is this a bad time?”

“I am at work.”

“Sorry. I need to ask you a question.”

“And you have to do it right now?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice earnest. “Well, no, not exactly, but it seemed like I should do it immediately.”

“What could possibly be this important?”