Page 24
I’m pretty sure we were basically alone during the photo shoot. He was as close to me as any man has ever been, even serious boyfriends. I sat on his lap, for goodness sake. All that closeness did not result in me having a better impression of Marcus Delaney.
“Worse comes to worst, you’ll get a free dinner out of it,” Winona says.
“Free is being used loosely here,” I say. “There’s a price. And I’m about to pay it.”
“Keep an open mind,” she says.
“Okay. For you, I’m keeping an open mind.”
“I love you. Keep me posted. I will be waiting up.”
“Now?” I say. “You need to be.”
She laughs and blows me a kiss over the phone. I tell her I love her and hang up.
The hostess glances over at me again. “Couldn’t find your party?”
“No. I found him. I just had to step out to make a call, thanks.”
She smiles at me and I make my way through the front room again, only this time it’s with the stride of an innocent prisoner facing the gallows, not a woman battling butterflies.
Marcus sees me as I approach the table. His face looks like I feel. At least we agree on that one thing—neither of us signed up for this, and neither of us wants to be here.
He scoots his chair back as if on instinct and starts to stand to pull out my chair.
He’s a big guy. I should know. I’ve memorized his career stats and personal stats. He’s six foot, three inches, and at last weigh-in, he was two hundred twenty-one pounds.
The table is pushed up to the wall and the tables next to ours are near enough to make maneuvering difficult, even for a man who runs agility drills on a regular basis. I step toward my chair quickly and he steps back with a jerk of his torso. His hands fly up, palms out, as if to say he means no harm.
Great. We’re already being awkward.
One hour. I can do anything for one hour.
I want to give Winona the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she’s right. That’s why I agreed. Well, it’s really only a small fraction of why. I don’t think Marcus is secretly wonderful. I think I’ve seen more of his true colors than my sister will ever see through her beautiful rose-colored glasses.
I look down at the flowers. “Thanks for those.”
I glance back up at him—his strong jaw, piercing eyes, the way his blond hair lifts away from his browline in short waves.
“They are for me, right?” I tease. Then I add, “You’re not going to drop them on the floor now that you see that I’m your date?”
He chuckles softly, making the crinkles around his eyes deepen.
“I have no intention of these landing on the floor,” he says.
The confidence in his tone makes me almost answer him with something snarky, like, Well then, I’m sure they’ll stay on the table, every petal obeying your implicit will.
I don’t. Instead, I picture Winona, as if she’s in the room with us. I’m going to make her proud.
“Well, thank you,” I say, putting a softness into my voice that I don’t feel.
He nods. I almost think he’s not even going to acknowledge my thanks, but then he looks me in the eyes and says, “You’re welcome, Cass.”
It’s this moment of deceptive softness. And I don’t like hearing my name come out of his mouth. It’s too … suave. Too manly. Too much.
He smiles that got you smile, like he knows I hated liking his voice and the way my name sounds with his slow drawl. A woman can enjoy a voice without liking the man attached to it. I’m exhibit A in this case.
He grabs the menus, handing me one.
