CHAPTER 8
MAPLE
Victory!
If I wasn’t trying to remain cool, calm, and collected, I would jump up in the air, my arm leading the way in a fist pump, only to land in the splits while whooping it up like I just won the lottery.
Because…AHA!
Got him.
I freaking got him.
He thought he could mess with me?
Ohhhh no.
He has no idea who he’s—
“Are you fucking coming?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” I tuck away my smile and follow the grumbling giant next to me as he leads me to our dinner location.
It took him a second to find a place, mumbling the entire time about wanting a sandwich, but I didn’t give in. I said Italian, and we’re getting Italian.
God, it’s so freeing, knowing that I beat him at his own game, and in all honesty, I wouldn’t have had to go to such lengths if he didn’t act like what we had to talk about wasn’t important. Because it is.
I’m a planner. I like to know what’s going on. I don’t think it was asking too much to have him figure out a quick plan with me, but he refused, and that meant I had to take matters into my own hands.
At first, the plan was to follow him and sit on him until he listened to me, but that turned into a free meal, which, I mean, don’t mind if I do.
He turns right down a block, then stops in front of a red storefront and pulls open a door to a quaint restaurant.
A matching red awning hangs over a three-table seating area outside with wrought-iron bistro tables.
When I step inside, I’m immediately assaulted by the smell of garlic and tomatoes just as a hostess greets us with a charming smile.
“Two?” she asks, her eyes fully taking in the height of Graydon.
I don’t blame her. Even if he wasn’t famous, it would be hard not to glance his way.
A single one of his pecs is the size of my head, he towers over everyone, and I’m fairly certain, every hour, on the hour, he swallows at least four eggs whole, shell and all.
“Yes,” he says in a gruff voice.
“Would you like to sit outside?”
I’m about to say how lovely that would be since it’s a nice day out and it’s not foggy or raining, but Graydon quickly says, “Your most private table, please.”
Okay, I know he’s saying that because he doesn’t want people listening in on our conversation, but for some reason, the rasp of his voice when he says “private” sends a shiver down my spine.
Sounds so…naughty.
Like something scandalous will happen in the privacy of said table while consuming an immaculate plate of eggplant parm.
But you and I both know that’s not the case.
Nope. The only thing scandalous between me and Graydon will be the sharing of calendar details and going over the ground rules of our new social media endeavor.
And correct me if I’m wrong, but there is nothing scandalous about that, other than the possibility of revealing an appointment he doesn’t want me to see. Like…laser hair removal.
“Of course,” the hostess says as she leads us to the back of the restaurant, where the sound of a small voice pulls me from my thoughts.
“Graydon. Graydon, I love you.”
I glance to the right where a little girl with curly hair is bouncing up and down in her booth, waving dramatically for Graydon’s attention.
I wince, gearing up for the kid to get the cold shoulder, but to my surprise, Graydon’s shoulders visibly relax as he heads over to the girl’s booth and then squats next to her.
Holy. Shit. He knows how to be nice?
“What’s up, little lady?” Graydon asks, giving the girl a ruffle on the top of the head. “Can I get my picture taken with you?”
Stunned, the girl just nods, unable to form words.
Graydon slips his arm over the girl’s shoulder and then faces her parents, who are both in awe as well. They take a picture of the two of them before Graydon turns back to the girl and grips her shoulder.
He picks up the girl’s fork and taps her uneaten broccoli.
“Listen, little lady, I’m going to need you to eat these vegetables, okay? It’s important. If you want to get big and strong like me, you better not skip out on this stuff.”
The girl nods, mouth still agape.
“Good.” He stands now. “I’ll let you get back to your dinner. Have a good night.”
He offers the parents a wave as they profusely thank him.
Me…I stand there stunned.
Probably more stunned than the family because what the hell did I just witness?
Graydon can be…nice?
Not just nice, but actually go out of his way to be kind?
Consider me floored.
“You coming?” Graydon asks in a grumbly voice as the hostess leads us up a set of stairs.
“Uh, yeah,” I say absentmindedly, still trying to process.
When we reach the top, we are met with a private room and a booth positioned toward the front of the building, bathed in candlelight.
Oh boy.
I think he ordered us the lover’s special.
Before us is a red booth with a dark mahogany table. Battery-operated votives softly illuminate the area, while grapevines dance along the back of the booth and along a partition that closes the table off from the rest of the restaurant.
He wanted private. Well, he got it.
We both take a seat, him adjusting the table so it’s closer to me while the hostess places menus down in front of us.
“Your server will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you,” I say as she walks off, shutting the partition a few inches more. “Well.” I look around. “This is…intimate.”
He stares down at his menu, scouring the beer and wine list.
“So, you and that little girl, that was really—”
“Do not say ‘nice.’”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
Well, that answers that.
“I just wasn’t expecting—”
“Drop it, Maple.”
Ohhh-kay. I can see that he can converse with others, just not with me. Noted.
I bring my attention to the menu, looking for the wine list because it seems like I’m going to need some to get through this evening. “Going to order something alcoholic?” I ask.
“Several,” he answers, never lifting his gaze.
“Maybe you can hold back on inebriation until we’re done with our scheduling and planning?”
“Not making any promises,” he says as a server joins us.
“Hello.” She sets down some bread on our table as well as some water. “Can I get you started with something to drink?”
“Guinness,” he says, making me cringe.
Yikes, that’s some thick beer.
“Tall,” he adds.
Looks like I’m going to need to work fast. Then again, his body mass is large, so he might be able to guzzle down three of those and not even feel a hint of a buzz.
“And you?” the server asks.
“Um, could I have a glass of your chardonnay, please?”
She nods and takes off.
When I glance up at Graydon, he studies me for a moment before turning back to his menu.
“What?” I ask. When he doesn’t respond, I nudge my foot against his leg, which causes him to raise one brow. “Why were you just looking at me like that?”
“Surprised is all,” he answers.
“Surprised about what?”
“That you drink.”
“Do you think I’m not old enough or something?”
“No, you just seem like a goody-two-shoes is all.”
“How so?” I ask, slightly offended.
He leans back in the booth, assessing me. “You just give off that kind of vibe.”
“Well, I’m not. I’ve done some pretty crazy things. And I’ve gotten drunk several times.”
“Wow, several?” He presses his hand to his chest. “Jesus, I better watch out.”
My eyes narrow. “You’re so…rude.”
“Would you rather I fake it?”
“I’m sure you know how. You’ve probably learned from every woman you’ve ever been with.”
The insult flies past my lips before I can stop it, and I almost let out a burst of laughter, because man, that was a quick one.
An old one-two punch I wasn’t expecting to escape my mouth.
Then again, Graydon St. John has been able to get under my skin faster than anyone, which means I think he pulls the snarky out of me.
I’m half tempted to pull my phone out and text Everly, let her know that I just burned Graydon to the point of being—
“If they were faking it, it’s only because they couldn’t handle the real thing, something I’m sure you know plenty about.”
My mouth falls open in shock, my brain short-circuiting because…how?
I thought I had him.
I thought—
“Trying to show me what you can offer with your mouth open like that?” He shakes his head. “You’re going to have to pop that jaw wider if you want any chance…Baker.”
I snap my mouth shut, my eyes stinging with tears. It’s not because he hurt me, but because he angers me.
He angers me so much that the back of my neck heats up, my stomach twists in knots, and my body goes into fight mode, something I rarely feel.
And I don’t like it.
I don’t like the way it makes me feel.
I don’t like the spike of adrenaline. It’s not…it’s not for me.
Before I came back to San Francisco, I led a very simple life.
A life where I slept under a blanket of stars every night, where I shared common interests and goals with the people surrounding me, where I spent every day with people who didn’t insult me but rather praised me for the work I was doing.
So this…this lack of respect is so foreign to me that I don’t know how to handle it.
But I will be damned if he sees me cry, so I lift my menu and focus on the entrées.
If my stomach wasn’t so twisted in knots and my heart racing from adrenaline, I would consider getting the most expensive thing on the menu, along with an appetizer and a dessert since he’s paying, but I don’t want to prolong this meal any more than I need to.
So a main dish and that’s it.
When the server comes back with our drinks, we put in our orders. I go with an eggplant parm, and he picks a pepperoni pizza.