Chapter 5
Five
“Why did I let you talk me into this, Belinda Marie?” I haven’t dated anyone in a few months, and this is how I’m getting back out there. Ugh.
“It’s going to be fine,” my sister says. “You wouldn’t let me go on a date with Brent all by myself… so this is your punishment.”
A double date. A blind date. Oh, yuck.
“You’re twenty-five years old, I can’t tell you what you can and can’t do.
” However, we both know I try to—for Lindy’s own good!
I fold my arms, my gaze wandering over to the bar at this restaurant.
I skirt my eyes away before Lindy thinks I’m freaking out.
Then I make a mental note to not freak out.
I peer down at my watch, choosing frustration over a freak-out. “They’re late.”
“It’s 6:59. We’re early.”
“Dad always says if you aren’t five minutes early, then you’re five minutes late.” I squirm in my seat.
“Dad also buys forty-year-old cans of Coke and unverified sports memorabilia for obscene prices.”
“The Coke wasn’t that obscene.” I fidget with my collar and the strange neck of this blouse. I don’t like it. I can’t believe I let Lindy talk me into it.
“Will you stop?” she says, tugging down my hand. “You look great.”
“I look like Grandma.”
“You do not—that tie neck style is back in fashion.”
“It’s not,” I grunt, tugging on the tie without success. I think I’ve only strengthened the knot. I will be buried in this shirt. It’s never coming off now.
Lindy sighs, her gaze dragging over to the entrance.
I shut my eyes and take a breath—because I am determined to not freak out tonight. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know this guy. This date isn’t for me. Who cares what I’m wearing?”
“Maybe he’ll be perfect for you. Maybe it’ll be your love match.” Lindy puckers her lips, her eyes shut tight as she makes one smacking, kissy-noise.
“Stop that. Or I’m leaving.”
She shrugs, glancing at the door—again.
“And you’re coming with me.”
Sighing out a laugh, she peeks at her watch this time. 7:01. “I’m twenty-five, remember? I don’t have to listen to you.”
I tap my toe beneath the table. “So,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. “You and Brent—”
“Yep,” she says with a pop.
“You’ve been talking a lot.”
“We have.” My sister’s eyes don’t stray from my face. She’s not afraid of me at all. In fact, maybe she wants me here to prove to me that Brent is worthy of her, of Wyatt.
My watch reads 7:02, and I am not convinced yet. “Does he know—”
“That I’m in recovery?” She rolls her eyes. “No, Mags. We haven’t even met in person yet. I thought I’d save the ‘I’m a recovering alcoholic’ conversation until the second date.”
I clear my throat and stir a little more in my hard restaurant seat. “Right. That makes sense. Does he know about Wyatt?”
“Yes, Mags.” She says my name as if I’m a scolding parent and she’s a snarky teen, home after curfew. “He knows about Wyatt.”
My tapping toe quickens. We wait another minute before I say, “Do you want to call him?”
Lindy sits a little straighter, her eyes bright. “There he is,” she says under her breath.
I peek at the doorway where two men have stepped inside the restaurant.
One tall, broad, and sane-looking. The other short, scruffy, and giving off “main suspect” kind of energy.
I’m not trying to be judgy. But that beard and those brows are out of control, and the black cap on his head isn’t helping.
With sprigs of gray in their hair and wrinkles around their eyes, both men look years older than Lindy, but I’m trying not to dwell on that. Or the suspect’s eyebrows.
No freaking out. I can freak out later—when I’m alone in my bedroom and Lindy’s home and safe.
For Lindy’s sake, I sure hope Brent is the tall, non-suspect-looking man, or there won’t be a second date. I’ll make sure of it.
I realize tall and sane-looking doesn’t make for a decent human, but it’s a start. And, for the record, I know I sound like a mama bear. But Lindy sort of turned me into a mama bear when she fell for an addict who got her using and pregnant.
Lindy stands as they approach, and I follow her lead.
“Belinda,” the tall one says with a beaming grin. He leans in, a hand on her back, and kisses my baby sister’s cheek. What’s with the formality?
I’m pretty much the only person who calls my sister Belinda, and only when she’s in trouble.
“Oh,” he says with a quiet chortle. He stands straight. “This is Reggie. My friend from work.”
“Right.” Lindy’s giggle is delirious—ugh, the girl is smitten. “And this is my sister, Margaret.”
I cough at the mention of my full name. When has the girl ever called me Margaret? “It’s Maggie.” I bobble my head, giving Lindy the tiniest of glares. “Just Maggie.”
Lindy swallows, her cheeks pinkening.
“Maggie,” Brent says with a smile. “It’s good to meet you.
Belinda’s mentioned you and Wyatt more times than I can count.
” He holds out a hand and I shake it, hoping the universe will open a portal to all of Brent’s intentions at our touch.
Turning to his friend, he says, “Uh—Reggie, this is your date, Maggie.”
One of Reggie’s bushy brows quirks up as his eyes draw up to look at me. Yep, I’m at least three inches taller than this culprit—I mean, man. Which, for the record, I realize also doesn’t make him insane, or a criminal, or a terrible date. But something tells me he’s all of those things anyway.
I swallow and nod as I peer down into his eyes. “Nice to meet you.” Sure, it’s not as if I’m an iceberg and he’s a crumb on the ground, but my eyes are forced downward; it’s just a fact.
“Let’s sit,” Brent says. “I’m sorry we’re a couple minutes late. I had to pick Reggie up. He’s car-less for the time being, and I underestimated how long it would take.”
“Oh.” Lindy laughs. “You aren’t late. You’re fine.”
I take my seat and Reggie takes his, moving it two inches closer to me than necessary. I scoot toward Lindy.
“You’re tall,” Reggie says. Way to state the obvious, bud.
“Yep.” My throat has gone dry. I peer at Lindy, but her eyes are glued to Brent. It’s possible she’s forgotten I’m here.
Great.
“What’s your height?” Reggie says. “Can I guess?”
Oh boy. “Menus!” I blurt, reaching across the table and picking up the stack of four menus the hostess set on the edge of the table when she sat Lindy and me. I pass one out to each person, scooting myself another inch closer to Lindy and away from Reggie.
But I haven’t distracted him yet. “5’11”?” he says. “Or an even six feet? Taylor Swift is 5’11”. Did you know that?”
I give my head a small shake.
He licks his lips. “Gwendoline Christie is 6’3”.”
My skin is crawling.
“You could be Brienne of Tarth for Halloween,” he says, bushy brows bouncing.
I swallow. “Who?”
“Gwendoline, from Game of Thrones.” More waggling eyebrows. “Have you thought of that?”
Ew.
I lift my menu in front of my face and bury my head in the thing, refusing to answer the man.
I’m not six feet or even 5’11”. Honestly, he’s giving his own height more credit than it deserves with that guess.
I’m three inches taller than Reggie. At 5’9”, that means he is, at best, 5’6”.
I’m not Gwendoline Somebody and he’s nowhere near 5’10”.
Again, being short is not a recipe for also being a hardcore criminal. But the way he keeps staring at me and waggling his brows—like he’s never seen a tall woman up close before—I’m believing more and more in that guilty suspect first impression.
Maybe it’s my nerves, maybe it’s my overprotective nature when it comes to my sister, maybe it’s the fact that inmate number two over here won’t stop staring, but I slap my menu down and look at Brent.
He’s saying something to Lindy, but I don’t know what; I’ve been dealing with Prison Break over here.
“I’m gonna grab a drink.” I throw my thumb over my shoulder. “At the bar,” I say, my voice too loud and my eyes extra wide. “Can I get you something, Brent?”
Brent blinks. He looks from me to Lindy and back. My sister’s foot kicks mine beneath the table, but I’m testing this man whether she likes it or not. Let’s see if he passes. Let’s see if the worst date of my twenty-eight years is even worth it.
“Um, nah. I’m set. But thanks.”
“I’m good too, sis,” Lindy says through clenched teeth. She knows exactly what I’m doing.
I stand, needing a minute away from waggly-eyed Reggie.
“I’ll take a beer on tap if you’re buying,” Reggie says.
I clamp my jaw closed. Nothing kind is coming to mind, so I just won’t speak. I won’t be buying Reggie a beer either.
I walk up to the bar, peeking back at our table as I go. Lindy is looking at Brent, Brent is looking at Lindy, and Reggie is holding his hands out, studying them as if he’s measuring something.
I step up to the bar in the single space between two men. “Can I get two Diet Cokes?” I say to the bartender. I’m pretty sure most people just wait at their table for their waiter to order a soda. But there are people here, sitting and drinking. So, why not me?
The bartender nods my way, not questioning my motives.
“Oh!” I point to my table just a few yards away. “And could you charge them to that table?” I’m not paying for anything Reggie drinks. No way.
“Hello, there. I have another idea.” Words that lilt in a melt-your-heart kind of accent sound from the man at my right. A voice that makes me wonder if I can swap my date with the owner.
I exhale. Why not take two minutes to chat with a total stranger? One who isn’t convicted of a crime. Turning to face that dreamy voice, my gaze lifts to a tan face, eyes dark as the night sky, and one sexy, trimmed black beard.
“You could always let me buy you a—”
Pause.
Oh boy. All too quickly, I realize I know that voice. I know that accent. And it’s not dreamy at all.
“McCrae?” he groans, as let down as I feel.
Yep, not a stranger—
Saint Lucca Cruz. Reno-Tesoro Red Tail. My least favorite soccer player in the entire league is sitting on the bar stool next to me. And it’s clear he’s just recognized me as well.
Still, I slap on a smile, refusing to let this man have any kind of upper hand on me. “That’s sweet of you, Cruz. Really. But you should probably save all of your dollars and dimes for the next time you do something idiotic and the league fines you.”
“Margaret.” He snuffs out a laugh, one that tells me he isn’t really laughing.
My brows rise with my name on his lips. And while I’m not blind—they are very nice lips—they are also conceited and cocky lips. Sure, Lucca Cruz, Brazilian soccer player extraordinaire, is handsome—possibly stupidly so—but he knows it. And I don’t like him. Never have. Never will.
“What are you doing here?” he grunts.
“I don’t live on the field. You know that, right? Referees have lives outside of the game. Just like players. Teachers don’t live at schools. Librarians don’t sleep at the library. And referees get to go home, too.”
His brow furrows. “Librarians?”
“It’s a comparison to show you how childish you’re being.”
He juts out his chin. “I know you don’t live on the field. I just never pictured you as the fun-having type.”
My eyes flutter up to the ceiling and I snort out a laugh. “You say that like you actually know me.”
He scoffs. “Believe me, I know everything I want to know.”
“Perfect. We’re on the same page, then.”
“Two Diet Cokes,” the bartender says, sliding two glasses my way.
“Two?” Lucca says, judging me. He is so judging me right now.
“Yes, two.” I tap the bar and the man behind it looks back at me. “Thank you. Also, this nice gentleman has offered to pay for my drinks. No need to charge my table.”
Lucca flicks his gaze to the ceiling as I refrain from bowing for my quick thinking.
“Excuse me,” I say, both hands around my glasses.
“I need to get back to my date.” I’m not even sure why I say it.
To rub it into playboy Lucca Cruz that I can date, too.
Yeah… stupid. And not effective. Especially when my date is on the FBI’s most-wanted list for stalking tall women all over the country.
Lucca turns around and scans the crowd. He nods, right at my table. Right at Reggie. “Mousy face. Black cap. Looks like your kind of guy.”
I huff like he has no idea what he’s talking about and yet…
How can I walk back to that table and sit next to that man with Lucca watching?
“He’s taller than he looks,” I say, my voice cracking.
“And hot. Beneath that beany is some seriously hot hair.” I swallow down the lie. “And his personality is… sexy.”
He’s still staring at Reggie. “I highly doubt that.” He sighs, this time a true laugh falling from his lips. “Mouse Man.”
“He isn’t a mouse. He’s a human being.” One who is possibly wanted for multiple crimes—that’s just what my gut is telling me. There’s a slim possibility I’m wrong. “You could attempt to be more respectful. Besides, I’d pick my worst date over sitting at this bar with you any day.”
“You wish that were an option.”
“Next time, spare me the joke or the pain of having to talk to you. Next time you see me, pretend you didn’t.
” I stand, diet sodas in hand, and walk toward my sister, toward my date, who is quite mousy as well as guilty-looking.
I walk away from Lucca stinking Cruz, set a drink in front of Reggie, and scoot my chair right next to his.
We are side to side, my head towering over his—all for Lucca.
I pull in a breath and—
Awesome. I’m snuggled up to Reggie, the criminal, who smells of sardines.