7. Kate
KATE
TINA: Hey! You nervous? Don’t be nervous.
ME: Why would I be nervous?
TINA: How many times have you peed in the last half an hour?
ME: Seven. But that’s a bladder thing. Not a nervous thing.
EUNICE: I’m going to need proof of life for the sweater dress/over the knee socks/sexy boots combo.
ME:
TINA: Dayuuumm gurl.
EUNICE: Hawt. Are you wearing insoles in your boots? Don’t lie to me.
ME: Of course! I’m not gonna get blisters just to look hot for Adam Foley.
TINA: Queen.
EUNICE: Girl. It’s not your feet that are going to get a pounding tonight.
Tina loved “Girl. It’s not your feet that are going to get a pounding tonight.”
ME: You are both out of your minds. The only pounding that’s
Shit. The door buzzer from this historic building’s old intercom system scares the bejesus out of me, and now I have to pee again. For bladder reasons—I am not nervous. I delete my last text before saying into the intercom, “Be right down!”
“Your threats don’t scare me, Red,” says the overly confident deep voice through the intercom speaker as soon as I remove my finger from the button.
I scrunch up my face and try to think of something amazingly witty to say, but I can’t because I have to pee.
“I can hear you trying to think of a witty comeback,” he says after a moment of silence. “I’ll wait.”
Bastard.
I run to the bathroom to pee for the eighth time.
I give myself another spritz of eau de parfum on either side of my neck and then decide it would be a bad idea to smell too good for this, so I dab a wet Kleenex at those overly fragrant spots.
Good. Now I don’t smell like I’m trying to seduce him.
I’m going to win this date, but I will not give him the satisfaction of thinking I put any effort into being hot for him.
I put on my coat. I don’t button it up so Foley can see the tight sweater dress I’m wearing underneath and understand what he’s dealing with.
I need him to comprehend that I’m way out of his league and he must treat me as such.
And then I slowly, sexily walk down one flight of stairs to the small lobby.
Thank God I’m wearing inserts because these heels are insane.
Through the glass of the front door, I can see Foley talking.
This is amazing. He’s still talking to the intercom panel. I pull out my phone to capture this on video, but he sees me before I’ve opened the camera app.
Of course he does.
He ruins everything.
He has already ruined my appetite. He’s wearing a sharp-looking black wool coat over a tight black V-neck sweater. Black slim-fitting pants. It looks like he showered and used hair product. Who the hell does he think he is? Someone I’m supposed to want to have sex with?
I feel sick. Not nervous. Incurably disgusted by the feeling in my belly that I recognize as attraction.
When I walk out the front door, I attempt to stand still without fidgeting while Foley proceeds to do a long, slow visual sweep of me from head to toe and back up again.
He scratches his chin with his thumb, nodding and sighing.
“Well played, darlin’. Well played.” He takes a half step toward me and then freezes, as if he’s trying to decide what to do.
Hug me? Give me a kiss on the cheek? Bro-punch my biceps?
He decides to hold out his hand. “Nice to see you,” he says.
Well, that’s kind of cute. “And you as well,” I reply, shaking his hand. His big, strong hand. He holds it for just a few seconds longer than normal, and well…shit. It’s doing things to me. Now I might actually be nervous.
He smells nice. It’s not his usual hockey-bro scent. It’s spicy and woodsy and refreshing. Like having sex in the woods on a bed of freshly fallen snow. With an asshole.
“Oh my God, it’s really happening!” I look up to find Myra and Pam, the middle-aged ladies who live across the street from me, holding up their phones, taking pictures of us, like they’re paparazzi.
I remember to smile and look like I’m stoked to be going on a date with this jerk. “It certainly is,” I say.
“Shall we?” he asks, placing his hand lightly on my back. “My truck’s right over here.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter through my forced smile. “Lead the way.” Which is what I say instead of Please remove your hand from my body because it’s giving me butterflies and I want to punch you.
His truck is less than half a block away. A car slows as it drives by us, and an unfamiliar male voice calls out, “Yeaahhh!! Fogueley! Woooo!”
Foley holds a fist up to the sky. Like Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club. He’s used to having men yell at him, I suppose. But he’s awfully cool with the ship name.
I focus on his boots. They’re a nice pair of full-grain black leather boots with hard soles and probably no cushioning.
Which is stupid because that’s bad for his knee.
I sure hope he didn’t opt for the nice boots just to impress me.
I’m a movement coach—I’d be more impressed if he wore a good pair of orthopedic shoes.
He opens the passenger door to his truck for me and waits until I’m settled until he shuts the door. “Thank you,” I say begrudgingly.
“You’re so welcome, princess,” he says with a ridiculous flourish.
There’s a mylar red heart balloon that says BE MY VALENTINE!
tied to the gear shift, a white teddy bear holding a red heart on the dash board in front of me, and also a red heart-shaped box of chocolates sitting on the center console.
He probably got them at the drugstore on the way here, but it’s kind of cute and hilarious and that pisses me off.
So, I watch him get into the driver’s seat. I’ve seen him do this many times, from afar. He steps his right foot onto the running board, uses a heavy-duty modified grab handle to take the weight off, pivots and lowers himself into the seat. His left leg, with the bad knee, swings in last.
I have no notes, and he obviously installed the grab handle himself. It’s beautiful. He must have custom made it out of a spare piece of wood in his workshop. Sanded it down, finished it beautifully, and then bolted it to the door frame. I am actually impressed.
“Arbutus?” I ask.
“Big-leaf maple,” he says. “These are for you.” He gestures to the drugstore-variety Valentine’s gifts.
“Very thoughtful. No flowers, huh?”
“I figured the smug look of disappointment you’d give me was a more valuable gift to you.” He starts up the engine, and Vivaldi starts playing on the stereo system. “Want me to change it?” he asks.
“No, I love Vivaldi.”
“Yeah?” He pulls out into the side street. “Thought you only listened to that nineties feminist alt-rock crap—I mean, music.”
“You were wrong.”
Someone behind us honks their car horn three times. Not out of frustration. I see hands sticking out the windows, giving us thumbs-ups. This town is nuts. We both wave to the rearview mirror, our fingers touching midair. I pull my hand away as if it got burned.
He drives like a hot guy. Rests his left elbow on the door panel, super chill. Right hand easy on the wheel. His fingers gently guide that steering wheel, like C’mere baby. Let’s go this way.
I feel a tightening between my legs, and it’s infuriating.
“You should have worn more supportive shoes,” I blurt out.
“Is that right?” He grins. “Why’s that?”
“Well, you always have the gait pattern of someone with a bad knee. It’s subtle, but I’m a trained professional, so I can tell.
The uneven stride. The slight hip drop. The slight tension in the way you hold your upper body on the left side.
Barely noticeable usually. But I noticed you were more careful with your foot placement, walking on the pavement from my building. ”
“Did you, now?”
I roll my eyes and stare out the passenger window. “Force of habit because of my job. I notice how everyone moves.”
“Okay, sweetie. Okay.”
“Oh my God—get over yourself!”
“I mean, it sounds like you’re the one who needs to get over me.”
I let out an exasperated sigh and then realize people are watching us as he pulls into a parking space, so I rearrange my face into a smile. I notice a couple of children on the sidewalk grimace at me. I probably look insane. I feel insane. This is insane.
“Hope you’re ready for a mighty big portion of meat and a couple of potatoes, milady,” he says with a wink.
“You’re so gross,” I say, beaming at him because about half a dozen people have their camera phones trained on us.
He unties the balloon and brings it with him around to the passenger side, which he helps me out of.
He hands me the ribbon of the balloon, and there are women and children who clap and say “Awwww!” For real, ladies?
Does he deserve a parade just for handing me a balloon?
Come on. Then he takes my hand and holds it tight when I attempt to free myself from his grip.
“You two look so cute together!” an elderly lady that I don’t recognize calls out. “I manifested this for you two lovebirds! Have a wonderful time!”
Boy, do I have a bone to pick with you, lady.
“You did good, ma’am,” Foley says with a nod. “Thanks, doll!”
Doll? Good grief. He is enjoying this way too much. He opens the door to the steakhouse for me and even tugs down on the ribbon that’s attached to the balloon so it makes it through the door frame. What a guy!
“Hey, can you guys yell at each other or something for my mom?!” a girl who’s holding up her phone asks. “She’s at home with the flu, but she doesn’t want to miss the fireworks!”
“No fireworks tonight, sweetheart,” Foley says. “Tonight we celebrate love. By July fourth I think you can expect more than a few explosions.”
I snort at that. “Just give us a few minutes to work up to it,” I say to her camera. “The night is young, but we’ve got a lot of old tension to work through.” Great sound bite, Kate. Wait. I see jaws dropping. That came out wrong. Shit.
“Well, now,” Foley says. “Whatever the lady wants.”
There’s hooting and hollering.
“That’s not what I meant,” I hiss.
“It is,” he assures me with a confidence that I do not enjoy. “You just don’t like that you meant it.”
There’s French café music playing over the restaurant speakers for some reason when we walk in, but I swear to God I hear a record scratch before the music turns off for a second and suddenly everyone in For Goodness Steak erupts in applause and cheers.
And by everyone I mean a lot of people, because this place is packed. I am mortified.
“Adam Foley!” The host holds up his hands. “Bring ’er in, bro. Long time no see.” How is it possible that this man appears to be so genuinely happy to see Adam Foley?
“How’s it goin’, buddy?!” They bro-hug. “Do you know my lady of the evening, Kate Pogue? Kate, this is Bucky.”
“Big fan,” he says, holding his hand out for me to shake.
“Love all your nicknames for this guy. Hilarious. We’re all stoked that you guys are finally getting together at our restaurant—we just, you know, hope you don’t throw or break anything while you’re here.
” He chuckles good naturedly. “Know what I’m saying? ”
“Oh” is all I can say to that.
“Got your table ready for you, right this way,” he says, grabbing a couple of menus.
There are so many people filming us right now that for a second I forget I’m not a Kardashian.
But wait.
Is Foley the celebrity they’re excited about seeing?
That can’t be right.
The host leads us to the only empty table in the place, and it has an absolutely stunning flower arrangement in the center of it, to the side.
I look around at the other tables. The rest of them have a single rose in a bud vase.
This one isn’t big or extravagant, but it is lux and elegant.
Beautiful shades of pink, purple, and red roses and ranunculus.
The perfect-sized arrangement to place on a small table without taking up too much space or blocking our view of each other.
My mouth is actually hanging open. I glance over at Foley, who’s grinning, because of course he is.
“Ordered it special for you and had it delivered here,” he informs me. “I paid one of the busboys to deliver it to your place tomorrow. So we don’t have to carry it around.”
“They’re really lovely,” I say. “Thank you.”
The host takes the balloon from me and ties it to the back of my chair, like this is a Chuck E. Cheese. “We got the wine you requested,” he tells Foley. “Shall I bring it out now?”
“Absolutely.”
The host takes his leave, and I open the menu to stare down at it.
I was not planning on drinking tonight.
I can sense Foley clocking my pinched facial expression. “Oh, were you not planning on drinking tonight, darlin’? Worried you might get carried away?”
“I have no such worry,” I say through gritted teeth. “Bring it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grins. “I intend to.”