ERICA #2
Once we reach the lobby, he’s on the phone making calls. I have absolutely no idea what restaurant is even open right now, but he eventually hangs up, looking pleased with himself in a way I find almost sweet, and hands me a folded card with a name and an address scrawled on it.
“They’re holding a private room,” he says. “Table’s held under Flurry.”
I don’t correct him. At this point it feels cruel.
I tuck the card into my jacket pocket and thank him.
“Shall I order you a car?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
I turn to get the heck out of here when someone crosses directly into my path.
“Hey.”
Worst. Possible. Timing.
Jeremiah. He is, true to form, unfairly handsome in a Team USA hoodie and an expression that could melt steel.
Not here, I think, glancing over my shoulder at Clive. I do the only thing I can do, which is grab his arm and steer him sideways.
“Walk with me,” I say, guiding him to the far end of the lobby.
“Bossy,” he says, but he goes easily.
Once we’re tucked into the dead zone by the potted ficus, out of Clive’s line of sight, I relax a little.
“Hi, Zesty,” I say, aiming for breezy and not succeeding even a little. “Small world.”
“It is,” he says. “I haven’t seen you around in a few days.”
I feign nonchalance. “Hmmm. I guess not. Weird.”
It is absolutely not weird. I have been actively avoiding him for… reasons.
“So… I was a little worried.” His jaw tightens. “After that guy… at the museum.”
“Oh. That? That guy is nobody,“ I say, and toss my hand. “Ancient history. I’m fine. Promise.”
He studies me a beat longer than I’d like. Then, like he’s decided to let it go for now and not forever, he shifts his weight, clears his throat, and says, “So… there’s this gala I’m supposed to go to.”
He looks at his shoes, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s nervous, I realize, and something in my chest does an undignified little flip. He’s actually nervous.
Then he quickly adds, “You don’t have to say yes.”
I tilt my head. “You haven’t asked me anything yet.”
“Oh. Well... would you... like to come? It’s on July eighteenth. Again, no pressure… I just…”
“Yes!”
“Cool,” he says, aiming for casual and overshooting by a mile. “Cool, that’s, yeah. Good.”
Smooth, I think. Very smooth, Zesty.
His eyes drift over the blazer, the tie knotted too tight at my throat, the hair scraped back hard enough to give me a headache.
“What’s with the outfit?”
I look down at myself. “Why? Do I look like a Build-A-Bear?”
He blinks. “What?”
“A Build-A-Bear. Zoe makes fun of me whenever I wear a suit.”
He’s quiet, and for a moment I think he’s going to confirm exactly what Zoe thinks. That I do, indeed, look like a Build-A-Bear in this suit. But then he laughs, head tipped back, and it does something glorious to his whole face.
“No,” he says, once he’s got it back under control, still grinning.
“You don’t look like a Build-A-Bear.” He tilts his head, considering me with an expression that’s suddenly a lot less funny and a lot more like he’s actually looking.
“Actually, with your hair like that, slicked all the way back? You look like one of those girls in that old music video. The one with the models playing instruments in matching outfits and bright red lipstick?”
I grimace. “Addicted to Love?”
He snaps, pointing at me. “Yeah. That one.”
I suppose I should take that as a compliment. For the record, I don’t think I look like those supermodels, but if this extremely hot guy wants to see me like that, I won’t complain.
“Maybe I should take up guitar,” I say.
“I could teach you.”
Now that is not what I expected to hear. “You play guitar?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like all hockey players play guitar, like it just comes with the territory.
There’s silence for a long moment. Comfortable, though, not the bad kind. We’re just staring at each other, and it’s almost like the rest of the world has fallen away. Then he blinks and clears his throat.
“We should exchange numbers,” he says, already pulling his phone out, thumb hovering over the screen. “Coordinate gala stuff. Just hold your phone up and tap mine.”
I pull my phone out. It flips open with a satisfying, ancient click. It has a single antenna.
He stares at it.
“Is that… a flip phone?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “It does the job.”
That is, until I don’t need it anymore. And then I’ll snap it in half and drop the pieces in two separate storm drains. He doesn’t need to know that part.
Something crosses his face. Pity. He thinks I’m broke. He thinks I’m a poor girl who can’t afford a phone that does anything but ring. And he is being so careful not to let that show on his face that it almost undoes me more than if he’d said it out loud.
“Here,” I say, and hold out my hand.
He hands his phone over without hesitation, and I type my number in manually and pass it back.
He looks down at the screen. At the contact I just made.
“Erica,” he reads out loud. Then his whole face crumples, and he brings a palm up and smacks it flat against his own forehead. “Your name is Erica.”
And then his eyes do something spectacular, somewhere between a wince and a full system reboot.
“Erica for short,” I say, watching him process it, staring at his phone. I let it sit, then add, “America for long.”
He goes still.
“Wait.” His eyes come back up to mine, slow, like he’s rerunning the last several weeks through a different filter entirely. “That’s actually your name. You weren’t joking.”
“Don’t spread it around.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at me like I just handed him the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle.
“Erica,” he says again, testing the weight of it, and then, softer, “America the beautiful.”
Alrighty then.
“My middle name isn’t The-Beautiful, though. I really was joking about that.”
The corner of his mouth tilts into the most adorable grin. “I figured as much.”
He holds my gaze softly, like I’m the eighth wonder of the world.
“I have to go,” I say, before I do something catastrophic like stand here and let him keep looking at me like that.
“Right.” He holds his pinky and thumb up to his cheek. “Call me!”
“Will do,” I confirm, already backing away, already feeling the pull of him like gravity, and I make myself turn around and walk back to the front desk.
Clive looks up, hopeful, the second I’m in range.
“Change of plans,” I say, sliding back into the French accent.
He blinks. “The reservation?”
“Cancel it. Tell them Miss McFlurry sends her regrets.”