chapter 35
Chicago
Knives clinked against china. Gold-press wallpaper and black velvet curtains held in the loud conversation—twenty hungry bodies pulled close to the table.
I chewed on a piece of filet and half-heartedly listened to Dad’s discussion with Fernandez about immigration reform.
Across the table, a few bodies down, was Chase.
Our eyes had met once. I had given a small smile, then hadn’t looked back.
I could feel him watching me. It was uncomfortable, but I craved it, the scratch to the itch that wouldn’t stop crawling across my skin.
To my left, Mr. Grant wished me a happy birthday. Asked about school. Told me Tobey was coming to the Cincinnati series next week. I nodded politely and remembered our kiss, grabbed in those shadows of their mansion, right before the news of Chase broke.
“You should hang out with him,” Dad said, his bony elbow poking me in the ribs.
“Sure.” I smiled politely. “Maybe we can grab a matinee.”
“You don’t have to work the game,” Dad offered. “Take the night off. Celebrate your birthday.”
“We already did.” And we had, in high-style.
Road trip up to Maine. Two days stuffing our faces with lobster and crab, our shirts stained with butter, smiles big.
Dad sang karaoke in a dive bar in South Portland, and I won twenty bucks against bikers in Portland.
I hadn’t needed friends, and watching a chick flick with Tobey a week after my birthday wouldn’t come close.
“I know Tobey would love to see you,” Mr. Grant pushed.
I coughed out an uncomfortable laugh, pinned between the two of them. “I appreciate it, Dad, but I’ll work the game. I’ve never—”
“—missed a game. I know. Just know the offer is there.”
I met his eyes and narrowed my own. It was no mystery that my father loved Tobey.
Five or six years ago, when Tobey wanted to be a pitcher and Dad had spent the better part of a winter coaching him—they’d bonded over Revolutionary War history and the Steelers.
Since then, Dad and Mr. Grant had been scheming, trying to put us together.
But he should know better than to think I’d give up a game to prance around the mall.
I pushed on the edge of the table and stood, flashing a regretful smile at the two matchmakers. “Excuse me, I need to use the ladies’ room.”
I sidestepped down the table, my eyes sliding forward, past the row of men hunched over their food, each engaged in conversation or busy eating.
All except for Chase, who sat back, one arm draped over the back of a chair, his expression impossible to read, his stare dark and penetrating and locked on me.
I tried to look away, but couldn’t, holding the contact until I reached the end of the table and was free, all but tripping in my heels in my haste to exit.
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to find a reason he’d stared.
Spinach in my teeth? Nope. Giant zit on my face?
None. I flipped the handle, was washing my hands under hot water, when my cell buzzed.
I grabbed for a paper towel and reached for my phone, a moment of confusion at the text.
Grant’s son? Didn’t realize your Yankee loyalty went that far. Oh. And Happy Birthday.
I leaned against the counter and sent back my best attempt at coyness. Who’s this?
Guess.
I didn’t need a guess. I hesitated, then had a moment of evil inspiration. Holding back a smile, I replied. Please stop. We were a one-time thing. Get over it. It wasn’t even that great.
I sent the red herring into cyberspace and waited, smiling. Let my new ‘friend’ stew over that. I watched dots of activity appear, and then stop.
Ty?
I waited an appropriate length of time, leaving him hanging, then set the hook. Who’s this?
Chase.
Oh. Nevermind. I thought you were someone else.
I didn’t wait for a response, my high note hit. I stuffed the phone in my purse and tried to compose myself, to hide my smile, before I stepped back out. The man needed to be taught a lesson, needed to learn to mind his own business. It’d do him some good to stew over my mythical team boyfriend.