Chapter Fourteen #3
Moskins scoffs. “It’s a briefcase.”
“It’s a canvas bag,” Head chirps in, all of them staring hard at the bag Dane put on the floor that he hasn’t touched once since they sat down.
A thoughtful noise rises from Raymond’s throat. “It’s a man purse,” he decides.
Dawson has a point though. Dane doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t seem tense or irritated that I sent Belle a drink. I’m not sure what they’re talking about, but he shrugs and nods before she scrapes her chair back and starts walking over.
“Oh shit,” I hear Head murmur under his breath as she makes it through the maze of people and tables and waitstaff and stops directly in front of us.
I smile at her. “Hi.”
The four other men beside me mimic the greeting, leaving Belle gaping at us.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice deceptively calm for the murderous expression she’s pinning me with.
I point at Richie. “We needed to get Head out of the house. Thought dinner sounded good. Who doesn’t love Italian?”
Moskins nods, and I’m pretty sure Dawson says something that sounds like agreement.
Belle crosses her arms over her chest. “You barely like eating Italian food in the off season because it’s always cooked in olive oil and contains too many carbs.”
That’s true, but it’s not what I say. “Olive oil is good for your heart.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose.
“Plus,” I add, before she can reply, “Italian is Head’s favorite. Don’t you think he deserves a pick-me-up?”
Exasperation doesn’t describe the way her hands drop to her sides, and she deadpans. “His favorite food is Mexican. Especially those nasty California burritos with the French fries shoved inside them. Which I don’t even think can be considered Mexican.”
Head doesn’t even try lying. “I do fucking love those.”
I shoot him a look as if to say not helping.
Belle’s stare pierces my soul if that’s possible. “I cannot believe you,” she hisses, ignoring the four hockey players listening in on the conversation. “You knew I would be here tonight. This has nothing to do with Richie or his injury.”
I could deny it, but I don’t. “He didn’t pull your chair out for you,” I say instead.
She blinks at me, speechless.
So, I continue. “And he only got a drink for himself. You don’t like beer. You prefer sweeter drinks.”
I know the guys’ attention are ping-ponging between Belle and I, but I don’t care. If I didn’t want them in my business, I wouldn’t have invited them. Getting Head out of the house is only part of the reason we’re all here. She knows it, I know it, and so do the boys.
Belle stands straighter, fisting her hands at her sides.
“I didn’t order a drink because I’m driving home.
You know since he didn’t pick me up. Because this is not a date.
He’s not obligated to open doors for me or walk on the street-side of the sidewalk or pull out my chair.
He can get a beer if he wants one. And I can just get water if that’s all I want. ”
Her voice raises by the end of her rant, catching the attention of a few people beside us. Most of them don’t know who we are, which is great. There’s a guy three tables down who does a double take and elbows his friend at the table beside his to look over here.
I do my best to ignore them.
“You’re ridiculous,” Belle tells me. “I cannot believe you came all this way to spy on me. If you want to make Head feel better, you could have at least taken him somewhere he likes eating.”
Head pipes in then. “I don’t hate Italian food. And have you had their bread? Better than Cheesecake Factory.”
He has, in fact, been going to town on the breadbasket they left for us. And while I doubt it’s that hard to beat Cheesecake Factory, nobody chimes in to dispute the claim.
Belle closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, mouthing a countdown that goes to five before opening them up to look at me again.
“I don’t know why you’re here or what game you’re playing, but I told you the reason I was here already.
The fact you didn’t believe me and came makes me really, really mad.
Just…” She shakes her head, wetting her lips.
“Don’t cause a scene. Okay? No more drinks or unnecessary comments. Don’t embarrass me.”
That’s what she’s worried about? Me embarrassing her? I’m the one who has my balls in a wad knowing my stepsister is on a pseudo-date with another man and brought my teammates here to witness it. If anybody has a reason to be embarrassed, it’s me.
“It isn’t that I thought you were lying—” I begin, but she won’t let me finish that thought.
“No. You don’t get to change the narrative because you were called out on it,” she informs me, glancing over her shoulder at Dane. His eyes are on his phone, not over here like mine would be if some dude sent the girl I’m at dinner with a drink and she walked over to them.
The guys are all quiet as I get reamed out.
I say the only thing I can think of when I see a semblance of hurt flash in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I’m not sorry for coming here or spying on her, but I am sorry for upsetting her. So it isn’t a lie. Not completely, anyway.
She takes another deep breath. “Enjoy your dinner,” she murmurs, turning to walk back to her table.
Head calls out, “Can you still make me those churros you talked about, or is that off the table now?”
Dawson smacks him upside the back of his head, getting a noise of protest from the injured defenseman. “You’re an idiot,” Dawson tells him.
Head shrugs. “It was an honest question.”
One that Belle did not answer before sitting back down across from Dane.
Moskins sips his drink. “That went well,” he muses, stealing a piece of bread before Head demolishes the entire basket.
Raymond grins.
Head snickers.
And I don’t have the energy to glare at them.
After a few minutes of silence, Head breaks it with a mouthful of food. “Damn. I kind of want a burrito now.”