Chapter 10 Boone #2
The lighting in here is soft and romantic casting everything in a golden, candle lit glow. It highlights the color of her hair and eyes beautifully.
She tugs at the neckline on her sweatshirt.
“I’m not, you know, used to this kind of thing. I get that you usually work with entertainers, actors and social media stars who would know how to act here but I might need some help with all this. I feel… awkward.”
She nods but is still not looking at me.
“That’s what I’m here for. I’ll tell you what to say and how to act.”
Okay, she’s giving me nothing. “So, what’d you think of the game tonight?” I ask, trying to shift the conversation.
She sets the menu down and picks up the drink menu. “We’ll just grab a drink and leave. Now that the photographers have their shots, the media will be all over this and we’ve done our jobs.”
I drop my menu in surprise. “Uh, no. I’m getting food.”
Finally, she lifts her gaze to meet mine. Her dark, green eyes hold steady, framed by loose waves cascading over her shoulders. A lock of hair falls onto her cheek that she quickly pushes away.
She’s stunning in this dim, moody lighting.
I thought she was beautiful that night at the club wearing next to nothing, but now? Now, there’s something about seeing her in my name and number that makes her look like she belongs to me.
I shake the thought loose before it can root itself.
It’s ridiculous. I don’t really know her. This is all pretend, an illusion. But that doesn’t mean we can’t at least have a civil conversation and share a meal together. We don’t have to rush out of here just because we got our picture taken.
She’s going to learn quickly that I don’t enjoy being bossed around and told what to do. I’ll play along with this charade for as long as her father, brother, and my case require, but there are lines I won’t cross.
And skipping meals together is one of them.
“We’ve got to be married to each other for the next three months.
Lots of public appearances. I think the least we can do is sit here, have a nice dinner, and celebrate my win.
Perhaps we can even get to know each other a little better.
” I lean forward slightly, keeping my tone light.
“It might help my case, you know… make things more believable if we’re at least friends. ”
“Friends,” she repeats, like it’s a foreign concept she’s trying to sound out for the first time.
“Or at least acquaintances,” I counter with a shrug. “You know, two people who don’t mind being around each other. It’s not like we’re enemies.”
She nods her head slowly. “You’re right. We’re not enemies or friends. We just don’t… know each other.” She bites down on her bottom lip, her eyes darting around the restaurant like she’s looking for an escape.
I’m waiting for her to add the word yet at the end of that sentence, but it never comes.
“I guess this is okay,” she whispers softly.
I raise an eyebrow. “Who’s keeping tabs?”
She sets down her menu, leveling me with a look. “My father, if you’ll recall. And my brother.”
I shrug, unbothered. “I’m not worried about them.”
“Maybe you should be.” She narrows her eyes then sighs. “Fine. We can have dinner. Just for tonight.”
Grinning, I push the food menu across the table to her. “That’s my good girl.”
The words slip out, a playful jab borrowing her father’s phrase when she agreed to this marriage, but the second they’re out there, they hang in the air feeling way too suggestive for the occasion.
Her eyes widen, her pink tongue darts out to wet her lips, and her gaze drops to the table.
She looks… flustered. Completely caught off guard and a bit uncomfortable. I feel bad that I made her feel like that but at the same time, this is who I am. I’m a friendly guy who may come across a bit flirty and goofy.
Maybe she’s just skittish when it comes to sexual innuendos, or maybe it’s something else entirely. Maybe… she liked the way it sounded for me to call her a good girl.
The moment is saved by the arrival of our server, who smiles politely as she pulls out her notepad.
“What can I get you two to eat tonight?”
“I’ll take an ice water and the seafood pasta with a side of greens,” I say, handing over my menu.
Rosie glances up. “Just the Caesar salad for me. And a glass of Merlot, please.”
The server nods and steps away, leaving us in the comfortable hum of the restaurant.
“So,” she says after a moment, looking at me with mild curiosity, “you don’t drink after games?”
“I stopped drinking entirely a few months ago.” I lean back in my chair. “Alcohol dehydrates me too much, and I like to stay at the top of my career. But it was mostly because I was trying to work on my reputation.”
She nods. “I see.” But she doesn’t press, her fingers tracing lazy patterns along the tablecloth like she’s unsure where to put them. It hits me then that small talk isn’t her comfort zone, which means I’m going to have to steer this conversation if we want the night to flow.
Lucky for her, I was raised by a man who could talk to anyone about anything.
And after my dad passed, Levi and I became the ones who carried the noise in our house, filling the silence with our usual witty banter and playful ribbing so that it never felt too heavy.
Especially since our younger brother Seth and our mom are, without question, the biggest introverts I know.
I lean forward in my chair. “Alright. Let’s try this one more time. What did you think of your first NHL game?”