Page 152 of I'm Your Guy
She lunges, and I fear for my balls, but it’s her pocketbook she pounces on, not me. She yanks a checkbook—also purple—out of her bag and flips it open. Then she grabs a gold pen.
“Carter Flynn,” I say, just in case she’s forgotten. “The memo line should say I’m sorry. And the amount is nineteen—”
“Hush,” she says, scribbling furiously. “Don’t speak to me. Ever again.”
I clamp my mouth shut. With my luck, she’ll tell a journalist that I’m a tormentor of women as well as a cousin-puncher. Won’t that be fun to explain?
Then I hear two sounds, both of them beautiful. One is the dry tear of a check being pulled from a checkbook. And the other is Tate’s silver bell.
She drops the check into my lap. I grab it, push back my chair, and pick up my empty wine glass.
Without another word, I thread my way back to Table 3 and place the check into Carter’s palm.
He gasps, looking up at me in wonder. “My God. How did you do this?”
“What can I say?” I shrug. “I have a certain reputation. People are scared of me. Little kids don’t wear my jersey. And little old ladies don’t cross me. Just roll with it.”
He’s stares at the check. “Is this even real? It says, I’m sorry.”
“She’d better be sorry. Deposit it tomorrow, though, before she can change her mind.”
With a strangled laugh, and after one more long glance at the check, he tucks it into his jacket pocket. “You will be hugely rewarded for this later. Just know that.”
I lean over and whisper into his ear. “I’ll hold you to it. While I hold you down.”
He lets out a little growl, and when I straighten up, I make sure to drag a finger across the nape of his neck in a suggestive way.
Before I can walk away, he turns and catches my hand. “You’re a miracle worker,” he says. “And I don’t really understand it. But thank you. I feel outrageously lucky right now.”
He moves to drop my hand, but I hold on tightly. “Nah, I’m the lucky one. And you can bet I’ll never forget it.”
THE END
