Page 67 of Game Changer

I fucked up.Obviously, I screwed something up in a major way because Opal is not making eye contact with me, and before we arrived at Lise, she kept her distance.

After we waited no more than three minutes for an available cab to pass by us, she suggested we hop on the subway. I was all in because the train is an adventure in and of itself.

I pictured the two of us sitting next to each other, thighs touching, heat rising. Call it a prelude to foreplay, but I imagined we’d end up kissing, and then with a knowing look exchanged between us, we’d bolt off of the train at the next stop, head to Brooklyn in a rideshare, and fuck each other senseless.

Big dreams lead to deep disappointment. As soon as we were seated on a bench on the train, Opal darted up to offer her seat to a man who looked like he was fine to stand on his own two feet.

I followed her lead, and by the time I grabbed hold of a pole to maintain my balance as the train started its journey, Opal’s hand was wrapped around another a few feet from where I was.

Now, we’re at a table in Lise, and she’s chatting up Annalise as if they’re old friends. They’re not since I’m the one who introduced them to each other five minutes ago.

“I need to get back to the kitchen,” Annalise finally draws the conversation to a close. “I’ll be at Turquoise Crown sometime during opening week because board games and beer sounds like a slice of heaven.”

“There’s a slogan in there somewhere,” Opal says with a wide smile. “I may steal that for promotional purposes.”

Annalise nods. “Steal away. I’ll put your orders in and send someone over with the wine.”

The wine is a bottle of the best red Lise stocks. I know Opal is a fan, so I’ll do whatever I can to make this dinner special.

Once Annalise takes her leave, Opal turns her attention back to me.

I stare at her face. “You look beautiful today.”

Her hand darts up so the tip of her finger can rest against her lip. “Even with this?”

I’d reach across the table to trace the bruise with my finger, but I can’t risk it. Something tells me she’ll retreat until she’s out of my touch, and that would sting. It would really fucking sting.

I lean both elbows on the table and tap a fingertip to my chin as I outright stare at her. “You’re the most breathtaking woman to ever to grace this planet. That stands and always will with or without a bruise on your lip.”

She bows her head so quickly that I can’t be sure if what I thought was a tear in her eye was a mirage or not. She takes a breath, and by the time our gazes meet again, there’s no trace of a tear. All I see is sadness in her eyes.

“You have a way with words, William.”

I assume that’s a compliment, but it’s delivered in such an empty tone that it feels more like a slap across my face.

I’m about to open my mouth to ask her how I can right the wrong I’m obviously responsible for, but a server is approaching with the bottle of wine I ordered in her hand.

She greets us with pleasantries about our dinner choices and then segues effortlessly into talking about the weather. Opal joins in on that and keeps it going as the woman pours a small amount of wine for her to try.

Opal doesn’t bother to sample its fragrance. She downs the small amount of wine in one gulp, nods her approval, and motions to her glass. “I love it.”

Once the woman fills the glass, it’s back at Opal’s lips. She drinks half before my glass is filled.

“I’ll be back with your entrees soon,” the server says to Opal. “Can I get you anything in the meantime?”

“You can point me in the direction of the washroom,” Opal replies, and I can’t say I’m the least bit surprised.

I’m no expert in the subtle art of avoidance, but luckily, Opal is not being the least bit subtle. She’s acting like I’m covered from head to toe in Dicey Dip. I can’t say I’d be surprised if she climbs out of the washroom window and makes a break for it.

Before the server can answer, a punchy pop song’s chorus suddenly blasts from somewhere near us. It’s loud enough to startle just about everyone in our vicinity. One even darts to her feet, but that might not be purely out of surprise since she’s now dancing next to her chair. Granted, she can’t be more than six or seven years old.

“That’s me,” Opal owns the interruption. “It’s my phone.”

I try to keep a straight face because how fucking amazing is she? I’ve always relied on a standard ringtone, but she may be on to something.

She tugs her phone out of her tote bag and scans the screen before she answers. “Hi. It’s Opal.”

Not two seconds pass before she’s up and out of her chair. “What? Oh no. Oh no.”

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