Page 81 of Off Court Fix

Nodding, I pull my eyes from Crosby’s table. “Spicy.” My eyes continue searching for our waiter.

Alyssa offers me her glass of wine, and for a good three seconds, I consider downing what remains of the chilly rosé and ordering us a bottle straight after.

“I’m fine,” I say, and finally, the waiter sees us and approaches. “More water, please.”

“God, this went right through me,” Alyssa says after finishing her wine. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

When she leaves the table, I open my soft clutch that only holds a credit card, the tube of lipstick Alyssa forced me to wear, and my phone.

How’s guys’ night?

Only thing that would make it better is you. You’re my favorite company.

Liar.

I bite down so hard on my lip that I wonder if the blood I’m about to draw will blend in with the lipstick. Girlfriend. Crosby had called me his girlfriend. And then I remember it was just another part of the story, safely told to probably the one person in the entire world who wouldn’t repeat our secret and blow our cover. Crosby could tell his mother I was his girlfriend, his secret lover. He could spill everything from the start because in the next moment—for Judy—none of it might be real.

And maybe that’s what I have to realize. We aren’t real. We’re bobbing at sea where we aren’t touched by problems—no arguments about finances, responsibilities. We’ll never have those because we’ll never stand a chance, and heknowsit.

I turn back to my phone, furiously typing.

Don’t tell the blonde that. She might get jealous.

Rising from the table, I grab my purse and head toward the bathroom where I find Alyssa coming through the door.

“Left you the last shells,” I say as I close the door quickly behind me, locking it and moving to lean against the sink.

In the mirror, the red lipstick is un-smudged, the eyeliner still sharp. I take a deep breath, trying to keep the tears buried deep within their wells, when my phone dings.

Outside, past the shed there’s a tiny alley.

Don’t get lost in it or your date might get worried.

I can explain.

But what good is an explanation at this point? Crosby is on a date. Heshouldbe on a date because he’s handsome, charming, mysterious, and any woman with a few brain cells should be lucky to be swooned, wined and dined, and kissed by lips that somehow move fiercely and gently in the same breath.

It’s me. I should be on a date with Crosby, and it’s something I’ve wanted all along, particularly since our day at the movies and on the boat, but I’ve beaten it into myself that what we have behind closed doors, in dark alleyways, beneath tables, it’s enough. I’ve told him that.

But right now, I’m no longer sure what we have in secret could compete with what we could have if there were no rules, no boundaries, nothing at stake.

Did you lock yourself in the bathroom?

Yes.

That’s childish. And now there’s a line.

I push off the sink and fling the door open. As I head to the front of the restaurant, I ignore looks from the valet and arriving customers who do double takes as I pass. Spotting the shed to the side of the main building and hearing the buzz of an air conditioning unit, I wait until the front of the restaurant is clear before I head that way.

I take three steps onto the tiny brick path before two large, warm hands clasp my arms.

“You’re on a date.”

“I am,” Crosby admits.

I push off the wall, expecting a better explanation, but Crosby holds me in place.

“I was going to tell you I agreed to go, but…those women, they’re Dave’s friends and—”

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