Page 20 of Playing Dirty
“I got it,” I bite out.
Snatching the napkins from his grasp—careful not to touch his handthis time—I clean up my mess as best as I can. I can feel my face growing hotter, not just from embarrassment at my mishap but from his pointed stare as he silently watches me.
Our waiter is back in a flash, having caught the accident from afar, and uses a rag to wipe up the remnants of water. Once it’s cleared, he swipes the soggy napkins from our table and drops a few clean, dry ones down in replacement.
“Right as new,” he says with a smile.
It does little to assuage my discombobulated state, but I mutter a gruff “Thanks” anyway.
I swear, I vaguely hear Madden mumble something along the lines of “So youcansay thank you,”but I choose to ignore it—and him.
We eat in silence after that, though my appetite has been thoroughly ruined thanks to my fumbling display. I still feel Madden looking at me every once in a while, those penetrating hazel eyes catching mine every time I so much as glance up from my food.
The waiter returns not long after we finish eating, a little black folder containing the bill in one hand.
“Absolutely no rush, but I wanted to check if this will be together for you this morning.”
Madden nods before I can say anything, already producing his wallet from his jeans and pulling out a credit card.
I frown, because…what the hell?
“You can just put it on the room tab, Madden.”
After all, Dad was supposed to be here, and that’s exactly what he would’ve done. But Madden doesn’t seem to care, waving me off absently without even looking up.
“It’s fine, I don’t mind.”
The waiter smiles as Madden slides the card into the bill folder without even checking the total, only to disappear just as quickly as he arrived.
Meanwhile, I’m left dumbstruck at what I just saw Madden do. Him paying the bill, let alone for both of us? It doesn’t compute in my brain, at least not with the picture of him I’ve painted. But, then again, there’s the slightest chance I’ve misjudged Madden simply because of how much I detest his mom.
Not all apples fall close to their tree, after all. I’m the prime example of that.
If he feels my gaze on him, he doesn’t make it known, instead tapping away on his phone until the waiter comes back with his card and the receipt for him to sign.
“Thank you so much. I hope you both enjoy the rest of your day.”
“Thanks, James,” Madden murmurs, addressing our waiter by name.
As he speaks, his lips pull back in the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen on him, flashing straight, perfect teeth at the waiter. A tiny dimple I’d never noticed before indents the apple of his cheek, just below his left eye, and it causes my stomach to flip and twist.
The waiter,James,returns Madden’s smile with one of his own before heading off to check on another table, and my intestines only knot up more.
I chalk it up to the eggs not settling well, making a mental note to not order them tomorrow, while Madden scribbles out a tip and his signature on the receipt. The smile is still on his face when he drops the pen back in the folder and glances up at me. He looks like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t have the chance before I abruptly shove back from the table and rise.
“Well, I’m gonna hit the slopes, then,” I say curtly, my gaze shifting to the ski lifts out the window.
Between the weird feeling in my stomach and my desperate need forthe solitude of the mountain, I have every intention of making a speedy escape. Besides, we’ve done our duty with regard tofamily time,though the two people who areactuallyfamily decided not to show. Except, after shoving my chair back in, I make the mistake of looking at Madden before walking away.
The smile he was wearing is gone now, almost like it was never there. In its place is a forlorn expression, borderlining on defeat, with the way his eyes have dulled from polished bronze to a muted, lifeless amber. Paired with the way his shoulders have sagged while he stares vacantly out the window, he could be the textbook definition of crestfallen.
And for the life of me, I don’t understand why it makes me feel guilty.
It takes him a second to realize I’m still standing there, and he schools his features when his attention returns to me.
“You good? Forget a room key or something?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if he wants to join me on the mountain, but the words can’t fully form enough to leave my mouth. Probably because I know spending any amount of time with him will likely lead to one or both of us saying something shitty all over again, and I’d really like one freaking day of peace before everything inevitably implodes.
