Page 79 of Make You Love Me
Ignoring me, he scribbles our choices onto a napkin and holds it out for me. Since the betting booth is on the other side of thebuffet, I’m tasked with submitting our bets on each race while he gets to relax and sip his beer.
“I think I can remember your boring horse’s name. Five or ten dollars?”
“Five.”
“Ah. Not so confident this time. Don’t worry. Your plan is to strip me bare at the tables, remember?” I slink away, leaving him with that image to keep his blood and regret simmering.
By the time I return, his bottle is empty, and he’s claimed mine. I motion to the one in his hand.
“What’s this?” My other hand finds my hip in disapproval.
“Here you go, miss,” the waiter says, handing me a beer.
“I know how much you loathe warm beer, so I asked the waiter to bring you another one when you returned.”
“How kind of you. Was that before or after you stole my first one?”
“It was more of a simultaneous thing.”
“Right.”
The horses take off out of the gate, and he turns to watch through the wall of windows overlooking the track. The two candles in the center of the table light his handsome profile, and I can’t look away. He’s watching the track, eyes alive with excitement, and I’m taking in every detail of the stubble on his chin, the slight dimple in his cheek, and the long eyelashes framing his navy irises.
The horses cross the finish line, Gallant Fox three lengths before Harry Trotter, sealing his chance for a tie this round. He spins in his seat, a victory celebration poised on his tongue until his gaze lands on me. Elation melts into desire as our eyes linger. Without speaking a word, we both say the same thing. Both craving to touch, taste, and explore. Both deciding to ignore it.
“One more,” he whispers, his voice strained. Breaking the hold he has over me.
“I need a restroom. Be right back.” Weaving through the thinning crowd, I find the restroom at the entrance beyond the hostess stand.
Perched at the sink, I flip on the cold water and pat some on my neck and chest.
“Something got you all hot and bothered, dearie?” A woman—maybe in her eighties—says as she leans her cane on the counter to wash her hands.
I chuckle. “You could say that.”
“He must be handsome. Or is it she? I’m not judging the ways of the youngins these days.”
“You were right the first time.”
She nods, turning off the water and shaking her hands. Since I’m standing between her and the paper towels, I snatch a couple and hand one over.
“Thank you.” While she dries her hands, she analyzes me. “What has you in here pantin’ instead of out there enjoying him?”
“You’re a curious lady, you know that?”
“Heard that once or a hundred times in my life. When you get to be my age, there’s not a lot to do. I like people. They’re my entertainment. So, entertain me.”
With a laugh, I regale her with my predicament, leaving no detail hidden. She listens to every word, soaking it in like a soap opera marathon, until I end the tale with tonight’s outing.
“That’s it?” she says finally, reaching for her cane.
“What do you mean?”
“You have a gorgeous man begging to love you, one you’ve admitted to loving in return, and you two are playing games? Pish Posh,” she scoffs. “True love isn’t a game, dearie. It’s sacred. Every moment you get with the one you love should be savored.”
“I know, but—”
“No buts. I want you to march out there right now, look him in the eye, and plant a hot one on his lips. Sounds like you both need the wake-up call.”
