Page 20 of Things I Read About
“Not even a sprain. Have ice, will travel.” I smile at him. He’s been watching, listening. Serious, as if a busted ankle is life or death. “Travel to the bar?” I add.
Finally, he snaps out of his concern coming to the bedside. “Care for a ride?”
My mouth falls open. I let the words tumble right out. “Oh, I would love a ride.” I laugh a little bit, surprised at my own audacity. I’m not even on pain meds.
He lets out a small chuckle, too, but not enough for that grin to reappear. Instead of heading for the main restaurant, he takes us back outside. Fewer people mill about but he’s still a six-foot-four, mountain man carrying a woman with her wrapped ankle up in the air.
Eventually we make it to the deck bar, and he sets me down under one of the heaters. He gingerly takes my foot and sets it on the railing.
“I know it’s cold out here but there’s no way you could keep your ankle elevated at the bar inside,” he says as he shrugs off his jacket.
My sublingual gland comes alive at the sight of him in a tight long sleeve shirt. If I opened my mouth right now, I bet drool would fall out. I swallow all the saliva down and stare. Then I realize my toes are warming up, since his jacket is now wrapped around them.
“Aren’t you cold?”
“Nah,” he says as he lifts his eyes to catch the attention of a server passing by. He also looks, well, everywhere. Scanning all around us. Again, I wonder who or what he’s searching for.
“Oh, no,“ the waiter says when he sees my foot. “Need some liquid pain reliever?”
“Yes, please.” I smile.
“What’ll it be?” he asks. I start to say champagne, because it’s easy and what Kat or Samantha would say. But I stop short.
“What are you having?” I ask Nate.
“I’ll have an old fashioned,” he tells the server.
“Same,” I say.
The server nods and heads to the next table.
“You’re a whiskey girl?” Nate asks me, eyes pinched.
No, not at all. Did not know that drink was a whiskey drink.
“Sure.” I try to sound casual. I don’t even know what my drink of choice would be. I change the subject. “Um, let’s get started on your listof questions.”
He leans back, studying me for a second. “A pianist? Like, classical? With an orchestra?”
I nod. “Do you like music?”
He lowers his chin. “Everybody likes music.”
“Okay.” I laugh. “What kind of music do you like, Nate?”
“Rock, I guess. Angry rap when I work out.” He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t mind any kind of music.”
“False.” I push. He raises his eyesat me, so I explain. “Jazz that makes no sense? Bluegrass? Old school honky-tonk country that sounds like the singer is dying?”
He lifts his hands. “Okay, you got me. I guess I don’t mind pop music, or rock. Or rap.”
“So, not from the South then.”
“Boston.” Once he says it out loud, a neural connection is made. His voice had been reminding me of someone, something. I realize now it’s Ben Affleck, I think. Ben Affleck is from Boston. His accent is not overwhelming, though—not like a Wahlberg. His muscles though… they’re Wahlbergery. Look at those arms. No wonder he didn’t mind carrying me. “Sally?”
“Huh?”
“I asked if you were from the South.”
