Page 56 of Ravaged
Shit.
I once accused him of playing games with me, but it appears like it’s me who’s into them. What I can’t do is toy with the man across from me. I’ve waited too long to be truthful with him. I tried to start this conversation with him at Cyrus’s surprise engagement party. Now I have to finish it.
“I don’t think I need to ask if you enjoyed the ghost tour.” Daniel grins, picking up the menu off the table.
I laugh, and though it sounds a bit strained to my ears, he doesn’t seem to catch it. “How could you tell? My very undignified scream or the way I almost climbed you like monkey bars?” I snort. “In my defense, though, I’d just like to point out that Cheesman Park is creepy as hell at night.”
“Duly noted.” He solemnly nods. “The capitol building too.”
“Right?” I shake my menu at him. “I’m sure it was just the cold that had you shivering. Don’t worry. I won’t tell any of your boys.”
He chuckles. “Deal.” Dipping his chin, he asks, “See anything you like?”
I get down to the business of perusing the menu and am impressed. And again struck by how well he seems to know me.
“Everything on here sounds so good,” I murmur. “And I’ve worked up a good appetite after all that walking.” Several minutes and some internal debating later, I settle on a swiss mushroom burger, extra grilled onions and mushrooms, with a side of fries. After passing my menu and order on to our waiter, I cock my head and say, “I know at first you were really worried about this whole dating thing. But you shouldn’t have been. You’re incredibly good at it.” I fold my arms on top of the table, even though I can hear my father in my head scolding me about bad manners. “I swear you have this knack of looking into my head and plucking out all my favorite things. I feel so ... special. Like you pay attention to all the details about me or just somehow know me. I tell you what. You need to hold a webinar and teach all of your teammates your secrets. Maybe then they wouldn’t need BURNED’s services so much.” I scrunch up my face. “Uh, wait. Never mind. Forget I said that last part. They’re making me rich.”
I laugh, and I expect him to join me. And he does, but it’s small, tight. Frowning, I reach across the table and cover his hand.
“What’s wrong? Did I say something—”
He shakes his head and slides out his hand from under mine, then holds it up, palm out. “No, no. It’s all good. I’m ... just glad you’re enjoying yourself. It means a lot to me that you are. And thank you for giving me a second chance. Especially considering that first date was a complete disaster. It was really important that I show you the real me. The side that other people saw.”
“I’m glad you called back.”
And I am. Daniel is special. And any woman would be lucky to be able to call him hers.
I’m just not that woman.
But part of me wishes I was.
God, it would be so uncomplicated. So easy.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say.
Suddenly, it’s important for him to understand how much I appreciate him for his kindness. Yes, I have a bias against athletes. But between Jordan and Daniel—and even some of their teammates—it’s changing. That preconception had been entrenched for years, so it’s not entirely unearthed; remnants of the bitterness, the hurt, remain. But the sensitivity, compassion, and respect they’ve shown me have shone light into the darkest corners.
So though I’m sayingthank youfor tonight, I’m grateful for so much more.
“You’re welcome.”
“I ...” I pause, wanting to give him some truth but unable to give him all of it. Jordan deserves that first. He’s my friend, has been closest to me, there for me the longest. I can’t give that to Daniel without offering it to Jordan. I lean forward on my crossed arms, meeting his hazel eyes. “I need to thank you for more than tonight, though. I don’t know if Jordan told you, but I was initially ... reluctant about going out with you. It wasn’t personal. I just had a thing about seeing athletes. But I can honestly say I’m thankful I didn’t allow that prejudice to keep me from going on the date with you. I would’ve missed out on meeting and spending time with an incredibly sweet, considerate, and just good man. Thank you for changing my mind and showing me I can’t paint one group of men with one tainted brush.”
Even as the words sit out there between us, I brace myself. I wouldn’t blame him if he’s offended.
But he’s Daniel.
“I’m sorry, Miriam.”
I sit back in my chair. Correction. Fall back. Blinking. And not just because the waiter arrives with our food. Once he sets our plates down and disappears, I murmur a thanks but don’t touch my burger or fries. Instead, I stare at him.
“Sorry for what?”
“For whoever hurt you in the past.”
Here’s where I should make a flippant, dismissive comment to downplay his comment or the meaning behind my words. But the teasing dies on my tongue. That’s beneath him ... and me. I won’t render my experience inconsequential. I was hurt, scarred.
“Thank you. Not that it was your fault and you need to apologize.”
