Page 40 of Book and Ladder
I look down at the couple seated at the table and the shock of what I see makes me lose my balance and wobble in my heels.
Looking back up at me is none other than Patrick O’Connell. On a date with Blaire Rutherford.
I have to brace my hand on their table to avoid falling over.
“Doing okay, Daisy?” Patrick asks.
“Fine, thank you. Excuse me. Sorry.”
I step away from the table and nearly cause Franklin to bump into a waiter passing behind us.
“You sure about that?” Patrick asks.
“Very,” I say.
Franklin’s mom takes her seat at our table, which is a four-top—on the other side of Patrick and his date.
“Um!” I raise my hand to get the attention of the hostess who has already set our menus on the table and is walking back to her stand. “Excuse me!”
For some reason, every head in the place turns to look at me—every one but the hostess.
Franklin’s brows draw in. “Are you okay, Daisy?”
“Yeah.” I shake my head lightly. “Yes. I’m good. I just …” I look around and up at the ceiling. “I can’t sit under an A/C vent. I have a … condition.”
Why do my eyes travel to Patrick?
His left brow raises in obvious doubt. But he doesn’t say a thing.
“I believe the A/C is off this time of year, dear,” Denise says. “Come have a seat.”
I linger another moment, far too close to Patrick and Blaire’s table. And then I walk behind Patrick’s chair, squeezing between him and the person sitting behind him. Then I take a seat at the table with Denise and Franklin. I’m about two feet away from Patrick. I could literally reach across and wipe crumbs off his lip from where I’m sitting.
The worst part is how aware I am of him—even the sound of his laugh vibrates through me like it’s meant for me alone.
If Patrick finds out the grown man across from me is my date, and we’re here with his mother, I will never—and I mean, never—live it down.
I take a steadying breath. Franklin hands me a menu and I study it like I’m about to take the SATs.
In a very subdued voice—considering Patrick is twenty-four inches away—Franklin asks, “That your ex or something?”
I hold my menu up to block Patrick from seeing what I’m saying.
Is it even more obvious this way? Maybe.
“No,” I whisper. “He’s just … No, he’s definitely not my ex.”
“Good,” Franklin says. “Because I know my league and he’s definitely not in it.”
I glance at Patrick and Blaire. Franklin has a point. There’s something about the people behind the gates—they just sparkle. It’s like they’re born with veneers on their teeth and a flawless complexion.
Patrick catches me mid-ponder and smiles a smirky grin.
Franklin’s mom turns to Franklin and says, “Oh! They have chicken pot pie back on the fall menu. It’s not as good as yours, but it’ll do.”
“Aww. Thanks, Mom,” Franklin coos.
“My son is such a good cook, Daisy.” Denise pats Franklin’s forearm.
