Page 40 of The Assist
I groan, and Wes looks embarrassed. V, however, keeps going.
“I expect that, for the rest of the evening, you bring you’re A game. I’m talking door-opening, attentive, no-looking-at-other women, hold-her-hand, chivalrous shit.”
“Okay.” I step in front of Vanessa and take Wes’s arm. “I think we have it from here.
Wes chuckles and lets me lead him to the door. I give V a small wave over my shoulder. Her intentions are good. She knows enough about the shit David pulled to understand why going out with someone new is both nerve-wracking and exciting. We’ve almost made it outside when Wes stops abruptly and turns. V still stands in the doorway watching us.
“Don’t worry about our girl. I’m well aware of just how badass she is.”
Wes leads me to a small black SUV and opens the door for me. I flush, assuming he’s following V’s orders. “Don’t let Vanessa get in your head. She’s—”
But my protest is cut short. He winks and leans in. “Would have opened the door for you either way. It gives me more time to check you out. You look amazing.”
“Thank you. You too.”
Wes drives us to a small bistro on the outskirts of town. It’s well out of the three-block radius that most university students venture out of, and I wonder if it’s a coincidence or if he’s purposely taken me somewhere we won’t be seen.
“I’ve never been here,” I say as he helps me out of the car. A blue awning welcomes us, and inside, I’m surprised to find the décor a mix of local sports memorabilia and amateur artwork. Canvases are hung artfully around the small space with the artists’ names boldly displayed on gold plaques underneath. Jerseys ranging from tee-ball size to high school are lined up on one wall like a walk through a lifetime of an athlete. It’s a bizarre design, but it feels welcoming none the less.
“Hey, Wes Reynolds.” A man with a mess of unruly gray hair that makes him look like a mad scientist appears from behind the counter. His smile falls, and he pauses. “Did you get the days mixed up? Game is next week.”
“Nah, came here to eat.” Wes places a hand at my back. Those long fingers splay out across my lower back. The heat of the contact makes me feel secure and possessed all the way down to my toes. “Cal, this is Blair. Blair, this old man is Cal.”
“She’s with you?” Cal gives Wes a shocked look and then tosses a wink in my direction. “Honey, he didn’t kidnap you, did he? You’re free to go. I have a bat under the counter here and I’d love an excuse to take some practice swings.”
Wes snorts and lifts his foot. “The boot is off, old man. You can’t catch me now.”
Cal’s expression softens, and he rounds the counter, zeroed in on Wes’s leg. “You’re really back? Coach letting you practice and everything?”
Wes nods. “Yep, all the way back. Even let me play the exhibition game last night.”
“Well, all be damned. Don’t tell Mason or he’ll be pissed we missed it.” He looks to me apologetically. “Sorry for the language. My boy loves to watch Wes play. Thought we were gonna have an angry teenager on our hands this season, and trust me, that would have been good for no one.”
“Those your son’s jerseys?” I ask, pointing to the multi-colored, multi-numbered shirts.
“Sure are. Mason’s a baseball player, but he loves watching basketball.”
“Kid’s gotta wicked curve ball,” Wes adds.
Cal beams with pride. “Your table is open.” He nods toward the small seating area.
As Wes leads me tohistable, I ask the obvious questions. “You have a table? What is this place?”
Wes throws his arm over the back of the booth, looking as comfortable as if this really is his table. “Cal’s wife owns a cleaning service and does some work for Joel’s family.”
He looks up sheepishly.
“Which means she cleans The White House.” I connect the dots.
He nods. “She started bringing by food, got us hooked on the grilled cheese and homemade pies. Z and I started coming here to get our fix. So, yeah, I have a table.”
He winks, and I’m a total goner. Instead of trying to impress me by taking me to a restaurant where we would have maybe shared a bottle of wine and asked about the daily specials, he brought me to a hole-in-the-wall bistro that requires him to drive off campus and where he has his own table. This feels so much more real.
Cal brings us menus and a pitcher of iced tea, which Wes pours for both of us before almost draining his own glass.
“Best damn iced tea this side of Kansas.”
I must be staring at him with a perplexed expression because he looks around and then asks, “What? Got something on my face?”
