Page 17 of Must Love Hockey
“Your friends are fun, I’m having a really good time tonight,” I say quietly. “It’s refreshing to spend some time with people who don’t always take life so seriously.”
James’s eyes warm. “I’m glad. You deserve to have some fun after the stressful week you just had.”
“Right,” I agree. But it’s just dawning on me that my strange new diagnosis isn’t the only stressful thing in my life. Everything is such a grind lately. Even the parts that are supposed to be fun—like going out with Charles—have turned into a chore.
How did that happen, exactly? And how can I make it stop?
This thought is interrupted by the appearance of a restaurant staffer. He’s carrying a plate—no, aplatter—filled with dessert items. There are tiny little fruit tarts and miniature Italian cookies and, in the center, a chocolate lava cake.
But, unfortunately, there is a giant burning sparkler in the center of it, shaped like a heart, and lighting up the restaurant like a beacon. Everyone in the crowded restaurant turns to stare.
“One Amore Special for table thirty-three,” the waiter says, sliding the platter onto the table. “Enjoy.”
Just then, “That’s Amore”starts playing loudly over the sound system. The entire restaurant cheers.
James closes his eyes and sighs. And I crack up.
* * *
We eat the lava cake in its entirety. He’s in a better mood now that all the hockey players have finally left. They also paid our bill, though, which means that I didn’t even manage to treat dinner like I’d planned.
“Oh, please,” James argues. “You paid just by putting up with that. Besides, if you want to treat me again sometime, I’m available.” He sets down his dessert fork and gives me flirty eyes. “Anytime. But only at an undisclosed and distant location.”
“How distant?” I ask, smiling like a lunatic. The idea of another dinner with James makes me happier than it should. Considering we’re just friends.
“I hear Fiji has good restaurants.”
We laugh together, and our gazes hold a little longer than is polite. I’m flirting with him. And I shouldn’t be doing that.
Rein it in, Emily. Get a grip on yourself. “I should go,” I say suddenly. “I have some studying to do.”
“Of course.” He puts his napkin on the table and stands. “Let me take you home.”
“You don’t have to,” I hedge.
“It’s really no problem at all. We’re probably heading for the same train station.” He holds out a hand to help me up.
Swoon!
I put my hand in his for no particular reason and let him lead me out of the restaurant.
Outside, James makes a groan of irritation. And when I look up, there’s a man in a suit standing on the sidewalk holding a small white sign—the way drivers do at the airport. In marker, it reads: “Jimbo (a GREAT guy) and Emily.”
Behind him waits a bright orange stretch limo.
I let out a shriek of laughter. “They just won’t quit, will they?”
“Apparently not,” he mutters. Then he steps up to the limo’s back door and opens it. “So let’s head home in comfort.” He holds the door open for me like a true gentleman.
Still laughing, I skip over and climb in.
* * *
Somehow, we both grow quiet on the ride to Bensonhurst. I spend much of the time trying not to stare at James, who’s seated on the leather seat opposite mine. There’s something intimate about the dark quiet of the luxury vehicle as it glides past the lights of Brooklyn.
I become overly conscious of James, who’s a bigger man than Charles. His limbs are long, his jaw is square, and his shoulders are so broad that I imagine I could rest my head on one of them with room to spare.
Stop it, I coach myself.We are not going to recline on James’s big, solid body.
