Page 30 of Playing the Field
CHAPTER 15
Gracie
“Baked potato with the works?”Our tuxedoed server holds my leather-bound menu in his hands and waits for my decision. I bite my lip and debate.
“Just sour cream and chives. No butter, no bacon.” I say the words before I can change my mind. I want the butter, no question, but I know it will probably make Hunter turn green with the amount of extra fat and cholesterol. I decide not to gross him out too much with the zillion calories I’d like to devour on a potato.
“Really?” Hunter cocks his head. “But you love all the butter. What gives?”
“Trying to be a tiny bit healthy. You and Ky are rubbing off, I guess.” More like the guilt over watching them say no to baked goods and butter.
He chose a nice place, especially considering that we’re both back in our non-futsal clothes after each taking a turn in thelocker rooms for a quick shower. But LA people seem to wear jeans everywhere, even to a buttoned-up steak place, so Hunter in his hoodie fits right in, and I look like a regular working stiff.
The restaurant is dark, which works to my advantage because my hair is a hornet’s nest after racing around the futsal court, and no amount of smoothing it with wet hands was going to tame it. The less Hunter can examine me in bright light, the better.
We’re tucked into a booth in a dimly lit corner of the restaurant, where a three-sided bar divides the room and puts a physical barrier between us and most of the people in the restaurant. I’m not sure if Hunter gets recognized as a sports celebrity when he goes out, but there’s little chance of anyone noticing him here. Only his profile is visible, and even then, someone would have to be looking hard to notice him in the dark space.
“And for you, sir?” the server asks.
“Same,” he says. “And we’ll start with a Caesar salad to share.”
I cock my head at him in surprise as soon as the server grabs the wine list and leaves to put in our order. “Same? I thought you were a ‘no sour cream, dry chicken breast’ kind of guy.”
“I told you, Tink. I get a cheat meal once a week. You’re my cheat.”
I try not to react to the idea that I’m his anything, but it’s useless. My skin heats and a little zing in my chest reminds me how much I liked it when he swept me into his arms.
“Okay, works for me. As long as your coach doesn’t yell at me when you’re dragging because you have dairy in your veins.”
He chuckles. “I’m not a monk. I know you think I eat only nuts and seeds, but that’s more your brother than me. Besides, we’re drinking water, not wine, so there’s a little self-restraint.”
“I know. I’m giving you a hard time. And I’m not quite the ‘sugar cereal and Reddi Whip’ gal I pretend to be. I have heard of vegetables.” I tilt my head, mock-considering. “I mean, mashed potatoes are vegetables, right?”
“Hundred percent.” He shakes his head as though he’s givingup the battle. “Would you rather eat mashed potatoes or french fries? Tough call.”
“Both.”
“Can’t have both. Those are the rules of ‘would you rather.’”
I lean back in my chair and do a slow survey of the restaurant before answering. Dark ceramic tiles cover the floors, and the ceiling has distressed beams and wrought-iron chandeliers. There’s nothing to absorb the ambient noise, so the place bounces with the energy of every conversation around us. The place is a whirl of loud chatter, metal lids being placed on plates, glasses clinking, and a barely audible jazz soundtrack.
“I wasn’t aware there were actual rules to this conversation.” I cross my arms.
“Oh, Gracie, haven’t you ever played ‘would you rather?’”
I shake my head. “No, and now I’m worried it’s like truth or dare, and I’ll end up having to tell you my darkest secrets or run a lap around the restaurant flapping my arms like a chicken.”
He laughs. “As much as I’d love to see that, you’re safe. The rules are that I’ll give you a choice between two things. You have to choose one or the other, and you need to do it fast.”
“Okay, I think I can handle that.”
“Great.Star WarsorStar Trek.”
“Star Wars.”
“Big dogs or small dogs.”
“Big.”
