Page 36 of Playing the Field
The thought makes my already dismal mood sink a little further into the abyss.
“Good. Great. Glad to hear it.” I don’t mean any of those words.
I nod. She nods.
“Um, do I look okay?” she asks.
I stare at her in disbelief. I can’t believe she doesn’t know the answer, but this woman doesn’t fish for compliments. Eyes squinting and lower lip trembling, she looks beautiful in a way I’ve never seen in any of the women I’ve dated.
Her round eyes make her look innocent, even though I know she’s smart as a whip. The delicate curve of her nose and rounded cheeks are soft, but there’s toughness in the line of her mouth, which can snap out sassy one-liners and unleash monologues about science and data.
That’s saying nothing about her curves and milky skin that has me jerking off in the shower most nights, thinking about how good it would feel to touch her.
And this woman…is asking me if she looks okay.
“You look fucking great.”
Her eyes go a little glassy, and her throat works as she swallows. The words seem to calm her. “Thank you.”
The rasp of her voice gives me the slightest inkling that the compliment affects her, which means maybe I affect her. It’s the only sign I need. For now.
A second later, the doorbell rings, and she jumps up, suddenly nervous again like a hummingbird on crack, smoothing her outfit and her hair instead of opening the door.
I wait for her to walk toward the door, but she stands frozen, looking at the entryway like it might swallow her whole. “Want me to get it?” I ask.
She bites down on her bottom lip, and it’s all I can do not to close the distance between us and replace her teeth with my own. It’s all I can do not to pull her against my body so I can feel her soft curves against me and tell her to forget all about her date.
But reason takes over, and I retreat to the kitchen, far enough away that I can offer moral support if she needs it, but out of view of the front door. “You’ve got this, Tink. Go get ’em.” I try to give her my most convincing vote of confidence, but I’m hardly rooting for this guy. I’m doing what seems like the right thing to do even if I hate it.
Gracie smooths the skirt of her dress and takes a deep breath before yanking the door open. Leaning against the kitchen counter, where I wish Gracie was next to me on a barstool, I see a blond guy who looks like he stepped out of a J Crew catalog in a navy blazer and khaki pants. With his boat shoes, he’s a walking ad for a yacht club. All he needs is a captain’s hat.
He smiles at Gracie like he’s won the lottery because he fucking has. At least the guy is smart enough to realize it. He introduces himself as Bart, and I want to throttle Ashley. I make a mental note to say something controversial at our next press conference and give Ashley an extra mess to clean up.
“I was thinking we’d go to R&D Grill, get some drinks, then head to Mama’s to watch the Dodgers, more drinks, then, you know, we’ll see.”
Alarm bells start ringing in my head because this guy already seems like a douche. First of all, R&D, known colloquially as “rich and divorced,” is a notorious hookup scene. Why would he take her there on a date? If he’s a regular there and wants to show his swagger, that’s a red flag right there. Or maybe he’s clueless, which isn’t much better.
“Oh, um, sure. Sounds good,” Gracie says, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Great.” Captain Bart trails a hand down her arm in a way that’s far too familiar for someone she’s just met, and Gracie flinches. I flinch too, half primed to launch from my spot in the kitchen and whisk her out of his reach.
“Shall we?” he asks, tipping his head toward the open door.
“Um, sure?” Gracie sounds unconvinced, which raises my dude antenna. If she’s having second thoughts, should I do something? I’m not above faking an aneurysm here in the kitchen to give her a reason to abort mission.
Before I can say or do anything to stop this date from happening, Bart escorts her out the door with a hand on her ass. If this is what she wants, I need to let her go.
But, I tell myself, if she gives me a sign that she’s having second thoughts, all bets are off.
Before she’s out of sight, Gracie turns and gives me a plaintive look, squeezing her eyes shut like she’s being taken against her will. Is that the sign I need? Maybe.
Moving to the kitchen window, I will Bart to take his hand off her ass, but he doesn’t. I suppose it should give me a minor sense of relief that he’s otherwise acting like a gentleman, opening the passenger car door for her and helping her inside, but the cynical side of me thinks he’s using the gesture as another excuse to touch her.
He’s not exactly pushing the boundaries of consent, but I can see her stiffen each time he puts his hands on her. The idea of her not consenting causes a surge of rage to slice through my gut.
Gracie is a grown woman, and I’m sure she can take care of herself. She’s gotten by for years before I showed up in her life, so I shouldn’t overinflate my importance or act like she needs me to rescue her.
Then again, I have no plans tonight.
