Page 37 of Pucked Up Plans
No hey. No hello. Not even a hi.
“What?” Because I don’t know how else to answer.
“You’re going to make me work for this?” his voice rasps out on speakerphone in my quiet room.
I’m so confused about what he means. “Work for what?”
“Dinner. A date. With you, Tate.”
“A date? Withme?” My voice pitches on the last word, making me sit upright on my bed. I couldn’t have heard him correctly. Sure, I assumed his invite to dinner meant a date, but it’s a little unbelievable for him to voice the words.
His hearty chuckle amuses my ears, a refreshing sound I didn’t realize I needed to hear.
“You and me, Tate. A date.”
“Great use of rhyme.” My hand slaps my forehead. Aubrey’s been into rhyming words lately, so that’s where my mind went. Not to the actual meaning behind the words. “Sorry. That was lame.” He can’t see my shrug. Which is probably a good thing because I’m still only wearing a towel.
Not beating around the bush, he drawls, “Can we get to the reason for my call?”
“Which is?”
He exhales deeply. I shouldn’t take notice, but even the way hebreathesis sexy.
“Tate, I don’t know your last name, do you want to grab dinner with me tonight?”
“Winchester.”
Now it’s his turn to be confused. “Huh?”
“My last name. For future reference.” I don’t know why it’s important to tell him. My last name or the added comment. Except I’m avoiding the whole “date” thing, trying not to freak out at his intentions.
“Tate Winchester, you, me, dinner tonight. What do you say?”
I hate to turn him down, especially with the way my body responds to his demand to have dinner with him.
“I can’t.” My words are small, nothing like the way he issued his.
“How about tomorrow night?”
Damn, he’s persistent.
“How about no nights?”
I don’t mean for it to come out so harshly, but I’m frustrated because it can never happen. As much as I want it to happen.
“Really? So no dates?” I don’t like the defeated lilt to his tone. And yet, it makes my heart soar knowing he’s disappointed too.
“It’s not that I don’t want to?—”
He interrupts anything else I was going to say. “Then what is it? Because I thought we had something in the kitchen yesterday. Unless that was my imagination.”
“Not your imagination,” I assert, giving him a glimpse into my truth before I deflate his bubble of expectancy. “But I have Aubrey.” My voice remains steady. I won’t let being a mother or Aubrey herself sound like a burden, something she isn’t.
“Oh, shit. I’m so used to not having Lennon every other weekend, I didn’t consider the fact it’s just you. My bad.”
I try not to read into his words, the nonchalant way he tosses it out there. Not because I’m jealous he gets a break from her, but at the possibility of how many other women he can spend time with on his “off” weekends.
Surely there’s no way now he’d still want to pursue me—a woman with a child she can’t dump on someone for a night.
