The Mrs. Degree (Accidentally in Love 2)

Penelope hides her face by lowering her head and focusing her gaze back on the menu the same way I’ve been doing.

“So,” she says, lifting her head at last. “You’ve been having dreams about me? Do tell.”

“Ha-ha, get your mind out of the gutter. It’s not those kinds of dreams. They’re the kind that has me waking up sweating. The kind where I’m drowning, and you’re reaching for me, but you can’t touch the surface or reach for my hand.”

“That’s so Jack Dawson of you.” She smiles, referencing the scene in the movie Titanic, where the girl lets go of her one true love, only to watch him sink to the bottom of the ocean when she could have shared her spot with him on the floating door.

The smile does not reach her eyes, so I know she’s taking this seriously despite the teasing words.

“Well, it’s becoming a problem because I’m having a hard time focusing at work with all this lack of sleep.”

“And you seriously thought seeing me was going to help? That’s very optimistic of you.”

“I’m not the kind of athlete who has to wear the same socks to every game or who never changes his underwear like some people. So when something affects my game, I have to get rid of it. Or at least make it make sense, if that makes sense?”

“Of course that makes sense.” She nods. “Are you forgetting who my brother is? I remember him doing the same exact thing every game day when I was living in his apartment before I left for college. Every game day, he would wake up and eat the same breakfast—a bagel, five eggs over easy, half a pound of bacon, hash browns, and orange juice. Then he would leave for the stadium, but he would always tap the doorjamb three times before walking through it, then kiss his index finger and his middle finger. I never saw his entire ritual set once he left the house, but I can only imagine it was bizarre.” She shakes her head as if she finds this all very funny. “Your dream problem hardly seems even remotely as superstitious.”

“I like to think of it as less of a problem and more of a nuisance I’m trying to get rid of. Like, oh, I don’t know…a demon or an evil spirit.”

“Whoa, that seems extreme. Really? Dreams of me are like an evil spirit?” She laughs, tipping her head back, causing her chest to rise and fall in the sexiest way. She tosses her hair in a casual, natural way that sends it spilling down her left shoulder.

I clear my throat. “You know what I mean.”

“You know you could’ve told me all this in a coffee shop. It would’ve saved you a ton of time and a lot of money.” She laughs.

“Who says I’m the one paying the bill?” I wink at her, hoping she realizes it’s a joke.

I have every intention of paying the bill.

Penelope blushes furiously. I can see it from across the table even though there isn’t a lot of light in this restaurant. I know she’s blushing because I know Penelope, and that is the sort of thing she does when she’s embarrassed.

“I didn’t m-mean…” she stutters uncomfortably. “We can do Dutch. We’ll go Dutch.”

Oh shit, I made her feel bad. “No, I invited you out, so I am paying the bill. I shouldn’t have made the joke. It was tacky. I want nothing more than to catch up with an old…friend.”

Friend, my ass.

We were more than friends.

I wanted to marry Penelope Halbrook more than I wanted a career in the NFL, or at least the same amount, except I never had the chance to tell her.

I thought she knew.

Or maybe she did know I cared and loved her that much, and she didn’t give a rat’s ass?

In any case, I raise my glass to her for a toast. “Here’s to old friends and this exorcism, and may I sleep through the night so I can play somewhat decent tomorrow.”

She rolls her eyes at the same time she toasts me from across the table. After drinking from the wineglass daintily, she wipes at the corner of her mouth. “Drooled a little bit.” She giggles. “And you know you’re going to play decent tomorrow. Is there any actual doubt?”

“Yeah, I have doubts. That’s why we’re here. I can’t keep lying awake every night staring at the ceiling. I’m like a zombie now.”

She nods slowly. “There’s no reason to have nightmares about me. I wonder what brought it on.”

“Me too. Here I was, minding my own business when all of a sudden—boom—I’m having dreams about an ex-girlfriend who hates my guts.”

“That’s harsh. I do not hate your guts.”

“Really? Then why did you leave?”

There, I said it.

The question I’ve been waiting to ask her for years.