Imaginary Lines (New York Leopards 3)

I tilted my head at both the request and the change of subject. “You’re getting to make a habit of this food thing.”

A flash of uncertainty crossed his face. “You mind?”

I didn’t. I’d never forgotten how much I enjoyed Abe’s company, but it hadn’t been in the forefront of my mind for ages. But now that it was again... Well, I liked him. “No, let’s. You don’t have other plans?”

For a moment I thought I glimpsed loneliness, but it vanished with a smile. “Most of the guys get dinner with their family post-games. A couple of us usually hang out. But I’d rather get dinner with you.”

My eyes flew up to him. His didn’t move. My breath caught, and it took a force of will to smile like I was unaffected. “Then let’s get dinner.”

We went to a Mediterranean place in Hell’s Kitchen. I ordered a platter complete with tabbouleh and baba ghanoush and olive tapenade. Abe raised his brows at that. “Since when do you like olives? You used to pick them off everything.”

“Mm, I suppose since that summer I spent working at a vineyard in Sonoma.”

He put down his fork. “You’re kidding me.”

I laughed, pleased to have surprised him. “Nope. One of my best friends from college had an uncle who took us on for two months. It was great. My summer of sun, wine, cheese, and Antonio—” I placed my hand to my brow, “—the beautiful Italian boy who biked past every day.”

“You’re making this up.”

“Nope. Though admittedly, we never got up the courage to talk to Antonio.”

“So how do you know his name was Antonio?”

I shrugged and picked up my utensils. “We don’t. Or that he was Italian, actually. So I suppose we made those parts up. Surely a sign of my storytelling talent early on.”

He grinned and sliced into his steak. “All right, so no Antonio. Best boyfriend?”

“Oh, are we talking about boys now?” I fluttered my lashes. “How exciting.”

“Or perhaps no one could live up to the man of your dreams?”

I gave him an arched look. “The tall, dark, brooding, bespectacled and scruffy man, you mean?”

He shot me a look right back. “Please. You like the good-natured, all-American, sporty type.”

I shook my head. “No one worth speaking of. There was Patrick before I moved out here, I guess.”

Fine, I said that to see if I got a reaction, and I did. He frowned just the slightest bit. “Who’s Patrick?”

“Another one of the SAT tutors where I was working. Very tall. Cute grin. Played the guitar.”

Abe snorted. “A musician.”

I propped my elbow on the table and my chin on my hand. “Musicians are sexy. Didn’t you know?”

“Football players are sexy. Tough. We’re gladiators.”

“Except without all the blood. And death. And lions. And with really big padding.” I gestured out past my shoulders. “And shiny pants.”

He leaned forward. “Admit it. You like the pants.”

I blushed slightly, because I did like the pants. “And what about you? Any memorable relationships?”

He knocked his chair back and grinned at me. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist asking.”

I tossed my napkin at him. “Merely out of politeness!”

He laughed. “Dozens.”