For Lucy
“So … tickets as in plural? As in you need someone to go to these Chiefs games with you?”
Cupping her hot chocolate mug, she brought it close to her lips and grinned. “I showed my hand too soon. Now I’ll never know if you like me for me or for my access to fifty-yard-line tickets.”
“I liked you from the second I laid eyes on you. But I’m going to marry you because you have access to Chiefs tickets,” I replied with a subtle grin.
Giggles erupted for several seconds before she sipped her drink, swirly brown eyes alight with amusement. “You’re going to have to give me more than a proposal. I’m here because you’re supposedly a nice guy. I only take charming, smart guys with me to games.”
My fingers drummed on the table as I studied her. “You already know I think you’re beautiful. I could have tried to get you drunk tonight, but we’re here instead, getting a sugar high from chocolate and whipped cream. That tells you I’m charming. As for my intelligence … what do you want to know? Do you want to know that light travels eighteen million times faster than rain? The Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre in 1911—and one of the suspects was Picasso? There’s a village in Tarsdor, Austria called Fucking, and its residents are called Fuckingers? Originally, heroin was marketed as cough medicine? Or … do you want to know that apodysophilia is a term (although rarely used) for a desire to remove one’s clothes in public? I don’t have it, but I think I’ve come across a few people who do.”
By the time I finished my impressive and rather random spiel, Tatum’s jaw hung wide open.
“Is it because I said the F-word?”
She laughed, inching her head side to side. “You don’t look like a nerd.” Her jaw clamped shut, replaced with a smirk.
True. I didn’t look like a nerd. Football player? Hockey player? Sure. Six feet four inches and a passion for weightlifting wasn’t a nerd look.
“Looks can be deceiving.” I shrugged.
“Indeed. Cody. Indeed.”
Cody.
“Are we good? Am I officially charming and smart? Am I invited to a game with you?”
She shrugged. “I’ll have to talk to Alice and Derek. They said you weren’t really interested in getting into a relationship at the moment, which I’m cool with, but I also don’t want to feel used for my assets.”
My head eased back. “Let me get this straight. You’re fine with the no relationship part, but you’re still here … which leads me to believe you’re looking for something casual … which I believe implies sharing certain assets. And that you’re okay with, but sharing season tickets is somehow more personal?”
Her cheeks pinked a smidge, which meant she wasn’t someone who had a ton of casual sex. Tatum was confident, but not that confident. “Casual sharing of assets is a mutual give and take.” She frowned. “At least it should be. But what do I get out of sharing tickets with you?”
“More of my charm and unmatched intelligence of course.”
Her neutral expression held strong for a few seconds. Then she grinned. “I paint my face … for games. Are you that kind of diehard fan?”
“I don’t wear a shirt to games because I paint my chest.”
A lie.
That lie led to another hour of conversation, two more hot chocolates, a shared order of Belgian waffles, and so much laughter my stomach hurt almost as much as the seventeen muscles in my face it took to smile. I stole someone’s blind date.
Best. Bad. Decision. Ever.
With her own grin permanently frozen in place, she emptied the last few drops of her hot chocolate onto the tip of her tongue and scooted toward the edge of the booth. “I should go. So much for a ‘quick’ drink. Thanks for the hot chocolate and waffles. It’s been …”
“Perfect,” I said before she could taint it with anything less.
Tatum bobbed her head a few times, letting my word roll around in that beautiful head of hers. “I concur.”
Yes!
“We could catch a movie or something.” I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
She stood. “I’ll call you.” The wink that punctuated her sentence would have felt promising had I been Cody.
“Wait. You don’t have my number.” I followed her toward the door.
“I’ll get it from Derek and Alice.”
Before she crossed the street, I had to say something. I’d gone through too much work to let her walk away. “They don’t have my number.”
She pressed the button at the intersection and waited for the light to change. “Then how did they contact you about our date?”
“They didn’t.”
The light turned green, and she waltzed across the busy street as only a dancer could do, tossing me a funny look over her shoulder as if I were playing games like I did about her being a recluse with seven cats. I jogged behind her. “I work at Coleman. I love the Chiefs. And I’d love a real date with you because your face is branded into my brain, and that’s just not fair for all other women who could come after you should you choose to never see me again.”