"Ah, so you're still angry," he says, following me to the front door. And even though he's not touching me, I can feel his emanating heat.
"I'm not angry," I mutter, opening the door and tossing my backpack onto the floor.
"Well that's a relief. Because I've made reservations for two, and if you're not angry, then I assume you'll be joining me."
I look at him, my eyes grazing over his darkjeans, boots, and soft black sweater that can only be cashmere, wondering what he could possibly be up to now:
He removes my sunglasses and earbuds and sets them on the entryway table. "Trust me, you really don't need all those deftnses," he says, lowering my hood, tucking his arm through mine, and leading me out the front door and over to his car.
"Where are we going?" I ask, settling onto the passenger seat, complacent, spineless, always so eager to go along with whatever he says. "I mean, what about my homework? I have a ton of catching up to do."
But he just shakes his head and climbs in beside me. "Relax, you can do it later, I promise."
"How much later?" I peer at him, wondering if I'll ever get used to his amazing dark beauty, the warmth of his gaze, and his ability to talk me into just about anything.
He smiles, starting the car without even turning the key.
"Before the stroke of midnight, I promise. Now buckle in, we're going for a ride."
Damen drives fast. Really fast. So when he pulls into the parking lot
and leaves his car with the valet, it seems as though only a few minutes have passed.
"Where are we?" I ask, gazing at the green buildings and the I sign marked EAST ENTRANCE. "East entrance to what?"
"Well, this should explain it." He laughs, pulling me toward him as four shiny sweaty Thoroughbreds trot by with their grooms, followed by a jockey in a pink-and-green jacket, thin white pants, and muddy black boots.
"The racetrack?" I gape. Like Disneyland, it's pretty much the last place I expected.
"Not just any racetrack, it's Santa Anita," he nods. "One of the nicer ones. Now come on, we've got a three-fifteen reservation at the Front Runner."
"The what?" I ask, standing my ground.
"Relax, it's just a restaurant." He laughs. "Now; come on, I don't want to miss post."
"Uhm, isn't this illegal?" I say; knowing I sound like the worst kind of goody-good, but still, he's just so-lawless and reckless and-random.
"Eating is illegal?" He smiles, but I can tell his patience is running thin.
I shake my head. "Betting, gambling, whatever, you know." But he just laughs and shakes his head. "It's horse racing, Ever, not cockfighting. Now come on." He squeezes my hand and leads me to the elevator bank.
"But don't you have to be twenty-one?"
"Eighteen," he mumbles, going inside and pressing five. "Exactly. I'm sixteen and a half."
He shakes his head and leans in to kiss me. "Rules should always be bent, if not broken. It's the only way to have any fun. Now come," he says, leading me down a hall and into a large room decorated in varying shades of green, stopping before the front podium and greeting the maitre d' like a long lost friend.
"Hi, Mr. Auguste, so wonderful to see you! Your table is ready; follow me."
Damen nods and takes my hand, leading me through a room full of couples, retirees, single men, groups of women, a father and his young son-not an empty seat in the house. Eventually stopping at a table just across from the finish line, with a beautiful view of the track and the green hills beyond.
"Tony will be right over to take your orders. Should I bring you champagne?"
Damen glances at me then shakes his head. His face flushing slightly when he says, "Not today."
"Very well then, five minutes 'til post."
"Champagne?" I whisper, raising my brows, but he just shrugs and unfolds his racing program.