“I don’t think that’s a promise you can keep. You are a very moody person.”
He removed one hand from his pocket and placed it over the even pleats of his shirt. “I’m very easygoing.”
Georgeanne rolled her eyes. “And Elvis is alive and raising minks somewhere in Nebraska.”
John chuckled. “Okay, I’m usually easygoing, but you’ve got to admit, this situation between us is unusual.”
“That’s true,” she conceded, although she doubted he would ever be mistaken for a nice sensitive guy.
John placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. The ends of his tie dangled above his thighs while his suspenders stayed flat against his chest. “This is important to me, Georgie. I don’t have a lot of time before I have to leave for training camp. I need to be with Lexie someplace where people don’t recognize me.”
“People won’t recognize you in Oregon?”
“Probably not, and if they do, no one in Oregon gives a damn about a Washington hockey player. I want to give Lexie my full attention, without interruption. I can’t do that here. You’ve been out with me. You’ve seen what it’s like.”
He wasn’t bragging, just stating a fact. “I imagine getting asked for your autograph all the time must get fairly annoying.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I usually don’t mind. Except when I’m standing in front of a urinal and my hands are full.”
Hands. What an ego! She tried not to laugh. “Your fans must really like you to follow you into the bathroom.”
“They don’t know me. They like who they think I am. I’m just a regular guy who plays hockey for a living instead of driving a backhoe.” A self-deprecating smile twisted one corner of his mouth. “If they really knew me, they probably wouldn’t like me any more than you do.”
I never said that I didn’t like you. The sentence hung between them, unspoken and waiting for Georgeanne to employ some tact and repeat it. She could tell him she liked him-easily. She’d been raised on polite lies. But when she looked into his cobalt blue eyes, she wasn’t sure how much would be a lie. As he sat there looking like every woman’s fantasy, charming her with his smiles, she wasn’t sure how much she really disliked him anymore. Somehow, he’d moved up from a negative thirty to about a minus ten. An improvement over an hour ago. “I like you more than this paper cut,” she admitted as she held up her index finger. “But less than a bad hair day.”
He looked at her for several prolonged moments. “So… I’m somewhere between a paper cut and a bad hair day?”
“That’s correct.”
“I can live with that.”
Georgeanne didn’t know what to say to him when he was being so agreeable. She was saved the trouble by the ringing of the telephone. “Excuse me for a moment,” she said, and picked up the receiver. “Heron Catering, this is Georgeanne.” The male voice on the other end didn’t waste any time telling her exactly what he wanted.
“No,” she said in answer to his inquiry. “We don’t do naked-torso cakes.”
John chuckled beneath his breath as he stood. He glanced about the room, then moved toward a bookcase beneath the window. The sun glinted off a gold cuff link at his wrist as he reached behind a thriving fern and picked up one of Georgeanne’s least favorite pictures. Mae had snapped the photo during Georgeanne’s eighth month of pregnancy, which was why it was hidden behind the plant.
“I’m sure,” she said into the receiver, “you have us confused with someone else.” The gentleman adamantly argued that he was positive Heron’s had catered his friend’s bachelor party. He went into detail, and Georgeanne was forced to lower her voice and say, “I know for a fact that we have never provided topless pool waitresses for any occasion. And I don’t even know what a bootie girl is.” She looked at John’s profile, but his expression gave no indication that he’d heard her. His brows were lowered as he stared at the picture of Georgeanne looking as big as a circus tent in a pink and white polka-dot maternity dress.
When she hung up the telephone, she stood and walked around the side of her desk. “That’s an awful picture,” she said as she came to stand beside him.
“You were huge.”
“Thanks.” She made a grab for the photograph, but he held it out of her reach.
“I didn’t mean fat,” he said as he stared at the picture. “I meant very pregnant.”
“I was very pregnant.” She reached for it again and missed. “Now give it to me.”
“What did you crave?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Pregnant women are supposed to crave pickles and ice cream.”
“Sushi.”
He grimaced and looked at her out of the corners of his eyes. “You like sushi?”