“You can label that too-hot-to-handle, if you’d like.”
I laugh. I don’t recall him being so openly cocky. “And what are you going to label me?”
“Well, when I told the guys I needed to stop here, I labeled you a five-alarm smoker. But now it has to be poinsettia potential.”
I wrinkle my nose, not liking the name. He holds up his phone and snaps a quick picture.
“Hey. That’s not legal without my permission.”
“As I recall, we once did lots of illegal things without permission.” His eyes skim up my body again and my skin heats.
I’m certain red washes my skin and lights me up like a Christmas beacon in my green dress.
Without a final farewell, he turns to walk away like he did the other night.
Once he disappears through the exit I remember where I am—work. I brush back my hair, straighten my shoulders and spin in the direction of the elevator. I don’t make it to the bank before my phone rings. I quickly check the number and answer.
“Hello?” A giggle fills my tone.
“I said I wanted to call you sometime and I figured now is as good a time as any.”
Silence fills the line as I step aside to let others take the lift. I’ll lose the phone connection in the elevator, and I’m not ready to sever whatever this is between us.
“Go to the game with me this weekend.”
“What game?”
“Immaculate Academy is in the state finals. The game is tomorrow night.”
“Oh, I have to—”
“Don’t say work.” I hear his smile through the phone as his voice deepens.
Slowly, I wander toward one of the store’s entrances, seeking privacy. “Zebb, really, I have to—”
“My nephew is playing. He’s the quarterback, remember? I really think they’ll win.”
“Zebb, work—”
“I get it. Work is important to you. Is that always going to be your excuse? Not washing your hair. Or having other plans. Just work?”
Was work my excuse for not doing things? I do have a plan. I need to work. Work was my life.
The thought hits me hard.
I didn’t have a life.
As if tired of waiting for an answer, Zebb remarks, “I used to be like that. Thinking work was all I needed. But work can cost more than the money it earns, babe. Think about it.”
A pause fills the line. Hisbabewasn’t derogative. It wasn’t sweet either. He’s probably called plenty of women babe over the years.
“Listen Santa’s helper, the man in red can spare you for an evening. Come to the game with me.”
I chew my lip and glance out the expanse of glass doors leading outside. A fire engine turns the corner.
“Did you drive a fire truck to the store?”
“Had a special delivery to make.”