Tabloids writing about you, getting in your business.
Is that the kind of life I would have if I dated him?
It’s not like he chose it, either. But in a way, he did!
I stand there debating with myself until a woman walks in and glances at me, doing a double take. Smiles a little too wide as she drifts to the sink to wash her hands—without using the toilet first.
Weird, but whatever.
“Hello,” she says pleasantly.
I smile back, pulling a terrycloth towel from a small stack in a basket on the counter, and hand it to her.
“Thank you.” She grins, opening her mouth to say something—but I cut her off.
“Have a good night.”
She knows I’m here with Noah; I can see it in her eyes.
Suddenly, I’m furious for him, marching back to the table with purpose.
“Do you want to take this food and get out of here? We can eat it at my place.” We need to talk and it won’t be happening here, in a room full of gawkers.
He looks up at me. Nods. “Yes.”
Good. “Let’s go.”
“Are you sure?” His expression is a mix of relief and uncertainty, but he’s already taking the napkin from his lap and setting it on the table before flagging down our server to box up our food.
“Yes, Noah, I’m sure. C’mon.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a stack of cash, peeling off a few hundred-dollar bills and laying them on the table before standing.
Holy shit—that must be a thousand bucks! What the hell is he doing walking around with that kind of cash?
“And you were trying to convince me you aren’t in the mob,” I tease, grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair and letting him help me slip it on.
Such a gentleman.
He chuckles, close to my ear as I shrug into the jean jacket. “You’re really something else—do you know that?”
I shiver. “All I’m saying is, be careful or you’re going to get mugged with all that loot.”
“I haven’t been near a dark alley in a long time and I’m pretty sure at some point I mentioned my ability to run really fast.”
“Oh that’s righttt,” I joke. “Baseman. It all makes sense now—you’re a super-fast baseball guy everyone is making a fuss over.”
“Did you google me while you were in the bathroom?”
“No.” Pfft. “Claire did.”
“It’s kind of pathetic when my date knows nothing about the sport I play or who I am as a player.”
“Don’t lie—you kind of like it. Otherwise you would have told me sooner.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
I roll my eyes. “Do not even say that. You don’t have an egotistical bone in your body. You’re too nice.”
“Too nice?” He pretends to be stabbed in the heart. “Okay, now I’m butthurt. No guys wants to be the nice guy—you might as well slap a label on my forehead that says friend-zoned.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a nice guy! Why do guys hate that so much?”
“Because, Miranda, nice guys usually only finish first in the movies. They are not the trophy boyfriends every girl wants.”
“That’s not true! I can’t stand guys who are assholes—it doesn’t matter how good-looking they are.” I stop myself before I use his buddy Buzz as an example; the pair of them are like night and day and if it’s a touchy subject with Noah, I don’t want to piss him off.
We’re having a good time, and the last thing I want to do is spoil the mood that’s already been affected by superfans who can’t be bothered to use manners.
Beverly comes with our leftovers and tells us the car is already out front, idling when we push through the doors to outside.
The ride back to the burbs, back to my place, is pleasant as we both search for things to say. It’s not awkward silence, but silence just the same—a newness to the whole thing that fills me with excitement and anticipation.
I invite him inside when we park and he grabs the takeout from the back seat where we stowed it. Judging by the size of the bags, Beverly threw in a few other things.
I can’t wait to dig through it.
Noah is big. Fills my kitchen after we’re settled in, our shoes by the front door, his navy stocking feet a contrast to the rest of him. So tall and imposing.
I shiver a little, turning away from him to retrieve some plates, then, “Should we just warm up the containers? Like, do we even need plates?”
“Good call—let’s just eat out of the boxes.”
So we do.
Seated on the floor in my minuscule living room, Noah and I tear through our meals like savages, an entire hour after they first arrived at our table. We were too distracted to eat then.
“Is it always like that?” I want to know, cutting through the pork riblet resting on a bed of risotto.