He looked back at Isabella. “The usual would be great.”
She disappeared back into the kitchen, and Sawyer pulled out my chair, sitting across from me. The table was tucked into a corner with a view of the whole cozy dining room, a tiny candle flickering between us. Luckily, there weren’t many people around. A few seemed to recognize us but respected our privacy.
“This place is adorable.” I glanced around at the exposed brick and twinkle lights strung over the bar.
“She’s been running it since before I was in the league. Found it years ago. I came in for takeout, and she fed me four courses and made me promise to call my dad and tell him I love him.”
“And you’ve been loyal ever since?”
“I’m a simple man. Feed me pasta, insult me a little, and I’ll never leave.”
I grinned, folding my arms on the table. “Good to know.”
Isabella returned with two glasses of red wine and a basket of garlic knots that smelled like heaven. “Start with this. I’ll bring you something good.”
“You’re a saint,” Sawyer said, grabbing a knot.
“I’m underpaid is what I am.” She winked at me. “Don’t let him forget that.”
Once she was gone again, Sawyer tore a piece of bread and popped it in his mouth. “So, did you enjoy the game?”
“You want honesty?” I said, taking a sip of wine.
“Always.”
“You look good out there.”
He nearly choked. “That’s what you noticed?”
“Well that, and the fact you apparently launched yourself over someone to get the ball and ran it into the end zone.”
“Hey, it worked.”
“You show off. You’re crazy.”
“And you liked it?”
I bit my lip. “Maybe.”
Sawyer leaned back, smug and relaxed, looking at me like I was already his favorite part of the night.
SEVENTEEN
Sawyer
She was still wearingmy jersey.
I was so screwed it wasn't even funny. Astronomically, catastrophically, write-my-obituary-now levels of screwed.
The jersey hung her like a dress, which was doing absolutely nothing for my ability to form coherent thoughts. My name stretched across her back in bold letters, advertising exactly who she belonged to, and my caveman brain was having a complete meltdown about it.
Her hair was wild and messy from the wind, and her cheeks were flushed pink from the wine. Don’t get me started on her lips. Fuck, they were stained a deep berry color that made me want to do some very unprofessional things that involved that mouth. Maybe while wearing nothing but my jersey.
Jesus. Focus.
I was a grown man who could handle seeing an attractive woman in his jersey without having a complete psychological breakdown, but lying to myself was probably a bad sign.
I dragged in a breath, planting my elbows on the table and willing my brain toward safer terrain. Mystery. Ghosts. Old diaries tucked under floorboards. As if that was any safer.
