There was something to be said for women like Stella. The ones who knew their worth, knew their mind. Who didn't give a fuck what anyone else thought, or so it seemed. Who didn't tap dance around what they wanted. It was a variation on sexy that would hold strong when everything else evolved as the years passed.
"That was completely serious," I said, feigning some indignation for her benefit. That was the game we were playing right now. "Still waiting on a response, Stel."
Her shoulders shimmied back and forth as her gaze swept over the tavern. "We're clearly compatible on the burger front," she said.
I nodded. "Clearly."
"We should see how it goes with pizza," she said with a shrug. "And then a restaurant with really bad service. Like, awful service. Because true colors come out when forced to deal with that kind of situation."
I gestured toward myself. "What? You think I'd lose it over a waiter forgetting about us or a burnt steak?"
She shook her head. "That's just it. I don't know. And you don't know how I'd deal with a two-hour wait to be seated."
It was my turn for the head shaking. "Yeah, I do. You'd find somewhere else to go. There are no two-hour waits for anything in your world."
She seemed to agree with this but barreled on. "The real test is Italian. My dad's great-grandparents came over on the proverbial boat from Sicily so this one is personal. Clams or sausage, linguini or ziti, red or white. That's where it gets tricky. If we aren't compatible on the lasagna front, then—"
"Then we make two different pans of lasagna and life is good," I interrupted. "Lasagna is not a zero-sum game."
She took a big bite from her burger, nodding, her gaze fixed on me. Eventually, she said, "I hadn't thought of it that way. No fighting over the crispy, cheesy corner pieces."
I bobbed my head. "Even better."
"If we wanted to go wild, we could throw in a trip to Ikea. Now that's the proving ground," she said.
I reached for my beer, took a sip. I wasn't sure what I'd ordered but it was fine. A little hoppy but fine. "What do we need at Ikea?"
"Probably an extra lasagna pan." She was busy rearranging her hair and pulling it out from where it had slipped under the collar of her coat.
That goddamn raincoat. I couldn't determine whether it was a dress intended to look like a raincoat—that was a thing, right?—or she really wanted to keep her coat on, but I needed it off. And whatever was underneath, I needed that off too. I didn't want her naked in the middle of this tavern but I couldn't think with all those layers between us.
As if I'd be able to think with nothing between us.
I glanced down at my half-eaten burger and then back up at her. "And then you'll give me an answer?"
Another shrug. "I'll introduce you to my family. They'd guilt the shit out of me if I got engaged before they had a chance to draw and quarter"—her eyes widened as she pressed her fingers to her lips—"I meanmeetthe guy."
"Pizza, pasta, bad service, Ikea, medieval torture," I said, marking the invisible checklist on the tabletop. "Then you'll decide?"
"Yeah, probably." She tipped her chin up, a smile pulling at her lips. "What else do you have for me? What's your everything, Cal Hartshorn?"
You.
The thought came out of…I didn't know where. But now it was here, expanding like a chemical reaction.
"Hearts," I managed. "Hearts are my thing."
"That I know," she said. "Rumor has it you're pretty good with them too."
"I am," I admitted. "But I'd rather talk about you. I'd rather know your everything."
I was waiting—hoping with the most ludicrous hope in the world—for her to tell me I was it, I was her world as of today. It was straight insanity. Instead of shoring up that insanity, she said, "Balls."
"Balls?" I repeated.
She bobbed her head as she sipped her beer. "Balls." Her tongue swept out, over her top lip and I didn't know how to breathe anymore. "All about those balls, 'bout those balls," she sang, wiggling her shoulders. The tune was vaguely familiar but I couldn't focus on anything while her body was moving like that. "Baseballs, footballs, fútbols, basketballs, tennis balls, the occasional golf ball. Pucks are just ice balls so I allow those too."
That made more sense than the scrotal thoughts bouncing around my mind. "How did you get into this work?" I asked. "Pro athletes and everything?"
