“And I hate them already.” I turn around.
“You like Pres and he’s a lawyer,” she points out behind me.
“I knew him before he became a lawyer,” I say, as I open the door. “And who says I like him?”
She laughs as I walk out and get in my car. The entire ride home, I’m thinking about what I could wear that would scream “this is not a date.” I could go baggy on him, but I won’t. That served its purpose (barely) and I’m past that stage in my life. I shower, dress, and stand in front of the mirror. My skin keeps its golden complexion from being in the sun every day, and I cut my hair shorter so that it rests on my shoulders when I decide to do beach waves in it, which I did tonight. My makeup looks good, natural, and not date-looking (I hope), and my body looks great in the short summer dress Marissa gave me for my birthday last year. I finish applying lip gloss, slip my feet into cute but comfortable tan sandals, and step back. Okay, so maybe I look like I’m going on a date. Fuck, whatever. I’ll have to remind him all night if that’s what it takes.
CHAPTER27
DELILAH
My skin is crawling againwith the sensation of being watched, when Wade brushes his hand against mine as we stand in the crowded bar. I jump and start looking around again, pressing my back against the bar. I don’t see anyone who looks suspicious, but the feeling remains. You can ignore warning bells in your head. You can even ignore your treacherous heart. But you can never ignore your gut. I learned that the hard way.
“Who are you looking for?” Wade asks.
“No one. Just looking around. There are so many new faces.”
“I know, right?” He turns sideways and props his shoulder on the bar. Now he’s really close, almost hugging me. “They texted me that we’re number twenty in line for a table, which means well over an hour.”
I take another sip of my old fashioned. On the weekends, booths have become a commodity, unless you reserve ahead of time. We already had appetizers and two drinks while standing at the bar, so we don’t really need a booth. The only reason I wanted one was so we could sit across from each other. Standing at the bar gives Wade the opportunity to do things like face me fully and put a hand over the bar around me, so it looks like we’re on a date. Fuck. I already told him twice that it’s not a date, so I’m just going to enjoy the rest of my drink and tell him again if he tries to make a move. I huff out a breath and look around once more. I look up and see they’re playing a college hockey game on television and ask the bartender for another drink. Wade has two more before I tell him that I want to go home.
The nagging feeling in my gut is still there when we walk outside, even after I tried drowning it in whiskey. Suddenly, the smell of cigarettes hits me and I really start to panic. My heart’s in my throat as I look around. I spot some girl standing near the door, looking at her phone with a cigarette in her hand. Oh my God. I take a deep breath and exhale. He’s not here. He can’t be.
“We have to walk,” I say when Wade starts heading to where his car is parked.
“You think so?”
I shoot him a look. “Iknowso.”
“Fine.” He starts trying to do the DUI walk-in-a-straight-line thing and fails miserably.
“You would’ve gotten arrested for that.”
“Maybe.” He glances at me. “Unless it’s a woman officer and I flash my dimple at her.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she’d be willing to put her badge on the line for a rendezvous with you.”
He laughs. “Many women would.”
“Yep, I see them on the pitch all the time,” I say.
I look over my shoulder again, that feeling curling around my gut, telling me someone’s watching. I have no connection to this place whatsoever. He couldn’t have found me. A cold chill runs down my spine, just the same.
“I don’t understand why you’re not one of them. Why can’t you date me?” he asks, pulling me from my paranoia.
“I just can’t,” I say, looking over my shoulder.
“You cold?”
“Yep.” It’s not acompletelie. The thought ofhimcatching up to me turns my blood cold.
Wade wraps an arm around my shoulder. I stiffen but leave it there. It’s not like he’s holding me against his side or anything. Prescott walks like this with me all the time, and it means nothing.
“It’s not a date,” I say, reminding him again.
“So you’ve said,” he says. “It could be.”
“It’s not.” I shimmy out of his arm.
