“Hi.” Banks’s voice comes out like sandpaper. He clears his throat. “I’m—yeah. Banks.”
“So I heard.” She laughs, a little awkward now. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you Monday. Should be fun.”
Banks nods. Just nods. Like he’s forgotten how words work.
“Okay then.” Winnie glances at me, and I catch the question in her eyes—is he okay?—before she recovers. “I’m meeting a friend, so I should run, but tell Tori I said hi!”
“Will do.”
She gives one last little wave and heads toward the back of the restaurant. Banks watches her go. For way too long.
“Dude.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You didn’t say a single coherent thing just now.”
“I said hi.”
“Barely.”
“I’m not—” He stops. Picks up his water. Drains half of it. “She caught me off guard.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She did.”
I don’t push it. But I file it away because I’ve known Banks for six years, and I’ve never seen him rattled by anything. Not enforcers, not playoffs, not contract negotiations.
But a five-foot-six yoga instructor with a nice smile just turned him into a malfunctioning robot.
Interesting.
“Can we get back to your proposal?” Banks growls. “Since that’s supposedly why we’re here?”
“Right. The proposal.” I pull out my phone and scroll to the notes app where I’ve been keeping a list of ideas. “Okay, so we’ve ruled out skywriting. What about... a flash mob?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Jumbotron at a game?”
“She’d murder you.”
“Hot air balloon?”
He considers this one, then shakes his head. “You’re afraid of heights.”
I sigh and scratch my temple. Banks just looks at me. That flat, unimpressed stare he’s perfected over years of shutting down reporters and overeager fans.
I take a sip of my water. “Okay, so I have a healthy respect for heights. There’s a difference.”
Banks continues his unimpressed stare.
“Fine. No hot air balloon.” I scroll further. “What about something simple? Cook her dinner, candles, get down on one knee?”
“Now you’re talking.” He nods once.
“Really?”
