“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Tori’s not flashy. She doesn’t need a production. She just needs you to show up and mean it. Make it genuine and from the heart.”
“That’s... actually really insightful.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m just saying, for a guy who claims to have no romantic instincts—”
“I observe. I don’t participate.” He signals the waiter for the check with a subtle raise of his hand. “There’s a difference.”
There’s something almost wistful in his voice. I file it away but don’t push. Banks shares when he’s ready, which is basically never, and pushing just makes him clam up tighter.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Tori, with a photo attached.
It’s her standing in front of her new clinic—Wells Sports Medicine, the sign reads—grinning like she just won the lottery. The grand opening is this weekend, but she’s been over there every day this week, setting up equipment, meeting with potential clients, making sure everything is perfect.
Tori:Look what came in today!
Another photo. Business cards with her name on them.Victoria Wells, DPT, Owner.
Me:Those look amazing. You look amazing.
Tori:Flattery will get you everywhere, Bishop.
Me:That’s the plan.
Tori:Maisie’s asking if you can pick up goldfish crackers on the way home. The pizza ones, not the regular ones. She was very specific.
Me:Tell her I’m on it.
Tori:My hero.
I’m smiling at my phone like an idiot, and I don’t even care.
“You’re disgusting,” Banks says.
“Jealous?”
“Of that dopey look on your face? Hard pass.”
But there’s something in his voice that makes me glance up. He’s looking toward the back of the restaurant again, where Winnie is sitting with someone I don’t recognize—a woman, probably a friend—laughing at something on her phone.
“You sure about that?” I ask.
“Positive.” He stands, tossing cash on the table. “Now let’s go. Some of us have things to do.”
I follow him out, but not before catching one last glimpse of Winnie. She looks up at the exact wrong moment, catching Banks staring, and something passes between them—electric and brief—before he turns away.
Yeah. He’s definitely screwed.
But that’s a problem for another day. A problem for Banks to figure out, whenever he’s ready to admit he has one.
Right now, I’ve got goldfish crackers to buy, a proposal to plan, and a woman waiting for me who somehow turned my whole life upside down and made it better in the process.
I pull out my phone and jot a note in my proposal planning list:
Cancel skywriting.
Then, after a moment:
