“I’m not good at flirting.” I am a master of the obvious.
“What are you good at then?”
I can’t decide if this is an innuendo—an invitation to begin a sex conversation—or an innocent question about my secret skills.
I go with the latter. “I’m good at math. And I’m good at…” My throat clears. “Sports.” No time like the present to start dropping hints.
“Which sports?” She only breaks eye contact when Jacob—the other server—sets down our soup and salad.
I wait for him to leave. “I used to play football, but then in high school, I focused on baseball.” I force the words out painfully, reciting them like a requiem.
“Baseball? That’s nice.” She pauses just long enough to take a tiny sip of soup, testing out how hot it is. Hums. “This is good. I love bisque—no places I go ever have it.”
I peacock a bit, glad to make her happy with a simple tureen of soup.
“So you’re good at math, sports, and what else?” She busies herself with the bisque, adding a tad bit of pepper. “I want to hear more about you—what do you love doing when you have the weekend off?”
I have entire seasons off—whole months, I want to point out—but I keep that information to myself. Although, now is just as good a time as any to tell her I’m a professional athlete.
“It depends on the time of year,” I admit honestly. “But usually in my free time I work out to stay in shape, and—obviously you know I like collecting things. Baseball cards is only one of my collections. I also love vintage pennants and signed baseballs.”
“Wow. You really do love baseball.”
“Yeah.” I flush, digging into my salad, sliding a mushroom onto my fork for the perfect bite. “What about you?”
“What am I good at? Um—I used to be a runner, but I haven’t gone in ages. Winter had me all kinds of unmotivated, but when I jog, I feel so much better. Uh, let’s see…I paint? And I love decorating. I think I’m good at it?”
“What do you collect?”
“I love antique malls. Architectural remnants. My parents have a place about forty minutes north of here with a shed and they let me store things there. Someday, I’m going to build a house and use the things I’ve collected.”
If she likes old things, she would probably hate my house with its polished stone, echoing hallways, and cold tile floors.
I hate it too, if I’m being real.
“What are you thinking about? You look so serious all of a sudden.”
“I hate my house,” I blurt out.
First, Miranda looks shocked. Then, she bursts out laughing. Snorts. “Oh my god, that is so random. What made you say that?”
“You. It sounds like you know what you want. You have it all figured out.”
“Nah, I just like old shit. Stuff—old stuff, sorry.”
“You can swear, I don’t—”
“Mr. Harding?” A man is standing next to the table, and I glance up. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering—”
“Can it wait? Catch me after I’m done here?” I give Miranda a tight-lipped smile, her eyes having gone wide. “Thanks.”
The man says something I can’t understand, presumably apologizing, before fading away.
“Uh.” My date’s soup spoon hovers about the bowl, mid-sip. “What the hell was that?”
Beverly chooses that moment to swing by and ask how our meal is, but instead of giving her a thumbs up, I catch her to say, “Hi Bev, can you kindly ask them to not take pictures?”
“Of course Mr. Harding. We are so sorry.”
I nod, irritated. Can barely meet Miranda’s eyes.
“What is going on?” Now she sets her spoon down and leans back to look at me anew. “Who are you?”
I open my mouth to respond, but she beats me to it.
“Wait, this is Chicago—are you in the mob?” She lowers her voice to a frantic whisper. “Like, I know all about that stuff. If you are, blink twice.”
I do not blink twice.
“Dammit, that seems like the obvious choice!” She sighs. “Well? Are you going to tell me or do I have to go ask that dude who obviously wanted your autograph?”
He chose a shitty time to come ask for it, making me feel and look like kind of a selfish asshole. What are the chances he’s ever going to bump into me again?
For real though—if I sign something for him, a line will form and I’ll be stuck here signing my name on shit instead of enjoying dinner, which would get cold and have to be put in a takeout container. I’ve been down this road before and have no interest in going there tonight.
No need to feel guilty.
You deserve privacy.
I have to repeat this over and over and will surely do so again tonight, when I’m alone again and lying in my giant bed, staring up at the ceiling in my dumb giant bedroom inside my stupid giant McMansion.
“Noah?” She’s quiet now.
“Mm?”
“So before when those people were taking pictures, they weren’t taking them of themselves?” She shifts in her chair, and I can see that she’s uncomfortable. “I’m pretty sure they were taking them of you. Am I right?”
I swallow the piece of bread I’ve just set on my tongue, an answer to her question not finding its way out right away.
“Yes.”
She hesitates. “Why?”
Because I’m famous, except you’re the only one who hasn’t realized it, which means you’re here because you actually like me for who I am, and these fuckers have the potential to ruin the entire evening for us by being nosy.
Nope. Too harsh, can’t say it. Even though the onlookers with their prying eyes are making me nervous, and edgy, and I’m losing my patience—I still cannot say it.
“Maybe they were taking pictures of you?” I counter back, grinning.
“Why would they do that!” She laughs, amused, swirling the straw around her
