“What do you do? Girl, you’re at dinner with a freaking major league ballplayer—why are you in the bathroom whining about it?”
“Because he never told me! He lied!”
“Lies by omission? Big deal! Are you listening to yourself? If I were there I would slap some sense into you.” I hear her rip open a bag of something—chips, probably. “Everyone knows who Noah Harding is, Miranda. Even my six-year-old brother.”
“Well I didn’t,” I declare snippily. “He should have told me.”
“Uh, what could he have said that wouldn’t have made him sound like a total douchebag?”
Okay, true. “I don’t know. Anything.”
“Oh hey, by the way, I play baseball for the Steam and just signed an 80 million dollar contract for three—”
“What!”
“What are you shouting about now? Read the google, for crying out loud. He’s worth a friggin’ fortune.”
80 million dollars.
Well no wonder he could afford those baseball cards—forty-five grand is less than he pays in income tax!
“I’ve never dated anyone with a decent job, let alone a professional one.”
“Yes, well—welcome to adulting.”
“Could you dial down the haughty attitude? It’s not helping.”
Claire snorts. “What do you want me to tell you? To go in there and throw water in his face because he’s AWESOME? No. You’re the one who needs a bucket of water tossed on you. Get a grip.”
I sputter. “Claire!”
“No. Put on more lip gloss and get your bony ass back out there. Do all us single girls a favor and give the guy a chance. I’m hanging up—goodbye.”
I stare at a blank screen, the line dead.
A few seconds later:
Claire: Don’t forget to call me later, whore.
I do what she says. Dig into my purse for the lip gloss I tossed in before leaving home and put some on before leaving the restroom stall. And, on second thought, I should probably try to pee while I’m in here, since I’m in here.
Finish up, wash my hands, stare at my reflection in the mirror.
“You never would have known if he hadn’t told you,” I say to myself. “He is a nice, sweet guy.” Shy and a bit aloof, but I can see he has a good heart. “Give him a chance. Don’t judge him because you’re intimidated—he doesn’t deserve it.”
I acknowledge that last thought again: I am intimidated. Who wouldn’t be? Fans. Women. Reporters. Lack of privacy. Nice things, but at what expense? Not even being able to have dinner without being interrupted by strangers? Having your photo taken without your permission while you stuff your face?
Tabloids writing about you, getting in your business.
Is that the kind of life I would have if I dated him?
It’s not like he chose it, either. But in a way, he did!
I stand there debating with myself until a woman walks in and glances at me, doing a double take. Smiles a little too wide as she drifts to the sink to wash her hands—without using the toilet first.
Weird, but whatever.
“Hello,” she says pleasantly.
I smile back, pulling a terrycloth towel from a small stack in a basket on the counter, and hand it to her.
“Thank you.” She grins, opening her mouth to say something—but I cut her off.
“Have a good night.”
She knows I’m here with Noah; I can see it in her eyes.
Suddenly, I’m furious for him, marching back to the table with purpose.
“Do you want to take this food and get out of here? We can eat it at my place.” We need to talk and it won’t be happening here, in a room full of gawkers.
He looks up at me. Nods. “Yes.”
Good. “Let’s go.”
“Are you sure?” His expression is a mix of relief and uncertainty, but he’s already taking the napkin from his lap and setting it on the table before flagging down our server to box up our food.
“Yes, Noah, I’m sure. C’mon.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a stack of cash, peeling off a few hundred-dollar bills and laying them on the table before standing.
Holy shit—that must be a thousand bucks! What the hell is he doing walking around with that kind of cash?
“And you were trying to convince me you aren’t in the mob,” I tease, grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair and letting him help me slip it on.
Such a gentleman.
He chuckles, close to my ear as I shrug into the jean jacket. “You’re really something else—do you know that?”
I shiver. “All I’m saying is, be careful or you’re going to get mugged with all that loot.”
“I haven’t been near a dark alley in a long time and I’m pretty sure at some point I mentioned my ability to run really fast.”
“Oh that’s righttt,” I joke. “Baseman. It all makes sense now—you’re a super-fast baseball guy everyone is making a fuss over.”
“Did you google me while you were in the bathroom?”
“No.” Pfft. “Claire did.”
“It’s kind of pathetic when my date knows nothing about the sport I play or who I am as a player.”
“Don’t lie—you kind of like it. Otherwise you would have told me sooner.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
I roll my eyes. “Do not even say that. You don’t have an egotistical bone in your body. You’re too nice.”
“Too nice?” He pretends to be stabbed in the heart. “Okay, now I’m butthurt. No guys wants to be the nice guy—you might as well slap a label on my forehead that says friend-zoned.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a nice guy! Why do guys hate that so much?”
“Because, Miranda, nice guys usually only finish first in the movies. They are not the trophy boyfriends every girl wants.”
“That’s not true! I can’t stand guys who are assholes—it doesn’t matter how good-looking they are.” I stop myself before I use his buddy Buzz as an example; the pair of them are like night and day and if it’s a touchy subject with Noah, I don’t want to piss him off.
We’re having a good time, and the last thing I want to do is spoil the
