I glance at the huge glass of water in front of him. “Are you?”
He shakes his head ruefully. “Nah. I’m breaking enough rules just being here. But that shouldn’t stop you. Please. What would you like? He pushes the leather-bound drinks menu across the table toward me.”
“Uh…” I rest my fingertips on the closed padded folder, then decide firmly, “No. That wouldn’t be fair.” Yeah, there’s no use giving my hulking date any more advantages than he already has. “We’ll both abstain, and still have a good time. I’ve been told it can be done.”
He laughs loudly. “Okay, then. Let’s test that theory.”
“Let’s.”
After he orders less food than I expect, and I probably order more than most women he dates, he asks, “So, what have you been up to since the Christmas party?”
My rejoinder, “Oh, you remember that much now?” receives a guilty smile he tries to hide in his water glass.
“Of course. You’re Rae’s friend.”
“You had no idea who to expect here tonight, did you?”
Instead of directly answering, he chuckles and chomps on a piece of ice. Still chewing, he opens his mouth to the side, just enough to ask, “Why are you bustin’ my chops?”
“I want you to know I’m onto you, Number Fourteen.”
Setting down his glass, he raises his eyebrows at me and swallows. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Oh.” I sip my water and try not to laugh at the mock-indignant look on his face. Finally, I let him off the hook. “It’s okay, though. I don’t have any illusions. You’re Jet Knox.”
He pats his face as if trying to “see” himself with his fingers. “Thanks for clarifying that for me. What, exactly, does that mean to you?”
A warning gong sounds in my brain, but like most warnings in my life, I ignore it. “You meet lots of women, all eager to be with you. You’re used to getting the star treatment from them.”
The smile fading from his face, he leans back and tucks his hands into his underarms.
For the second time today, though, I can’t seem to make myself shut up. “You can have any woman you want, and you know it.”
“Wow. Your opinion of me isn’t very flattering.”
Trying to ignore the intimidating set to his jaw, I laugh off his statement while my heart thunders. I keep my hands folded in my lap, because if I lift them, their trembling will give away my trepidation. It’s suddenly hit me who I’m talking to. This is not just any guy. I’ve been aware of that from the minute I accepted his invitation to dinner. But for the first time since agreeing to meet him here, I know it.
“I don’t have any opinion of you,” I breezily claim.
He tilts his head. “Could have fooled me. Sounds to me like you think I’m a tail-chaser who takes advantage of his money and influence and uses women like disposable razors.”
“Huh-huh,” I chuckle nervously, sipping more water. “Not exactly.” He probably has a few razors that have stuck around longer than some of his dates.
“But pretty much, right?” He narrows his eyes and taps his fingers on the tabletop.
“Let’s start over. What I meant was— Never mind. I shouldn’t have teased you. But you may want to take a picture to go along with any future phone numbers you collect.”
He relaxes and allows himself to look caught again. “Well, that.” When I say nothing (I’m finally learning) and wait for him to explain, he continues, “I knew I associated the name ‘Maura’ with ‘smart’ and ‘beautiful.’ I figured, if you didn’t call back, it was a sign I should stay home, like a good boy, and hang out with Quatorze.”
“Quatorze?”
“My dog.”
Normally, I’m not all that interested in guys’ babe magnets, but having taken French in high school (because Spanish and Latin were too practical), I’m intrigued by this pooch’s name. “What breed?”
He clears his throat and lifts his chin. “Bichon Frisé.”
I stifle a giggle at the idea of this manly man owning and cuddling such a pampered breed, much less naming it the French equivalent of his jersey number.
“Go ahead and laugh. Everyone else does.”
My sarcastic but good-natured “No!” cracks us up.
Eventually, he explains, “He was my girlfriend’s. Well, fiancée’s. Now ex. Obviously. He always liked me more than her, so she left both of us.” His expression darkens.
Uhhhhh…
Looking down at the table, he clears his throat and composes himself, then attempts a lighter tone when he glances up at me once more. “Torz is small but mighty. One of the guys. He and I watch a lot of TV.”
“What do you do with him while you’re traveling?”
“I take him with me when I visit family. I have a dog sitter for the other times. Jacob lives in my guest house. He holds down the fort while I’m away. You know, since I’m hopelessly alone.” His slight blush betrays the chagrin underlying his light tone.
Our food arrives before I can reply, and the waiter lingers, ensuring Jet approves of everything in front of us before he wanders off. After talking about the food for a while and trading amateur reviews, we eat in silence. Then, before he’s finished eating, Jet props his knife and fork on the edge of his plate and leans forward onto his elbows. I pause mid-chew, waiting expectantly for him to say what’s on his mind.
“Can I be honest with you without freaking you out?”
I swallow and croak, “Sure,” hoping I won’t regret it.
He sits back and rubs his chin. “This is my seventh year in the league. Don’t get me wrong, it’s awesome. I’ve been working toward this, especially now that we’re heading into the postseason, since I started playing pee-wee football. Playing in the NFL is everything I’ve always wanted.”
“But…?”
He shifts in his seat. “Man, this is going to sound so douchey, but I can’t think of a way to say it that doesn’t, so I’ll just come out with it. The part I hate the most is… the groupies.”
I’ll bet, I
