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But I agree to sit with Leigh, the woman I met at the bar after stealing glimpses over my shoulder during the cocktail hour. The eyes of the others assigned to Leigh’s table are on me as they pull out chairs and sit down around us. I purposely position myself facing Leigh with my arm slung across the back of her chair while the DJ announces the bridal party, then the happy couple makes their entrance.
“So, what did you pick?” I ask her once the music is back at a normal level. I’m unsure how to keep this conversation going with six other people acting as if they can’t hear us, but intently listening to every word.
“Beef wellington. You?” She sips her wine.
It seems like a nervous habit. She picks up her wineglass every time her cheeks flame pink. I haven’t figured her out yet. When she was about to leave the ballroom, I followed her with my eyes, hoping she’d look over. When she did, I challenged her, thinking she’d come to the bar, I’d get her a drink, and we’d be up in my room within half an hour.
But she stood just far enough away from me at the bar to tell me that she’s not that easy to hold on to. My biggest problem is that I love a challenge. For the entirety of my life, all someone had to tell me was that I didn’t have it or I’d never make it. I wasn’t fast enough or quick enough or smart enough. Tell me I can’t do something, and I’ll work tirelessly to prove you wrong.
The problem is that the same mentality has been transferred to women. And I feel like this woman has my blueprint.
“Same, but I might be getting your plus one’s meal.”
She cringes. “Salmon, I think.”
Oh, hell.
“And from the look on your face, I’d say you’re wishing you were at table twelve,” she says.
“Nah, it’s just that my trainer has me on this diet, and I’m eating salmon three times a week right now.”
Her lips tip up. She’s got a helluva smile. One that knocks me off my axis. “You can have my beef wellington, and I’ll take your salmon.”
“I’m fairly sure I can secure a beef wellington.”
“Excuse me.” The woman sitting next to me taps my shoulder.
How am I supposed to get this woman to my room if I can’t have a conversation for five minutes?
Leigh glances over my shoulder and raises her eyebrows.
I turn in my chair and find that the woman is probably in her midsixties, with a kind smile. I glance down and see a piece of paper and pen on the table. “Hi.”
She leans in close, her attention darting to the head table where Jack and Mila sit as if they’re the proctors during an exam. “I know we’re not supposed to acknowledge you, but my grandson is a huge fan of yours. He’s already bought your jersey and talks about how you’ll turn the Falcons around.”
I scour the table and see that all the other guests are watching us. If I sign that paper, I’m going to have to sign more stuff, then the pictures will start. Soon it’ll be a clusterfuck, and the clinking of glasses for Jack and Mila will be overshadowed by the attention being paid to me. There are only a few ways I could go with this, but damn, I remember when I was a kid and dreamed of running into my favorite player. If my grandma had brought a signature home to me, I would’ve been ecstatic.
I pick up the pen. “What’s his name?”
Her entire face lights up as if I just handed over her first grandchild. “Really? Oh, you’re a sweet boy.” She leans in closer as I put pen to paper but doesn’t lower her voice. “I told my daughter those stories were gibberish. Just gossip.”
My head tilts, and I stare up at her through my eyelashes.
Leigh snorts and covers her mouth with her napkin.
As far as I know, there’s no bad press about me. I’ve been cordial to every Chicagoan who has approached me on the street since I arrived here. What could people be saying about me?
“I’m sorry?” My forehead wrinkles.
She leans forward and smiles at Leigh. “My daughter said she’s heard you’re a real heartbreaker. That you’re a love ’em and leave ’em kind of guy. But I’ve been watching you and your date this evening.” She winks.
I want to shake my head. Love ’em and leave ’em? I never loved them in the first place, so there’s no leavin’ ’em.
“I see it in the way you look at her,” she says, placing two fingers to her eyes then pointing them back at me.
Yeah, okay. Whatever. This woman is off her rocker. Leigh and I just met.
“And your grandson’s name?” I change the subject, not wanting to entertain this woman’s false observations.
