Page 49 of Never Pucking Ending

The color of her cheeks turns dark as she glances out the window. “We talk,” is all she says at first. But she must sense the way I arch my brow waiting for her to give me a little more than that. “He’s doing the shelves at the store. When I get the permits.”

I’m quiet for a long time as I focus on the long line of traffic ahead of me. The lanes are backed up from people leaving the game, so it means a longer commute home and more time to talk about Dane and his bookshelves.

“The shelves,” I repeat slowly, my hand on the leather steering wheel gripping it until it makes an unruly sound. “Is that all you talk about?”

If Dane were a smart man, he’d be trying to talk to her about more than just work. And based on the way she draws her bottom lip into her mouth, he has. She just doesn’t want to tell me.

She swallows, her throat bobbing. “He invited me out to dinner with some sketches that I can present to the planning board along with mine. So they have a better visual on what the store will look like.”

That’s definitely not all. “Huh.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Saying what?”

She glares at me. “You know what.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

She groans, dropping her head back on the seat and staring out the window again. We’re silent again for a minute or two. Then she breaks it. “It’s just dinner. Work stuff.”

Work stuff over dinner. I don’t buy it. “And where is he taking you to discuss work?”

The next question she asks is full of the kind of audacity she’d crucify most men for. “Why does that matter?”

If I weren’t in bumper-to-bumper traffic, I would stop the car right in the middle of the road for that question. “Why does it matter?” I ask her slowly, enunciating each word carefully. “Do you really need me to remind you of how I know what your face looks like when you come? How your head arches back and a tiny line form between your brows as you—”

“Okay,” she squeaks, cutting me off. Her face is flaming now. “I get it. Point taken. It’s a work dinner. That’s it. He mentioned wanting to go to Delmar’s because it’s closer to the interstate and easier to get to from where he’s staying.”

Delmar’s is an Italian restaurant with dim lighting and clothed tables with candles. Hardly the place for people to go discuss work, even if it’s a convenient location. I almost say ‘huh’ for a third time before I think better of it.

Instead of telling her what I want to—which is to tell Dane to fuck right off and that I’ll figure out how to build bookshelves for her—I change my mind. “Fine.”

Belle goes quiet, her eyes skeptically roaming over my face as the traffic starts moving again. “Fine?”

I dip my chin. “Fine. It’s a work dinner.”

She continues watching me, clearly not believing my casual nonchalance so easily. “You just threw a man tantrum two seconds ago, so I’m sorry if I find your ‘fine’ to be a bit unbelievable.”

I shrug a shoulder. “You’ve got a lot to do to prep for your store opening. If he knows how to help, then fine.”

I feel her eyes on the profile of my face for a few extra seconds before she huffs out a sigh. But she obviously doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, so all she says is, “Fine.”

*

Maybe I should feel bad about using my status to get me into the packed restaurant that usually requires reservations a month in advance, but I’m too busy scouring the dining room to let that guilt sink in. Some poor sap probably lost his reservation in order to accommodate the five massive bodies that slide into a corner booth, and I’ll try making sure they’re compensated for the last-minute change.

Moskins sees me searching Delmar’s for the familiar face with a shit-eating grin on his own. I knew I was going to get grilled the second I asked them if they wanted to go out to eat tonight. It isn’t like it’s rare I ask them to hang out, but I sure as hell don’t normally pick this atmosphere when I’m with these jockstraps. When they asked, I was honest with them.

Belle is on a date.

They all agreed to tag along without a second question. Richie has been cooped up in his house since he was released from the hospital a couple days ago. Thankfully, his ACL tear doesn’t require surgery. Only a lot of rest, ice, and elevation and physical therapy when the time comes. He’s been sulking, barely responding to group texts, and I figured getting him out would be better than letting him eat his weight in the food Belle brought over to him and watching brain rotting television shows.

Jackie Dawson, Thomas Moskins, and Elliot Raymond decided to come to help lift his spirits. And to piss me off more than likely.

“On your eight o’clock, Cap,” Moskins says, sipping his water that the waitress put down in front of each of us. He elbows me and gestures with his chin toward where Belle walks in next to Dane.

Richie Head is at the end of the table, his leg extended out in front of him in a brace and his crutches leaning against the wall behind him. He still has a solemn look about him, but there’s a little color on his face since getting some fresh air for the first time since the incident. “Is that her boyfriend?”