Page 4 of Playing for Love

Mia

Whatever power Gabe Wyatt had, he ought to bottle it and sell it. I thought he was hot in college, but now I felt like I was sitting next to a blow torch. But what he was then compared to what he was now, was like a matchstick to an atomic bomb.

“It’s not you,” he said. I stared at his oversize hands with his long lean fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. “Denise is always telling me I have a blank spot in my head where people’s names and faces should be.”

“You have that checked out?” Genuine concern bubbled up for this man I only knew from afar, a man who was more like a theory than flesh and blood. That was the power of my old crush—on my best friend’s boyfriend.

He laughed. “Don’t worry, Mia. I’ve been this way all my life. See that—I remembered your name.”

I tried not to giggle, tried for an adult-like laugh of mild amusement. “I guess Denise wasn’t kidding when she said you needed a—”

“A what? Watchdog? Babysitter? I’ve been doing fine the past year without her help.”

“Sore spot, eh? Sorry. Let’s not talk about Denise.” I should have told her to find someone else to keep an eye on her so-called boyfriend. If he were mine, I’d never have left him alone, never have moved away. I wouldn’t care how little attention he paid to me, even a small amount would be better than . . . whatever the hell Denise got now.

“It’s all right. Things are fine between us. We’ve settled into a comfortable long-distance relationship. Suits me. Football takes a lot of my attention.”

“So I’ve heard.”

He gave me a censuring smirk and said, “Tell me about yourself. Why aren’t you a famous model like your mother?”

“Ouch. Right for the jugular. And I thought you were a nice guy.”

“I meant that as a compliment. You could be. What do you do?”

“You don’t know?”

He looked chagrined. “Sorry, I should know.” He showed a dimple and, as far as I could tell, the dimple was genuine.

“I get it. I don’t play football, so your attention span is limited.”

“I’m not that bad.” He paused a beat. “Okay, I guess I am that bad. Sorry. I promise whatever you tell me tonight, I’ll remember. I really do want to know what you do.”

Heaven help me, I believed him.

“I’m an emergency room nurse. Nurse in charge actually. And before you ask me why not a doctor, it’s because I wanted to have a life outside of work.” Unlike him.

“Very cool. You’re not squeamish about blood and guts then.”

I laughed for real. “That’s what I’d expect an adolescent boy to say.”

“Arrested development. Once football took over my mind . . .”

I giggled. I never giggled, hated giggling, except I couldn’t help it and I couldn’t deny I enjoyed it now. He was charming me and I wasn’t sure if it was his genuineness or his heart-stoppingly gorgeous face or his self-deprecating smile. But I felt it all over again, that attraction welling up, worming its way through my system. The crush revived.

Not one to be impressed easily by a handsome face, or even a killer body like his, I knew it had to be his graciousness. Paradoxical. On one hand, he didn’t pay attention to much besides football. On the other hand, when he did pay attention, you felt like the most important person in the universe. I experienced a tug, a connection, and chided myself that he was like this with everyone. He’d been famous for his female following in college. And now . . .

He pulled the car up to a small, divey-looking place on a narrow side street lined with a mix of white cement buildings and the stacked porches of old-style multifamily homes. I could see there weren’t a lot of cars parked near the restaurant. I wondered what kind of place he was taking me to.

“Don’t worry. It’s not much on the outside, but the chef and owner are salt of the earth and the food is special. I come here a lot so I feel at home, like they’re part of my extended family.”

“So I shouldn’t be surprised if you get the red-carpet treatment.”

“No red carpets here. This is a down-to-earth, friends-and-family kind of place. Let’s just say coming here helps keep my feet planted on the ground. Firmly.”

He jumped from the car and was halfway around before I had my door all the way opened. He opened it the rest of the way and helped me out of the low-slung sports car. A gray-haired man with a Santa Claus smile, dark mustache, and white apron emerged from the restaurant, holding the glass door for us.

“Louie, what’s cooking?”