Page 7 of Playing for Love

“Fontanna’s in trouble,” he said, bringing the conversation safely back around to where it should be all on its own with no guidance from me. Admiration and disappointment jumbled around inside me. A fit of conscience, the one that had become sketchy in the presence of Gabriel Wyatt, the shining object of my previous affection, made me refocus. I opened my bag wider and searched the pocket.

“I’ll give you my card with my new work number and all my contact information to give to Tate.”

“I have it covered. How about if we set up your first date here?” I looked up at him. He was serious.

“You want me and Tate to come here for dinner?” I’d thought we could start out with a walk somewhere public, maybe along the Charles River or something less structured, less obvious than dinner like I usually did with a man I dated for the first time. Though there’d only been a few and I had to admit they hadn’t worked out. I shrugged. Gabe was running the show and I was realizing he was used to running the show, orchestrating things—like the Boston Militia’s offense. And my fix-up with Tate.

“Sunday,” he said. “I’ll get you a ticket. My family comes for dinner here after most home games except when we play an eight o’clock game. You and Tate can join us on Sunday. You’ll have plenty of buffers.”

“Like you? And I thought you were confident in your matchmaking abilities.” My flirtatious impulses wouldn’t shut down no matter how much my conscience yelled at them.

“I’m the perfect buffer. He’ll be on his best behavior.”

“How am I supposed to get to know the man if he’s on his best behavior?”

“Don’t worry. I am confident in my matchmaking skills. He’ll want to see you again. But it doesn’t hurt to make sure he starts slow and easy.”

“What makes you think I want to start slow and easy?”

He put the knife and bread he’d been buttering down then and gave me a long, considering look.

“Did Denise put you up to flirting with me?”

My mouth fell open and I had no idea what to say. I laughed. He shook his head. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“You know her very well, don’t you?”

He picked up his bread, resumed eating, and finally said between bites when I thought I’d made him angry, “You’re both playing a dangerous game.”

“I’m sorry, Gabe. I know. I—”

I couldn’t very well tell him I enjoyed flirting with him, couldn’t help myself even if Denise hadn’t encouraged it to gauge his reaction. And I definitely didn’t want to think what he meant by his assertion that we were playing a dangerous game. Both of us. Did he like flirting with me too? Was he tempted by me after all? Of course not. Don’t even think it. He’d behaved like a perfect gentleman, even when provoked. Mostly.

I said, “You passed her test with flying colors.” Convinced it was true, trying to placate him. I knew it was useless because he was offended and rightly so.

“Yeah? You can tell Denise she failed my test. Not that I’d been trying to test her, but she created the situation.”

Marco came back with our food then and the smells were outrageous but I was far from tempted with my nerves jumping around in my stomach like twitchy little frogs. Not so for Gabe. He concentrated on eating his lasagna.

I had no idea what to say. As much as I agreed with him, I understood where Denise was coming from. And she was my best friend. Eventually, he looked up from his half-empty plate.

“Sorry you got dragged into the feud between me and Denise. I know she’s your friend and I know how persuasive she is.”

“You mean forceful?” I smiled.

He chuckled. “She is a force.” He let out a long breath. “We let Denise intrude on a perfectly good dinner between friends. Seems we’re doomed to be haunted by her presence whether she’s here or not.”

I picked up my fork and nodded. It was true. It was like she was in my head, guilting me if I enjoyed myself or found myself appreciating Gabe in any way. I said, “It’ll be different with Tate here on Sunday.” I hoped it was true. Or it might be a whole different kind of torture—the kind where I was wishing I was with Gabe instead of Tate.

My only consolation was that after Sunday, I would likely not need to deal with seeing Gabe, the forbidden apple, again.