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And then the reality of what I just agreed to comes back to slap me in the face, a tight ball of nerves spreading like wildfire through my belly.
It’s fine, I tell myself. What harm could one dinner do? Now, if only I could believe it.
——
When I exit the gymexactly thirty minutes later, Harris is already outside waiting. Dressed casually in faded jeans and a navy blue V-neck shirt. He almost looks as good with clothes on as he does without...almost.
Shaking off the thought, I plaster on a brave smile and join him on the curb.
“I was starting to think you’d snuck out the back,” he tells me, a twinkle in his deep gray eyes.
“Honestly, I considered it.”
“Well, for the record, I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Just don’t make me regret this.”
“I promise to do my best.” His eyes give me one solid look over. “You look really nice, by the way.”
“Nice?” I snort. “My hair is still wet from the shower and I’m wearing a t-shirt, torn jeans, and flip flops,” I point out, knowing it’s not something I would normally wear on a date.
Wait, did I just say date? I meant dinner. This is just dinner. Definitely not a date.
“I like it.” He seems sincere, but a part of me feels like he’s secretly teasing me.
If I had known I was going anywhere but home after the gym I would have brought something nicer to change into. Of course, I’m not going to tell him that.
“So, where are we going?” I ask, rocking back on my heels.
“How do you feel about wings and beer?” he asks, extending his hand to me.
I look down at his palm and then back up to his face. “Sounds perfect, actually.”
He takes the hint and drops his hand but I don’t miss the amusement that dances across his handsome face. I’m starting to think he actually enjoys me turning him down. I’m sure it’s a change from having women throwing themselves at him every day of the week. I’ve seen the way women look at him. Who could blame them? He looks like he just stepped out of a magazine, airbrushed and all.
“Come on. There’s a little place not far from here.” He turns, waiting for me to step up next to him before taking off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the office.
We walk less than a block before Harris slows in front ofHarrison’s, a small little bar and grill that I’ve been to a few times over the years.
“We’re here.” He grins, holding the door open for me.
“Be honest, you only like this place because it has your name in it,” I tease as we wait for the hostess to seat us.
“I know a good thing when I see it.” He gives me a sideways glance, causing my skin to flush.
What the hell is wrong with me tonight?
It isn’t long before we’re seated in a corner booth with a perfect view of the TVs that sit in a straight line above the bar. I keep my eyes glued on the baseball game playing as we wait for our waitress.
“You a fan?” Harris interrupts my faked interest in the game.
“Truthfully, no.” I laugh.
“Ever been to a game?”
“I haven’t,” I admit.
“That’s why you don’t like it. You can’t appreciate baseball until you’re sitting in the stands, watching it in person. The music, the fans, the energy...the hotdogs.” He grins. “It’s what makes baseball so special.”
