by RC Boldt
He waves a hand, gesturing to his doorway. “We wouldn’t want you to be late.”
I nod and rise from the chair. “Thanks.”
He merely narrows his eyes on me, silent as though he’s inspecting an unusual specimen of human.
Of course, I should’ve known better than to think he’d let me have the last word. Once I get to the threshold, he warns, “I’ll be keeping tabs on you, Kendrick.”
Without turning around, I simply raise a hand in a half wave and continue walking.
In the back of my mind, it registers that he never closed the door for our conversation like he did with Jackie. When I walk past her office, it’s empty, so I assume she’s left for lunch.
Hopefully, I can catch up with her at some point. She just wasn’t acting like herself earlier. It makes me uneasy, and I know it’ll put my mind at ease to check with her and make sure everything’s okay.
I end up making an impromptu detour to talk to Coach just to cover my own ass, in case Garner checks.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sliding into my truck and pulling out my phone to find a text message from Monica about our upcoming date.
Monica: I’m looking forward to Friday night! Hope you’re having a great week so far.
I shoot a response back to let her know I’m doing the same and ignore the little voice in the back of my head that’s calling bullshit. I’m just rusty, that’s all. That’s why this feels forced.
I crank up the air-conditioning and decide to text Darcy before I head home.
Me: How’s Miss Hitched doing today?
It takes a moment before I see those three dots dancing.
Darcy: Doing great aside from having to use my emergency change of clothes I keep in my office.
I frown, worried.
Me: What happened? Are you okay?
Darcy: I’m fine. Just sticky still.
What?
Darcy: A bad excuse for a dog walker+crazy dogs and leashes that serve as a manacle+your iced-coffee-loving teammate+my clothes=one hell of a morning
I squint, confused. Who the hell is she talking about? My teammate?
Me: I’m sorry. Need me to bring you anything?
After a split second, I type,
Me: And which teammate?
Darcy: No, thanks. I’m fine now.
Then those three dots pop up, and my breath literally lodges in my throat as I wait for her to answer my other text.
Darcy: Something good came from that sticky fiasco, though. Kyler wants to take me out to dinner to make up for it.
Who the fuck is Kyler?
Oh no. No. Fucking. Way.
I hesitate before typing.
Me: Watson?
My stomach churns with an odd sort of anxiety, which is weird, but I just… worry about her. She doesn’t have anyone to look out for her. That’s all.
Darcy: Yes. He seems really sweet. He’s even taking me to The Charter on Friday night!
She immediately sends a GIF of some girl jumping up and down with giddy excitement.
The Charter? Dammmmmn. Dude’s pulling out all the stops. The Charter is a fancy joint in Atlantic Beach, overlooking the ocean. The limited seating inside ensures an intimate atmosphere. Fantastic food and scenery, but it comes at a high price.
Me: What time?
Darcy: Why?
With my thumb hovering over the keypad, I’m unsure of what to say next. Finally, I type.
Me: Don’t you know you’re supposed to share your date info just in case something happens and you end up missing?
Darcy: Your optimism is overwhelming.
I grin, imagining her saying this with heavy sarcasm.
Me: I’m waiting…
Those three dots dance, then disappear, as though she’s wavering on whether to give up the information. Finally, she starts typing again.
Darcy: 5:30 p.m. Early because of his crazy workout schedule in the morning.
Darcy: Hate to run, but I have to get back to work. I have a new client meeting and need to do some last-minute prep.
Me: No worries. Talk to you later.
I stare down at my phone as a thought stirs in my mind. Before I can second-guess myself, I dial the number of the restaurant where I made reservations for my date with Monica and cancel them.
Then I pull up another number. It takes only a moment for someone to pick up.
“Hi, this is Dax Kendrick… Yes, sir, we plan on another good year. We’ve got our sights set on a trip to the Super Bowl this year… I wanted to see if I could make a reservation for two for Friday evening at five forty-five. Also, my friend and teammate Kyler Watson has reservations for five thirty that same night. Is it possible to have a table in the same vicinity as theirs?” My lips curve into a satisfied smile when the maître d' promises to seat me nearby. I thank him, and we end the call.
Immediately, I shoot off a text to Monica and let her know our reservations have changed—same time, different place. Luckily, she’s cool with it.
I set my phone in the cup holder and blow out a long, slow breath of relief. I’ve rearranged my plans but not because I’m jealous. Hell no. I’m merely concerned. Like a friend who watches out for her.
Like a big brother.
I refuse to acknowledge the fact that I’m looking forward to Friday night more now that I know I’ll get to see Darcy.
28
Darcy
Hitched® Tip #8:
Remember to show the other person how you feel. Not in big store-purchased gestures but in ways that matter. A little note. A text to let them know they’re on your mind. A little whisper in their ear how handsome/beautiful they look.
♥
I’m a horrible person for feeling disgruntled that my sister doesn’t have the time to FaceTime and help me choose the perfect outfit for my first date.
She was on the phone with me but had to rush off because Ella had an appointment with the pediatrician for a routine checkup. I realize how pathetic I’ve become. It’s blatantly obvious I don’t have many friends, but it’s the price I’ve paid for sticking to myself and remaining buried in my work.
There’s really only one person who might help me. But he’s probably busy getting ready for his own date, so…
I twist my lips ruefully. Do I bite the bullet and give it a shot? Text him?
I’m a freaking mess.
Three outfit possibilities lie atop my bed. Maybe I should do eenie meenie miney mo?
Because that’s what mature women do these days, I scoff inwardly.
The sudden vibration of my phone startles me, but the name on the caller ID is far more startling.
Dax.
I hesitate before accepting his call.
“Hello?”
“Hey, beautiful.” His deep, gravelly voice skitters over me. “I know you’re busy getting ready for your date, but I wanted to see if you could help me with something.”
“Sure,” I reply slowly, dragging out the word. I wonder what he could possibly need my help with.
“Can you FaceTime with me? I’m trying to decide which shirt to wear tonight.”
Laughter bubbles free. “Please tell me it’s not one with palm trees.” The silence that greets my remark sobers me instantly. “Dax Kendrick,” I warn.
His chuckle greets my ears. “It’s not a Hawaiian shirt, Darce. You know I save those for when I see Mom.”
Something about the way he says that, the blatant mention of me being familiar with his mom, sends warmth curling around my heart.
“Well, okay.” Hastily, I rush to add, “I’m not dressed yet, so brace yourself.”
He blows out a breath. “Meaning you’re naked?”
At the hint of mischief in his voice, I roll my eyes. “Dax.”
“All right. Accept my FaceTime and help me choose a shirt.”
The request pops up on my screen. A second after I accept it, his familiar handsome face appears, smiling back at me. “Hey, you.” I note his hair is shorter, wit
h barely a trace of highlights visible in his buzz cut.
I return his smile. “Hey.”
He tips his head to the left. “I have two options.” He stretches his arm out to show me one option. Tugging the slate gray button-down shirt on the hanger toward him, he raises his eyebrows in question. “This one or”—he grabs another crisp-looking black button-down—“this? I figured, depending on which I go with, I’d pair it with a dark pair of dress pants or the gray pinstriped ones.”
“The black shirt with gray pinstriped pants.” I hold up a finger. “But the pinstripe should be black as well.”
He frowns. “I’m hurt that you’d think I’d be such an amateur.” His lips stretch wide to flash me a toothy grin. “So, what are you planning to wear? Or are you out to start a new trend and wear your bath towel?”
“Ha-ha.” I shoot him a playful scowl. “Well, now I need your help.” I prop my phone up on my dresser and step back. “This is option one.” I hold up a fitted red cocktail dress with a square neckline with short cap sleeves worn off the shoulder.
He wrinkles his nose at that one. I sigh, set it down, and pick up the second dress. “Or this?” I tip my head to the side, and say, “This is one of my favorites because”—I flip the hanger around to show the back of the dress—“I love the back.”
Dax frowns, a firm crease between his eyes. “What back? Jesus, Darce. How the hell do you wear a bra with that?”
I stare at him. “Um… I don’t.” He parts his lips, but I rush out, “Not exactly. I use those adhesive things to cover up my—”
Shit. It just now hits me I’m not talking to Ivy. Dax doesn’t need to hear about this kind of thing. I feel the rush of heat flood my face, and I duck my head. “Anyway, what do you think?”
“What adhesive things do you use?” he prods.
I huff out an exasperated breath. “The things that cover my nipples. Jeez! Now, can you please hurry up and help me with this?”
He falls silent, and I fight against the stifling sensation brought on by the odd mood shift before finally braving a look at him.
His unnervingly quiet appraisal a second before he says, “The blue one. It’ll bring out your eyes,” has me fidgeting nervously.
“Thank you.”
“I’d, uh, better run.”
“Same here. Thanks, Dax.” I offer a smile, but it feels forced, and I hate it.
Even worse is, just before we end the call, his looks exactly the same.
Number-one rule for a first date, especially in the modern era, is to always meet the other person at the agreed-upon location. Take your own car or catch a ride, whether it be a cab or one of the car service apps, and be sure to have an out—an exit strategy—just in case the situation turns sour for any reason.
Number-two rule: Always go with your gut. If your date gives off unsettling creepy vibes, don’t hesitate to hit the road.
I make an exception to these rules, though. I’d asked Leif to do me a favor and dig around in Kyler Watson’s background, and he came up clean. And, so far, he’s been nothing but a gentleman and hasn’t done a thing to make me regret allowing him to pick me up. In fact, it’s been nice—and perhaps a little bittersweet—to have a man come to my door and escort me to his vehicle for a date.
Nervousness plagued me while I was preparing for tonight, but Kyler’s entertained me with stories about his Venezuelan neighbor, Victor, who continuously lectures him on his Netflix choices.
“‘You must watch La Viuda Negra!’” He imitates his neighbor’s accent with a chuckle while he navigates the streets of downtown Jacksonville. “Every time I see him gardening, he complains about AARP sending him tons of flyers and how he’s in denial and will be ‘forty-five years old forever. ’”
I can’t help but laugh. “He sounds like quite the character.”
“He’s a riot, that’s for sure. Tonight, he saw me getting into my car.” Imitating Victor’s accent, he says, “Remember, Wat-son. No get-ting handsy with the lady. Be a gentleman.” His expression softens, and his tone returns to normal. “When you grow up without a dad, little things like that go a long way.”
Boy, do I understand this.
“I know what you mean.”
He glances at me in surprise before returning his attention to the road. “Really?”
I’d rather not delve into my past—least of all, not on a first date—so I force an upbeat tone. “But hey, look at what we’ve accomplished, right?”
A faint smile dances on his lips, and he nods. Soon, he’s pulling his vehicle around the back of the restaurant and parking.
With a deep breath, I wait for him to come around and open my door. Flattening a hand on my stomach, I attempt to stifle the unsettling feeling that has plagued me since accepting this date.
That I’m on a date with the wrong guy.
“So, with the support of my sister, I branched out with our now sister company, and it’s doing really well,” I finish with a smile, and honestly, even my smile feels a bit brittle.
“That’s incredible.” His blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “You should be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”
A faint blush spreads across my cheeks at his praise. I’ve always struggled with accepting compliments. “Thank you,” I answer quietly. Eager to change the subject and redirect the attention to him, I ask, “So, are you feeling good about the upcoming game?”
He leans back in his chair, propping one muscled arm on the armrest, and the fabric of his dress shirt stretches over his firm chest. It’s no surprise he’s in great physical shape, and I can always appreciate the male form, but for some reason, I can’t seem to drum up any interest. Sure, I love talking to him and hanging out, but aside from that… there’s nothing.
Maybe I just need to give it time.
“I am,” he answers. “I feel better about this season now that Dax and I have worked out some of the kinks.”
I wince. “I know it was hard for him when Becket retired.”
He nods. “It was.” He hesitates, as though unsure of what to say next, before he continues. “Dax and I have managed to make some great strides. He’s a good guy.” Something about the way he says that last sentence initially strikes me as odd, but I dismiss it. After all, it’s not like he’s telling me something I don’t already know.
“That he is,” I agree.
“So, he’s working with you…”
I flash him a look of reprimand. “You should know I can’t disclose any details about my clients.”
His grin is sheepish. “I know. I was just curious. Is Dax a good ‘pupil’?” The sparkle of mischief in his dark eyes elicits a smile and a small laugh.
“All I can say is, he’s a pleasure to work with.”
Kyler eyes me appreciatively, surveying me carefully. “How has some great guy not already whisked you off your feet and married you?”
I’ve come to dread questions like this. I know he doesn’t mean any offense by it, but to me, it sounds like he’s asking, What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you married with two kids and a dog by now?
So I shrug and offer a practiced smile with my go-to response. “Those who can’t match themselves match others.”
His gaze is watchful, analytical, and unnerving. Especially when he finally leans toward the table with a lowered voice and says, “Now, tell me the real answer and not the one you always give people.” A split second later, the corners of his mouth uptick slightly, and he adds a gentle, “Please?”
Kyler Watson is a force to be reckoned with—sometimes reserved and other times easygoing and happy-go-lucky. I’d had him pegged as a guy who didn’t pay much mind or attention to anything other than football.
Boy, was I wrong.
I part my lips, then clamp them shut with a long exhale. Averting my gaze, I toy with the stem of my wine glass. “I honestly haven’t found the right guy. The one I can’t live without.” And I’m scared. I have a debilitating fear of trusting again.
>
But I can’t admit that aloud. Hell, I don’t even dare admit it out loud to myself.
A large palm covers my wrist, drawing my agitated motions to a stop. I raise my eyes, our gazes locking, and the sense of camaraderie in their depths catches me by surprise. The understanding.
His thumb gently strokes along my pulse point. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I force a smile while simultaneously debating whether I could discreetly down this generous glass of Chardonnay fraternity keg-stand style to battle my nerves. Surely, that would stifle my nervous discomfort.
I decide against it even though it’s tempting. Image is everything when you’re a business owner, and Ivy’s and my company are far too important. I can’t run the risk of acting inappropriately and killing off any potential clients’ interest.
“It’s no big deal. I’m fine.” I’m lying through my teeth, and we both know it. I can see it in his eyes. Thankfully, he’s not rude enough to call me on it.
He releases my wrist and leans back, changing the subject to the menu, and I’m grateful for the conversation shift. I tell him I plan to order the shrimp and linguini while he warns me playfully that he’ll be ordering the grilled chicken—skinless, boneless—plain, with two sides of vegetable medley—also plain—and a baked potato.
Oh, yes, the baked potato is—you guessed it—plain.
I raise my eyebrows in amusement. “Wow. You’re getting wild and crazy tonight, aren’t you?”
His laugh is husky, and he surprises me by flushing with slight embarrassment. “I know, I know.” He shakes his head self-deprecatingly. “It’s ridiculous, but it’s what I have to do for this job.”
I lean forward and tease, “So I shouldn’t expect you to ask for two spoons when dessert time rolls around?”
His grin is wide and so damn cute. “Nope. That’s all you, gorgeous.”
I match his grin with my own. “I was hoping you’d say that.” I cup my hand at the side of my mouth and pretend to tell him a secret. “Because I don’t share well with others.”
