by Jenna Payne
“Ok,” I answer.
With a smile and another word of thanks, he’s off again.
Now, I’m stuck here staring at the business card in my hand. That’s what it is, really. A business card for a business deal. He didn’t mention anything at all romantic or even personal about this trip.
But, when I reach down to touch my hand right where he held it, I’m left with the memory of how warm it was. How warm he was.
After all, this time, this can’t just be about tacos. He needs me. And, even if it’s not a grand romantic gesture yet, it’s definitely a start.
*****
I can hardly believe it when, two days later, I find myself walking into the first five-star hotel I have ever stayed in. I’m in Los Angeles for the first time in my life. I flew here in first class. And, now, I’m staying with a major league baseball team in one of the fanciest hotels I’ve ever seen.
I feel my jaw drop as we step inside the historic building and I stare up at the ceiling. A beautiful, Italian style fresco, complete with a clear blue sky and little cherub angels dance above me. The edges are all guided in shimmering gold and a bright, crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling.
In my jeans, t-shirt and tennis shoes, I can’t help but feel more than a little underdressed. When I look down at my feet, my worn and slightly dirty tennis shoes playing against the clear marble floor does nothing to combat this feeling.
“I’ll get us checked in,” David says, making me jump. I was so caught up in my examination of the hotel, I almost forgot that he was behind me.
“You can rest your feet on that couch if you like,” he draws my attention to a plush, red couch sitting next to a matching chair in the lobby.
“I’ve been sitting for five hours,” I tell him referring both to the plane ride and then the bus ride with the rest of the team to the hotel. “I can stand a little longer.”
He give out a chuckle and smiles at me.
“If you say so,” he says. He moves to the front desk and stands next to the manager who is checking the rest of the team in.
I immediately miss him. Mostly because I’m not quite sure what to do with the other guys. I look over at them all standing in a cluster at the entrance talking amongst themselves quietly.
Occasionally someone will look over at me and whisper to one of the other guys. I know what they must think. David Gutierrez is so famous he’s allowed to take some girl on an away trip just to make tacos, but there’s no money in the budget for our wives and girlfriends.
I know I’m probably being too harsh. After all, in their position, I would probably be a little bitter too.
That being said, I’m more than glad when David returns with our room keys.
“We’re on floor seven,” he says.
“Both of us?” I ask. A cautious red flag has raised itself in my mind. David promised me that I would have my own room. Actually, he promised me a suite with a kitchen. Even though I still hope that his bringing me here wasn’t just about tacos, I’m not the kind of girl who shares a room with a guy on a first date.
“Don’t worry,” he says, apparently reading the hesitation in my face. “We’ve got separate suites. But, they are adjoined. Hope that’s ok.”
This time, an excited thrill runs through me and I smile at him and nod. I don’t know exactly why sharing a room with David is inappropriate but, sharing a door with him is exciting.
I suppose it’s just a delicate, unspoken balance. A shared room says that he expects something to happen. A shared door just says there’s the possibility. Expectation is stressful. But possibility...that’s exciting.
We take the elevator up to the rooms and he walks me to my door first.
“Have you ever stayed in a suite before?” he asks. We’ve stopped at the door to my room.
I shake my head, suddenly much shyer than I’ve ever felt before.
“It’s not as interesting as you’d think. Just a little bigger than a regular room,” he says. “But, yours does have a kitchen.”
“I can’t tell if that’s sexist or not,” I say. I’m smiling and I meant to sound light and teasing. Maybe even a bit flirty. But, when I see David’s face fall, I realize that he’s taken me literally.
“That was a joke,” I tell him, still smiling. But, my confidence has fallen. Even when he gives a little, conciliatory chuckle.
A slightly awkward silence falls between us. It’s odd to feel awkward with David. In the two months, we’ve known each other, I’ve never felt awkward with him before.
While it’s uncomfortable, I can’t deny a little thrill that still pulses through me. If he’s feeling this embarrassed about sleeping close to me, this trip has to be about more than just tacos.
“Well,” he says finally. “I should let you get some rest.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll need to be up early so I can get those tacos to you.”
I chuckle and, this time, he does too.
“Enjoy your suite,” he says.
“I think I will,” I tell him.
We stare at each other one moment more. His dark green eyes are darting around my face as though he’s trying to memorize it. I keep my eyes locked steadily onto his.
I keep expecting him to nod and move into his own room. He doesn’t. But, it also doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything else anytime soon. At this rate, we’ll be standing here, in the hallway until tomorrow morning.
So, I decide to make a move for us. With half a smile, I turn and put the key into the slot. As soon as I do, I feel a hand lightly touch my shoulder.
A shiver courses through me. Slowly, I turn back to David.
“Gloria,” he says. “I was...wondering if...maybe...you wanted to have dinner with me.”
My breath catches in my throat and my pulse begins to pound in my ears. For a moment, my heart is beating so quickly that I can’t seem to find my voice.
“There’s this pretty good restaurant right across the street,” David says quickly. “And I just...wanted to pay you back. You know? For coming all the way out here.”
“And an all expenses paid trip to LA along with a suite in a five-star hotel room wasn’t enough?” I ask with another chuckle. Though it’s laced with frustration this time. After all the flirting, all the glances, and secret smiles. After he brought me all the way out here, he still can’t bring himself to ask me on a real date?
“Ok,” he says, laughing as well. “You got me. It's not payback. I just...really want to have dinner with you.”
He seems more relaxed now and he’s looking at me hopefully. It might not have been the ‘I would like to go on a date with you’ admission that I was hoping for. But, it’s much closer than ‘I need to pay you back’.
“Sounds good,” I tell him with a smile. “What time were you thinking of going?”
“I’ll knock on your door around seven,” he says. “That is if that’s ok.”
“All right,” I answer. “Seven it is.”
He breaths, what sounds like a sigh of relief and gives me a beaming smile that I can’t help but mirror.
“I’ll see you then,” he says. I nod as he heads excitedly into his room.
With a smile, I slide into mine as well. Thankful that I packed my nice red dress. Just in case.
*****
I can’t sleep that afternoon or even rest. Even though my king sized bed is larger than any I have ever slept in and about twice as comfortable, there’s too much-excited energy pulsing through me.
So, in preparation for my date, I decide that I might as well make tomorrow’s tacos today. David might see this as a sabotage of his ritual, but, I honestly don’t think it’ll matter. I’ll put them in the warmer so they’ll still be hot tomorrow morning.
The tacos only take about fifteen minutes. After that, I pace around my huge suite until a five thirty when I start getting ready for dinner.
I try my best to add some volume to my thin and impossibly straight black hair. With a curling ir
on, I manage, at least, to add more than is normally there. I try my best to use liquid eyeliner to highlight my large, brown eyes. It takes me three times to get it right.
As the clock clicks toward seven o’clock, I look in the mirror, pleased by the outcome. I rarely use this much makeup and, for a first attempt, it’s not half bad. I can only pray that David shares this opinion.
As promised, David knocks on my room door at exactly seven o’clock.
I feel a pleased tingle rush through me when I open the door and his eyes widen. He looks me up and down appreciatively.
“Wow,” he says. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He laughs fully at that.
“I guess I should take that as a compliment,” he says.
“You should,” I answer honestly. I’ve always thought David was handsome. But, tonight, with his gray suit complimenting his tan skin and a red tie providing the perfect pop of color, he looks positively delectable.
“Should we head out?” he says beckoning towards the elevator.
“Sure,” I answer. “I’ve been making tacos all afternoon. The smell made me hungrier than I already was.”
“You’ve already made the tacos?” He asks as we head to the elevator. I’m glad to hear that he sounds more amused than upset. So, I feel no trepidation in answering him.
“Yeah,” I say. “I couldn’t really sleep. I felt like I had to do something.”
He laughs as we step inside the elevator and make our way down.
David isn’t kidding when he says the restaurant is right across the street. As soon as we step outside the hotel lobby, I see the visible but minimalistic sign for La Paladar on the other side of the road and it takes only a minute for us to reach it.
I can immediately tell that this is a fine dining restaurant. The kind you have to have a reservation to get into. But, even though the restaurant seems full, as soon as David gives his name, we are shown to a small table just across from the kitchen.
“This is the chef’s table,” David tells me as soon as we sit down. “I come here every time we play the dodgers. They keep it reserved for me the night before Rangers games.”
“Another ritual?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says. “Just a routine.”
The waiter comes by for our drink order and I let David pick out a bottle of wine for us. If I were given the wine menu, I would have no idea where to start.
When the waiter returns with a full-bodied red, I take a sip and am immediately in heaven.
“I think I’ll let you choose all my alcoholic drinks from now on,” I tell David as soon as the waiter leaves.
“That might not be the best idea,” he says.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because this is the only alcohol I drink,” he says.
“You mean you only drink red wine?” I ask. I can’t help but think that’s a bit odd. I’ve heard of people who don’t drink. And people who only drink wine or beer. But, someone who drinks only red wine is a new concept to me.
“No,” David says. “I only drink this red wine.”
That’s even more, surprising.
“Another one of your routines?” I ask.
“Something like that,” he says.
This gives me a lead in to ask him something I’ve been meaning to since we met. I haven’t dared. I thought it would make me sound either stupid or too forward or both. But, since we’re on the subject…
“Is that a baseball thing or do all athletes do that?” I ask.
“What? Have routines?”
“Not just that,” I say. “I mean, those rituals that you have. Like the twenty-four tacos thing.”
He shrugs and takes a sip of his wine before answering.
“I know a few other guys who have their own little things,” he says. “Lucky rabbits feet. Lucky shoes. Even lucky boxers, believe it or not.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. I’m glad when I hear him join me.
“I wonder why that is,” I say. “I mean, why do you guys think that stuff helps?”
He sets down his wine glass and looks at me thoughtfully. The amused smirk has gone from his lips and I can tell I’m about to get a real answer.
“I think it’s got more to do with control than anything else,” he says finally.
“Control?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, when you really think about it, after all, the training and all the practice that goes into it, on the day of the game, at least, some of it is going to be left up to chance. Most of us...at least most of the guys I know, don’t like that.”
“But, that’s part of the game? Isn’t it?” I ask.
“If it is,” he says. “It’s the only part of the game we don’t like. We don’t like feeling that there’s nothing we can do. So, we come up with these little rituals to make us feel like we’re more…”
“...in control?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Something like that.”
I bring the wine glass up to my lips and take a sip. All the while, I never take my eyes off of him. Just as his gaze doesn’t leave me.
“See, I don’t understand that,” I tell him. “Isn’t chance part of the fun?”
“Maybe if you’re just watching,” he says. “But, when your livelihood depends on it, it’s a bitch.”
I have to laugh at his phrasing. But, I can’t help but think that I still don’t quite understand.
“See, I’d still take chance over complete control,” I tell him.
“You would?” he asks.
“I think so,” I say. As I do, I look into his green eyes and a sudden urge has come over me. Clearly this man is so tightly wound, so anxious about his career that little if anything can get through to him. I want to unwind him a bit. Or try, at least.
So, I lean over the table, very aware that my low cut dress is revealing my ample cleavage. “In my experience,” I tell him in a conspiratorial sort of whisper. I feel a little thrill of victory when I see his eyes dart down to my cleavage and his face colors. “The best things in life tend to happen when you let go of a little control. Leave things up to chance.”
“Is that so?” There’s still a hint of a blush in his cheeks but, he’s lifted his eyes to mine and a flirty grin has spread across his mouth.
“In my experience, it is,” I say leaning back and taking my wine glass in hand. “You should try letting go of a little control. You might actually like it.”
Though my outer voice and presence (I hope) exude confidence, my insides are shaking a bit. I’ve never flirted this brazenly before. Then again, no man has ever made me work this hard or wait this long for a date. So, I’ve got a feeling that I have to do things a little differently with David.
“Maybe you're right,” he says. I breathe a silent sigh of relief when the impressed grin remains on his face. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that sometime.”
This time, it’s my turn to blush at his suggestion. I swallow it down and try to form a secret seductive smile.
“You should,” I tell him.
*****
The rest of the dinner is much more normal than I expected. Not normal as in boring. Normal as in...comfortable. We laugh at stupid things we’ve heard on the news, talk about living in Dallas. He tells me stories about his trips to various places around the country.
We talk for so long, in fact, that the waiters begin to sweep the floor around us in a subtle hint that we should leave because the restaurant is closing. When I look at my phone, it is, indeed close to midnight.
We pay and David lead me across the street, holding my hand the entire way.
As we walk, I keep looking down at his hand clasped in mine. Wondering whether or not this means what I hoped it means. Wondering if the door that adjoins our two suites will be put to use.
After more than a couple glasses of wine, I’m still feeling slightly wobbly as we head through t
he hotel lobby. The high heeled shoes I’ve chosen for the evening certainly didn’t help matters.
By the time David presses the button for the elevator, I am struggling to keep myself upright. The doors ding open and, hand still clutched in mine, he pulls me in after him.
It happens quickly. I feel my stupid heel catch on the stupid gap between the elevator floor. Before I know it, I am falling forward.
David lets go of my hand and reaches out to catch me around the waist. He pulls me towards him as I struggle to right myself. When I finally feel balanced and look up, I see David’s eyes flashing down at me.
He is so close that I can feel his breath warming my face. So close that the breath issuing from our mouths might as well be one and the same. Still staring as though transfixed, I begin to wonder if I should say something.
I wonder if I should make some joke about not doing well in heels, or thank him for catching me. But, he’s still looking down at me. His eyes staring straight into mine with a look I’ve never seen from him before.
I open my mouth to try and say something, anything, but, as soon as I do, his lips are on mine. He’s tentative at first. Slow and gentle as though he’s asking a question.
I throw my arms around his neck and press desperately into him. I hope this gives him the answer he’s looking for. It does.
As the elevator rises, he presses me hard against him. His hands tangle in my hair, yanking it, so hard that it’s almost painful. A swooping sensation fills my stomach and I know it has nothing to do with the elevator settling at its destination.
When the elevator dings, I feel him suddenly go tense against me. His hands drop from my hair and his eyes burst open. Even though I can see in the glass that no one is outside, the expression on his face is one of shame and embarrassment. As though an entire band of little old grandmothers had caught us.
Gently, he puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me away. He walks through the elevator doors and I follow in his wake. My hands have balled into fists and I can’t stop the horrible sinking of my heart. I know that was the most freedom he could allow himself. It was not going to happen again, at least not tonight.
This is confirmed when he turns to face me at my door.
“We should say goodnight,” he says. “I’ve got a game tomorrow, after all. Don’t want to be too tired.”
