by Laura Burton
“What do you wear to a basketball game?” I ask Chessy, holding the phone between my cheek and my shoulder as I hold up the dress to study it.
“Jeans.”
I hum in thought. The idea of wearing a pair of jeans, while sitting on a bench at a basketball game––with the unforgiving band digging into my bloated stomach the whole time––fills me with utter dread. But Leila said I could pair the dress with a denim jacket. Which is basically a pair of jeans for my arms. Maybe I could make it work.
“I think I have some leather boots in the back of my closet,” I mutter aloud.
Chessy groans in my ear. “You mean the ones you got for the cowboy party?”
I make an exclamation of triumph at the sight of them in a shoe box underneath a stack of unread fantasy novels. “Sure. What’s wrong with wearing cowboy boots?”
“Nothing. You’ll just look like you’re ready to go to a rodeo, not a basketball game.”
I take a breath. Planning outfits. Going out. Trying to not mess up… It’s exhausting.
“I’ll be fine. Besides, I need to feel comfortable.”
“Of course you do. I’m sure it’ll be great,” Chessy says, her tone rising again. “Listen, I’m so inspired by what you’re doing. All this jumping out of your comfort zone. I know it’s all really hard for you and I’m so proud. You know what you want and you’re putting in the work to get it.” I smile despite myself. Chessy is just about the only person on the planet I can count on to be proud of me for something as crazy as manipulating a guy to fall in love just so I can get a promotion.
“Thanks, Chessy.”
I walk to the office with a spring in my step and a goofy smile planted on my face. The sun is shining, I’ve got another date tonight, and life is good.
Every time I try to neutralize my expression, the corners of my lips spring upward again. I grin at the construction workers on the side of the road, wave to the security guard at the front desk, and greet my fellow office workers as I make a beeline for my desk.
But as I reach my seat, my Spidey senses pick up on something odd.
The air is different. There’s a heaviness that wasn’t there before.
I tap on my keyboard, work through emails, and try my best to stay focused on my computer, but the guys in the office are unusually quiet. For a second I wonder if I’m missing a staff meeting. I peep over the modesty screen just to make sure I’m not alone. Everyone else is here, but unlike ordinary days where the guys are messing around, or bantering with each other, they’re… actually working.
“Did I miss something? Everyone is so quiet today,” I say, peering over the screen to look at Marty. He glances at Helen’s office, then leans toward me. “The new CEO is coming in next week, and Helen says heads are going to roll.”
I hold my breath. “No,” I whisper back. “Who told you this?”
Marty’s thick brows knit together and he cocks his head to the side like a puppy. “Helen sent an email. Didn’t you get it?”
I didn’t get the email. But the thought hits me like a smack in the face; Helen might be giving me special treatment because of our deal. Which is super awkward. Up until now, I’ve just been one of the guys. The last thing I want is for that to change now. I’ll never hear the end of it.
“Oh, that email,” I say, tapping my forehead. “Are you worried?”
Marty leans back against his chair and rests his hands on the back of his head.
“Me? Nah. There’s at least four guys here who do nothing all day. I’m not sure I’ve even seen Trent switch on his computer. I mean, what does he do?”
I shrug. Trent is the quiet one who mostly keeps to himself. Whenever there’s a staff party, he’s the last to arrive and the first to leave. And I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him speak during a meeting. Marty’s right. There’s some deadwood in the office that the magazines can afford to cut loose.
No wonder everyone is on edge today.
The morning crawls by without the usual banter to keep things at least mildly entertaining in the office. I finish editing a piece about thunder thighs, send it off to Helen and then drum my fingers on my desk. With nothing left to do but prepare for my big article, I type in a quick internet search, ‘how to get a guy to fall in love,’ for some tips. Turns out, that’s a ridiculously popular search, Google gave me over nineteen million results.
Nineteen. Million.
I slog through pages and pages of information and write up the most common pieces of advice in a word document. The most ‘duh’ advice is be nice to him. Well, that’s a given. And I like to think of myself as a nice person. I draw a big tick next to the sentence in my notepad.
The next most popular one is listen to him. I did a great job of doing that last night when he told me all about growing up in his small town. I draw another big tick.
The third most popular word of advice is laugh at his jokes.
Are men really this simple? If it’s this easy to get a guy to fall in love, I should be married with four kids by now.
The next one makes me sigh, always look your best. Or don’t look like you at all, in my case. I wonder when is an appropriate time to take off the mask and show my true colors. After ten dates? Three months? After the birth of the third child? Never?
Maybe that’s why the divorce rate is so high these days. Women finally walk out of the bathroom with their natural rolls in full view, their blemished face untouched by makeup or filters and a few spiky hairs on their legs. Their adoring husband or partner takes one look and bolts through the front door in horror, screaming, “I’ve been catfished!” Never to be seen again.
“Hey, Marty.” I lean back to catch him tapping on his keyboard two times faster than me. He drags his gaze from his screen, and adjusts his glasses. “What’s up?”
I scratch my arm. It’s not that the article is a secret from the rest of the guys in the office, but Helen told me to keep the project low-key until it goes to print. Probably because a few of the guys would have an opinion or two on it. Ones that Helen might not want to hear.
But I could really use a guy’s perspective here, and the closest thing I’ve got to a guy friend is Marty. Besides, he steals my pens and tells me when I smell bad. If that’s not the definition of a bestie, well then I don’t know what is.
“Let’s just say I have a friend who is looking to… impress a guy. They’re going to a basketball game tonight and…”
“Say no more,” Marty says, holding up his palm and giving me a wink. I don’t even know why I bother trying to lie about it. He knows the “friend” I’m talking about is me.
“Just be yourself. Guys like girls who are down-to-earth and real, and despite what people might say, I’m most attracted to my girlfriend when she’s not wearing any makeup and her hair is all messy,” Marty says.
I raise a skeptical brow at him. “Are you sure? Because that’s the exact opposite of the advice I’ve been reading.” Marty smirks. “And who is this advice from? Other women?”
He raises an interesting point. But do men really know what they want? Does anyone? And can Marty really speak for all men here, or is he just sharing his own opinion on the matter? He must be able to read my thoughts because he clears his throat. “I can ask the other guys, if you want.”
“No!” I whisper with a violent shake of the head.
Confused by the conflicting advice from the internet and Marty, I get ready for my date with Leila on speakerphone.
“Blaze is home this weekend, and we’re having a huge BBQ for all his friends. You know how uncomfortable these events make me, please come! You can bring a plus one!”
I pull on my jacket and sigh as I flick my hair out from under the collar. “I don’t know…”
Leila groans in frustration. “Please, Lucy. I’ve also got my first clients showing up and I’m just a ball of nerves. Your calm presence would be really helpful.”
I smirk at the word calm. If Leila knew how I felt on the inside most of the
time, she would never call me “calm.”
I’m just about to ask her what the clients are for when there’s a knock on the front door. “That’s Wyatt. I’ve got to go,” I say, my heart racing.
“All right, good luck and please think about the weekend!” Leila says. I end the call and suck in a big deep breath. Date number two: show time.
Chapter Eleven
Wyatt
I’m standing on Lucy’s doorstep, and it feels like my heartbeat is thumping the rhythm for an orchestra rendition of The Battle for Middle Earth soundtrack. My mouth is dry.
The door opens, and my eyes land on Lucy. She’s wearing cowboy boots and a lot of denim. This woman looks different every time I see her.
I wonder if she likes to cosplay.
My heart stops at the thought. If this woman is into cosplay, I’ll fall to my knees and ask her to marry me. Right here, right now.
I grit my teeth to force the thought out of my head.
Calm down Wyatt. Too soon.
“These are for you,” I say, handing Lucy a bunch of flowers. Her pretty lips lift into a beautiful smile that reaches her eyes.
“White roses,” she says, taking them. She lifts them to her nose for a good sniff and I shift my weight from foot to foot, trying to settle my nerves. “I wasn’t sure if you liked flowers,” I say. “Or if you got allergies, so these seemed like the best option.”
I’m rambling, and the more I talk, the more I feel like a train hurtling towards a horrific crash. I try to rescue it. “Is that weird? I’m sorry. I’m an overthinker.”
Lucy meets my eyes and her mouth drops open for a second, but she recovers herself and smiles at me. “That’s not weird to me. I totally get that.” She hesitates, as though she wants to say more, but then seems to decide against it. “Wait here, I’ll go put these in a vase.”
Now alone, I flex my hands and shut my eyes, trying to stop the jitters. Seeing Lucy is like taking a shot of adrenaline.
“I’m back.”
I open my eyes as Lucy shuts the door and locks it. Then she turns to me, expectant. I don’t know what to do.
Should I kiss her now?
No. Not just out of the blue. Should I hold her hand as we walk down the path?
I hear Logan’s voice in my head. “Don’t mess up this time.”
We walk side by side, our fingers brushing lightly every now and then.
Every time our hands touch, something electric surges through me. There are images rushing through my head. I watch a small movie play out in my mind’s eye, where I grab her small hand and tug so she falls on to my chest. I feel her body heat pierce me, then spread to every inch of my body.
Then I grab the back of her neck and pull her in for the kiss.
It would be right here in the street, in full view of anyone who happened to be walking by. I’d kiss her with so much passion, she’d moan and whimper and sigh against my lips. Her body would latch on to mine and we’d stumble back into her apartment, where I’d ravish her on the kitchen table.
“So, how was your day?”
Lucy’s question drags me out of my head and I realize we’ve reached the car. I open the door for her. “Oh, long and boring.”
It’s true. For the first time in a long time, I couldn’t focus on work. The meetings seemed to drag on and on, and all the numbers looked like matrix symbols as my brain kept turning back to Lucy and our date.
I don’t tell her any of that, but she smiles at me as if my thoughts are being broadcast to her. Can she read my mind?
My stomach clenches. I hope she can’t read my mind. Because if she knew how badly I wanted to kiss her, she might run for the hills.
Just then, Lucy plays with her hair, and I get a waft of her berry shampoo. It’s soft and gentle, like her.
“Mine too,” she says, putting on her seatbelt. “Let’s hope the game isn’t long and boring.”
We laugh and I look out of the window, hoping the game is long, because I’m in no rush for this date to end. One thing is sure: it won’t be boring to me.
Chapter Twelve
Lucy
“So, I have a confession to make,” I say, grinning sheepishly as Wyatt and I settle on the bleachers. “I’ve never been to a basketball game before.”
“I thought you said you loved basketball,” Wyatt says, raising a brow as he hands me my drink.
I take a sip, stifling a nervous giggle. “I watch it on TV, but never in person.”
“Oh, you’re in for a real treat then. There is nothing like the atmosphere of being in the bleachers at a live game.” Wyatt shifts closer to me, drapes his arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. But then he seems to change his mind, and moves his arm to rest it on the back of my seat instead. Something inside my stomach does wiggle.
“Right,” I say, ignoring the butterflies. “And these seats are so close to the game, I can smell the feet.”
“What?” Wyatt looks at me nonplussed. I clamp my teeth together in horror. My big mouth opens and something weird and kooky comes out. My inner weirdo is totally out of control. I scratch my leg, silently berating myself and thinking of the words to fix this.
“I mean… the sweat.”
Wyatt’s face turns into an evil grin. “I think you mean cheese?”
The crowd cheers as the two teams file onto the court and an obnoxiously loud buzzer fills the entire stadium. Good thing I put my earplugs in, to mute all the sound. Otherwise I’d be freaking out right now. The only problem with blocking my ears is I can’t quite make out Wyatt’s words. “What?” I ask, turning back to him. “Did you say cheese?”
He chuckles warmly, as if laughing at a private joke. “You know, because you mentioned feet and sweat. So I was referring to cheesy feet.”
I stare at Wyatt, searching his face for any sign that he’s making fun of me. But I don’t see any.
“Did you just tell a dad joke?”
A flush of red floods his cheeks behind his stubble. “No.”
“Yes, you did. You told a dad joke!” I sound far too happy and triumphant as I point at him, but it’s so wonderful to meet someone who is just as dorky as I am. That’s the second time he’s surprised me. Perhaps underneath his suave businessman exterior is a dorky nerd, just waiting to pop out and show his face!
Wyatt and I settle into a comfortable silence as the game begins. The crowd around us is beyond animated. When one of the players gets the ball through the hoop, the man next to me lets out a caveman roar that manages to get past the ear plugs. I’m so startled, I almost spill my drink.
As the players dash back and forth over the court, I find myself bobbing my head and lurching away whenever the ball is somewhat headed my way.
“Are you okay?” Wyatt asks, his voice laced with concern. He’s probably wondering why his date is spontaneously convulsing every twenty seconds.
“I’m fine,” I insist, keeping my eyes glued to the ball as it’s tossed to another player. “I just don’t want to get hit.”
“Hit?” Wyatt asks. “By what?”
He then swivels his head to follow my line of sight and laughs. “The ball? You’re worried you’re going to get hit by the ball?”
I tear my gaze away from the court to defend myself and proceed to tell Wyatt about all the people who get a concussion every year from watching a basketball game.
But instead of showing any ounce of concern, Wyatt shakes his head, his shoulders shaking in mirth. “You’re hilarious. Lucy, the ball is not going to hit you.”
I gasp so dramatically, I almost choke on my own spit. “Well, you’ve done it now.”
“Done what?”
“Jinxed it.”
“Jinxed…? Aren’t we a little too old to be worried about––oof!”
Before Wyatt can finish his sentence a basketball strikes him right on the side of his head.
“Aha! I told you! I told you that you can… Hey, are you okay?” I babble, simultaneously satisfied and horrified. Wyatt’s fac
e drains of color and he blinks into space, looking more than a little dazed.
“Come on,” I mutter, yanking him up by the elbow. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Wyatt doesn’t even argue, maybe the ball knocked some sense into him to do as I say, or maybe he’s so stunned he’s not able to think at all. Good grief.
I dash into the small grocery store next door and come out with the biggest bag of frozen peas they have.
“Here, hold this to your head.” I hand Wyatt the bag and watch him wince as he plonks it on his head. His brows are pinched as we amble along the sidewalk and before I can suppress it, a bubble of laughter escapes my lips. “I’m glad you find this so funny,” he grumbles, but the upward curve of his mouth tells me he’s not exactly upset. “Did you see the size of those players? Beasts. That ball hit me with insane force. I’m surprised I didn’t get knocked out.”
“I’m sorry.” I give him a sheepish look. “There’s nothing funny about you getting hurt. But you didn’t believe me when I told you it could happen. And you’re right, you’re super lucky you didn’t lose consciousness, other people haven’t been so lucky.”
“Well, I can’t say you didn’t try to warn me,” Wyatt says in agreement. We continue to walk, listening to the city song of sirens and taxi cab honks.
“So, tell me something else I don’t know.”
We reach a vacant bench beside a streetlamp and Wyatt plops down on it, holding the bag of peas to his head. “Like what?” I ask, sitting beside him.
“Tell me something about yourself that makes you… you.”
I grip the bench so hard, I feel my nails try to dig into the hard wood.
What do I say now? My sisters would tell me to make something up.
But Marty said men like it when women are true to themselves.
