My gaze narrows. “Why?”
“Out of character, sis. You can do it.”
“Are you kidding? Look at this...” I hold it up. “...it’s big and juicy. I could make a great salad for lunch tomorrow at work.”
“Which is in character, or you could live a little.”
Slowly, I hand him the softball-sized tomato and reach for the bat.
Walking backward and palming the tomato, Alec lowers his voice to the tone we used as kids when we were planning secrets from our parents. “You’ll only have one chance. Don’t blow it.”
I shift my feet to the side, bend my knees, and after adjusting my hands, lift the bat in the air.
“You ready?” Alec asks as he moves to a pitcher’s stance.
“What if I miss? I haven’t played in years.”
He winks. “It’s like riding a bike.”
“How can everything be like riding a bike?”
“Everything is. Now, watch me. Keep your eye on the ball.”
“It’s a tomato.”
His arm moves, a nice controlled underhand pitch. As the fruit flies toward me, I hear Jase and my mother yell at the same time.
“Mom?”
“Amanda!”
I pull the bat back and swing. The connection happens with a thud. All at once, the air fills with seeds, and tomato juice rains down.
“What in the world?” Mom asks.
“That was so cool. Can I try?” Jase asks as he gets closer. “Mom, you have sprinkles all over you.”
I look down at the red droplets and small seeds splattered over my blouse. As I hand the messy bat back to my brother, I wipe more tomato remnants from my cheeks.
Mom’s head is moving back and forth as she takes in the scene. “What are you two doing? And here I thought I had grown children.”
“Don’t give her a hard time,” Alec says. “She was just—”
Before he can finish, I interrupt. “Looking for someone.”
Mom’s smile grows and she nods approvingly. “I think she’s closer than she was yesterday.”
“Can I hit a tomato?” Jase asks, bouncing on the tips of his toes. “Can I?”
Alec looks my direction.
“Do you want to get sprinkles?” I ask.
Jase’s head bobs up and down.
Mom waves her hand. “I don’t care. But only one. I’d like to get a chance to eat some of those.”
“Sure,” I say to both Jase and Alec. “Out of character.” Next, I turn to Jase. “You have to hit it the first time. If you miss, it will probably break.”
“I can do it,” he says, lifting the too-big bat.
“And then it’s home for a bath. No sleeping with sprinkles.”
“Oh, Mom!” Jase and Alec whine at the same time just before a new tomato sails through the air.
Thud!
My mom and I laugh as Jase turns our way with a big grin and covered in red polka dots.
Mandy
I can't believe how nervous I am. I thought I gave up being nervous years ago, but here I am, my palms moist, pulse accelerated, and breath shallow. Despite the air conditioning and overhead fans, a bead of perspiration drips down the center of my back while another one trickles between my breasts.
Out of character.
That’s what this all is, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I know my son isn’t missing me. He’s been excited about his guy night ever since his uncle presented it to him. I do think Mom was slightly put off, but she assured me that it was fine. Her plans include enjoying a little peace and quiet until ice cream time. Then she’ll be plenty busy with sticky fingers and a sugar buzz at bath time.
Stepping farther into the restaurant’s entry, I take one last glance down at my blue sundress and heeled sandals. Peeking from the tips of the sandals are brightly painted toenails. As I take one last look, the realization hits me: I haven't primped for a date since Jackson. I haven't worried about how I look or how I style my hair. I mean, I look professional for work, but other than that, it's just me, Jase, my parents, and sometimes Alec or Sally. I'm the mom at Little League with the baseball cap, T-shirt, and ponytail. I’m the lady at the grocery store with no makeup on and probably wearing Jase’s peanut butter smears as an accessory.
Thinking about the preparation I put into tonight, I fight the urge to rush to the restroom. If I do, will it be to make sure it's me in the mirror, touch up my seldom-worn lip gloss, or throw up?
Deep breath.
Inhale and exhale.
If I do go to the restroom, who will I see? Will it be me, or the Mandy Wells my mom wants me to find? My lips quirk to a sideways smile—a lot like my brother’s—as I recall the tomato seeds I washed from my hair the other night.
If I can smash a giant tomato to smithereens, maybe I can do this. No. I can. I can sit and make conversation. After all, I won’t be alone with this friend of Brian’s; I’ll have Sally and Brian there with me.
As my confidence grows, so do my insecurities.
Questions bloom, sprouting new questions.
Do I know what I’m I doing?
What do I even know about this guy?
I run the facts through my head. Brian and Sally call him Pep. What kind of name is that? He's Brian's age, late twenties or early thirties, never married, and an ex-professional hockey player. What does ex mean? It means he no longer plays hockey, but what does he do? Is he unemployed?
Do I care?
Brian’s an ex-hockey player and he’s employed. Does it matter?
“Table, ma'am?” the very young-looking girl behind the hostess stand asks.
When did I become a ma'am?
“No. Not yet. I'm meeting some friends.”
The girl motions to the archway. “You can wait in the bar if you'd like.”
I nod. Trying to swallow my worries, I turn and step that way.
My mind continues to churn.
Why does it matter if he's employed? This isn't a job interview. I don't need his resume.
I don't.
But maybe a police background check and a medical clearance would be nice. I start to make a mental checklist.
Background check.
Medical records.
Wait! I don't plan to take this night to anywhere that would require medical records. Then again, better safe than sorry. I mean, what if those performance-enhancing drugs did more than affect the circulation in certain parts of his body? What other side effects do they have? Do I care?
Taking another deep breath, I stand for a moment on the other side of the archway as my eyes adjust to the dimly lit bar. It’s a popular establishment and busy. And while it’s what my dad would call a safe location for meeting a stranger, it’s also far enough away from home that it’s not full of nosy, well-meaning friends.
I scan the room, looking for Sally and Brian. Of course, I can’t find them.
From glancing at the clock in my car before I was brave enough to enter, I know that I'm early. A giggle makes my throat clench as I shake my head. Sally has never been early in her life. She usually makes it to work on time, but that’s by the skin of her teeth.
Being early is a chronic ailment with me. With Jackson having been in the military, late was unacceptable and on time was considered late. The only possible arrival time was early. It’s one of the habits I can’t seem to break.
Since Sally and Brian aren't here yet, I look for an available seat. I want a place to wait and fade into the background. If maybe I could avoid looking quite so conspicuous, that would be a plus too.
A table alone would fail at the inconspicuous part. Therefore, I decide to make my way up to the bar, all the while doing my best to exude confidence—though it’s fake. As I do, my pulse increases with the realization that I've never been to a bar by myself. Jackson and I married at nineteen. I had just turned twenty-one when...
I work again to fill my lungs and hope that no one notices my shaking hands or stuttered steps. Being that it’s a F
riday night, there are only a few empty barstools and of course, none with more space than a single. Quietly, I ease onto one stool wedged between two people and wonder for at least the tenth time if everyone can sense how tense I am.
I shoot Sally a text: I'm here. Where are you?
"Drink, pretty lady?"
I look up and try to stop myself from cringing at the bartender's greeting. It isn't his words that creep me out, but the leer as his eyes move from my face to my breasts and finally back to my eyes.
"U-um, yes, a glass of white moscato."
When his gaze lingers a little too long, I look away and stare at my phone, hoping that my focus on the screen will accelerate Sally’s answer. Yeah, right. As my mom would say, a watched pot never boils.
“Sorry, some men are jerks.”
I lift my eyes to the deep voice sitting beside me. I hadn't even noticed him when I sat, other than that he was there. Now as I'm staring into his eyes, I'm wondering how I hadn't.
I blink. Once. Twice. I’m trying to decide if this man is talking to me and if I remember how to respond.
Sapphire-blue eyes from beneath a protruding brow and wavy dark-brown hair have suddenly stolen my ability to speak. As I try to swallow, my gaze lowers, scanning his narrow nose, full lips, and chiseled jaw. I inhale, taking in how his jawline contains just the right amount of beard—trimmed yet soft. Even though I haven't even seen his body, my insides are twisting like they haven't in years.
This is ridiculous. I'm not some eighteen-year-old schoolgirl.
It's then I realize that his broad shoulder infringes upon my personal space and that our bodies are nearly touching.
Silently, I nod, agreeing with his statement that men are jerks and trying to remember how to speak. “I-it's okay.” The words finally find their way off my tongue. “I'm just a little nervous. My friend is supposed to meet me.”
The man turns my way, his shoulder brushing mine. “Your friend should never leave you alone with these wolves. He doesn't sound like much of a friend.”
Mr. Blue-eyes extends his large hand. “Hello, I'm—”
“Hey beautiful,” the bartender interrupts. “Here's your wine.”
Blue-eyes turns to the bartender. “She's with me. While I agree she's beautiful, Miss is an acceptable greeting.”
Suddenly, all the menacing glances from the bartender disappear.
“Hey, sorry. I didn't know.”
“I don't care if you knew or not. Serving drinks is your job—not hitting on every gorgeous woman.”
Beautiful? Gorgeous?
I'm speechless as Mr. Blue-eyes sends the bartender away looking less like a predator and more like a wounded puppy with his tail between his legs.
Once he's gone, I smirk, my cheeks filling with heat. “Thank you. You didn't need to do that.”
His shoulder moves against mine again as he shrugs. “I didn't need to, but I've been watching him. He's a snake.” Blue-eyes turns my way. “And thank you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, thanks for letting me say that. I wasn't insinuating you couldn't handle yourself. It's just that he’s been pulling those moves on every woman since I arrived, and I was dying to put him in his place. Really, you did me a favor.”
My cheeks rise as I lift my glass of wine. “Well, you're welcome.” I propose a toast. “To righting the world of wrongs.”
We clink glasses—my wine against his tall glass of beer—as he chuckles. Like his voice, his laugh is deep and sends vibrations from my ears throughout my entire body, down my chest, my tummy, and lower. I swear my toes tingle from his laughter.
As I take a sip, my phone pings. I read the text and sigh.
“Don't tell me your friend is standing you up?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, she's on her way. But she's running late. Surprise. Surprise.”
“Oh, she? I assumed...”
Heat floods my system. Shit—maybe I shouldn't have said that. What if this guy is a serial killer or something? Then again, maybe it's the way my bare shoulder rests against his sleeve-covered one or the way his warmth radiates from under the cotton.
“Yes, she,” I confirm. “But she's not alone. She talked me into...” I lift my glass again to my lips. “Never mind, I'm sure you have better things to do than to listen to me and my plans for the evening.”
The tips of his grin curl upward, making his cheeks rise and small lines form near the corners of his eyes. There's something about his smile that has me mesmerized.
“Honestly, I've been dreading this night. Listening to you is much better than what I had planned.”
“Oh, wait. Am I stopping your plans? I'm sorry.”
“No,” he protests. “I know this sounds cliché, but I'm supposed to be meeting someone also, and so far, I'm alone.”
The small amount of wine I've consumed courses through my bloodstream, giving me a boost of courage and reminding me of the Mandy my mom wanted me to find. I unashamedly scan Blue-eyes up and down. Due to the bar, I can't see below his waist, but the way the buttons on his green Oxford shirt strain over his chest, I can tell he's fit. The waist of his slacks is trim. “Admittedly, it's been a long time for me, but I honestly can't imagine anyone standing you up.”
His cheeks blush in an endearing way as he returns my scan. “I can most definitely say the same thing about you.”
He nods toward the side of the bar as two people vacate a booth along the wall. “How about we move over there until our respective friends arrive?”
Taking a deep breath, I look back at the screen of my phone. There's nothing new from Sally, just her last message saying there was something happening with Brian's work, but that soon they'll be on their way.
Part of me wants to forget the whole thing, pay for my wine, and go home, but there is another part—the part that took the first step out of character, the one who bought a new dress and shoes and painted her toenails, the one who worried about her hair and makeup, and the one who was just called beautiful and gorgeous by a very handsome man—who wants to stay. Besides, what if Brian's friend is a sleazebag, like the bartender? At least spending a few minutes with this guy would save the evening.
Not waiting for my answer, Mr. Blue-eyes stands. As he lays cash on the bar, he extends his hand my direction. “Shall we?”
His movement fills my senses with the scent of his cologne. It's spicy. In one whiff, the aroma is fixed in my memory. My eyes drift to the floor, and slowly my gaze moves upward. From his shiny shoes and trim pleated trousers, to the belt accentuating his waist, and up to the V of his chest covered by the light-green shirt, I take it all in. I'd seen most of it when he was sitting, but the view is even better when he stands.
I swallow and slowly place my hand in the palm of his. The way his fingers envelop mine suddenly makes me feel small, such a contrast to Jase. When I stand, this man is easily six inches taller than I, even in my new heels.
“Only until my friends arrive,” I clarify, hoping to give myself an escape plan if needed.
“Agreed.”
The booth is a half circle. I slide in first with him beside me. Once we settle, I miss the warmth of his shoulder.
Malcolm
I don't even know her name, but I want to know so much more. Why was she nervous when she first sat down? Her shoulder trembled against mine as that dick of a bartender threw his cheesy lines her way.
For a moment, she seemed meek as a church mouse, but then something changed. She’s different—a contradiction. When she looks directly at me, there's strength and determination behind her beautiful light-blue eyes. I'm fascinated by the color. If the world were to be divided into three eye colors, blue, brown, and green, we'd have the same. Yet they aren't. Hers are much different, lighter. They're a soft pastel like the hue of the horizon just before the sun rises.
As we settle in the booth, I wonder who in their right mind would stand this lady up. Her friend is an asshole, even if she is a woman. Obviously, this beauti
ful lady isn't accustomed to being out and about by herself.
What does that mean?
I've scanned her petite frame more than once. She isn't wearing a wedding ring. Maybe she's just out of a relationship. Maybe she's not used to going to bars alone.
I chastise myself. I'm supposed to be on a blind date—the first date I've had since I moved here to start my new life. I'm supposed to be leaving the pickup-artist side of me in Florida.
This is crazy. I can't understand why this blue-eyed brunette has me so enthralled. I didn't even want to go on the blind date. I'm not looking for a one-night stand or a relationship. I'm at this bar because my old teammate made it sound like I was doing his girlfriend a favor. Her friend needs to be eased back into the world of dating.
I laugh at the thought of me easing someone into dating. The old Malcolm, the one Brian knew, was all about getting laid and moving on. Maybe that's what Brian wanted me to do, pop the woman's dating cherry.
That isn't who I am anymore. That Malcolm hung up his skates and retired. I left him in Florida.
It's all too easy to score in the sunshine state. Women walk around half-naked everywhere you go. It isn't just the beaches. It's the grocery stores and the movie theaters. I don't know how clothing stores don't go out of business down there.
And the women who throw themselves at hockey players—at all pro athletes—are obnoxious and plentiful. If I were a gentleman, I could say I never took advantage, but after a game when the adrenaline is pumping, the best-known cure for blowing off steam is thrusting in and out of a warm, willing pussy—full-body aerobics with benefits.
Those days are over. I'm no longer Pep—I'm Malcolm Peppernick. I'm not a player—in any sense of the word. I'm responsible. This new city and new career are supposed to cement that.
Her phone pings.
As she looks at it, I think about my old nickname, Pep. It came as a result of my energy on the ice and because it’s short for my last name. All it took was for a few broadcasters to use it and boom, it stuck. That is how it started, but with time it meant more. According to rumors, my pep was for more than hockey. They said I had pep in the sack too. Well, not always a bed. A bar bathroom. The hallway outside the locker room. The truth is that women like to talk as much as men. Those bimbos following the team had their own belts filled with notches. If one woman said I gave her two orgasms, the next one said I gave her three.