Page 10 of Going All In

Salvatore’s is right off Rittenhouse, close to the steakhouse where our parents dropped the bomb on us, and it’s the kind of place you take a third date. Candlelight, soft music, white table linens, the whole thing. It’s not the choice of establishment you take a girl you want to be friends with.

That’s the whole point.

Holly looks around as we walk in and I give my name to the hostess. “This seems fancy. This isn’t a date, remember?”

Yeah, I remember. And I hate that fact. “I like their lasagna,” I say with a shrug, and I’m not lying, either. Their lasagna is the best in the city. It even beats my mom’s, but don’t tell her that.

The hostess leads us to our table. I do my best to keep my jaw off the ground when Holly slips her arms out of her jacket. A royal blue dress wraps around her gorgeous body, dipping low in the front to reveal cleavage that I’d give anything to bury my face in.

I pull out the chair for Holly, pushing it in as she sits while putting most of my energy into keeping my eyes where they belong. As in, not on her tits, amazing as they may be.

She looks over her shoulder at me and narrows her green eyes in suspicion. “We’re having dinner as friends, remember?”

Again, yeah, I remember. Jesus fuck. If she feels the need to remind me of that every thirty seconds, it’s going to be a long night.

Instead of backing off, though, I lean over her shoulder to speak low in her ear. “I can still be a gentleman for my friends, can’t I?”

She swallows hard. I round the table and take my own seat, smiling innocently at the hostess as she hands us menus.

The conversation flows easily as we order, just like it did over French fries at the diner. I’m struck by how much I like justbeingwith Holly. The more time I spend with her, the more I want to be around her. Even if we’re not really dating, and there’s no chance of anything physical between us tonight. Her company is enough, at least for now.

We split a bottle of red wine that pairs well with my lasagna and her veal parmesan. I love Italian food, and even though it doesn’t lend itself to being topped with ketchup, it’s typically doused in another tomato-based sauce, which is almost as good.

“How was your week at work?” I ask her as I lift a bite to my mouth. “I’m not sure you told me exactly what you do, actually.”

“I’m a social worker.”

I chew my bite and swallow. “Like in a hospital?” I can see her being great at that. Great in any number of social worker jobs, actually. She’s easy to talk to. I can see her being a comforting presence during traumatic times. Hell, she’s comforting to just be with over dinner.

She shakes her head. “No, I work for the Department of Human Services. Like, foster care.”

That might suit her even better, actually. I give a thoughtful nod, swirling a bite of pasta around my plate to pick up extra sauce. “What’s your favorite thing about your job?”

She stares at me, that little smile playing at her lips again as she lifts her glass. “I love the kids. Getting to form relationships with them. Seeing them grow. I love the joy on their face when they’re reunited with their parents, or when they’re adopted. It can be tough, but it’s just amazing. Like, I have this one little kid I’ve known for a few years. His life is rough, and he’s been through more than his share of foster homes. But even when life keeps dealing him shitty hands, he still finds a way to be hopeful. He usually gets this big smile across his face when he sees me.” As she describes him, a radiant smile builds, but then a frown crosses her face as she describes the kid. It’s gone as soon as it appears, and when she falls silent, she’s still beaming.

“Your face lights up when you talk about it.” It’s beautiful, the passion she has for her job and for the kids she helps. I’m curious to know why the frown, what’s got her worried or upset, but I know enough about the foster care system that I know there are questions she won’t be able to answer.

She blushes. “Yeah. I love it.” She pauses with a bite of food halfway toward her mouth, tilting her head. “Thank you. Most people just say, ‘that must be tough,’ when I tell them what I do. And, I mean, it can be. But there are a lot of good moments, too.”

I shrug. “Most people don’t want to talk about the worst parts of their jobs. It’s not why people choose their careers. We choose our path in life based on what we like.”

She nods as she finishes chewing her pasta and darts her tongue out to catch a drop of marinara sauce before she responds. “True. And to answer your earlier question, the week was okay. Nothing that was really a crisis, so that’s a bonus. How was your week?” She pauses, thinking. “I don’t think you’ve told me what you do, either.”

I take a casual sip of wine. “Nope.”

“So… are you going to tell me? Or are you, like, a secret Russian spy and if you tell me, you’ll have to kill me?” She lifts her own wine glass, holding it in the air while she looks at me with a small smile.

“Take a guess.” This is always a fun game. No one ever guesses right. And I’m enjoying the fact that she’s interested in knowing something about me, even if it is just as a friend.

“Do I get something if I guess right?” She’s finally relaxed. It would almost border on flirty, if I didn’t already know that she’s firmly on the side of us not dating. I don’t know if it’s the conversation or the wine that she’s had a glass and a half of. Maybe both.

I lean back in my chair. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a bet. If you guess right in three tries, I’ll pay for dinner tonight. If you don’t, you have to have dinner with me again tomorrow.” I lift the wineglass, feeling like a genius for this little spark of inspiration. There’s no way she’ll get it. No one ever guesses right. It’s not a common job by any stretch of the imagination. It’s not even a job, really, although my sponsors might disagree.

She mirrors my actions, sitting back with her wine in hand. “Interesting. I’ll take that bet.” She studies me, her finger running along the lip of her glass as she purses her lips in concentration. “You work in finance.”

I shake my head, holding back a smile. “Sort of close. But no.”

It’s not close at all, in fact. But there are no rules about misleading your competition, and it’s not an outright lie.

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