Page 13 of Boyfriend
“Pretty easy job, too,” I point out. “They just have to stand at the door and look tough.”
“They don’t even have to stand,” Abbi scoffs. “They have a stool to sit on, and free soda or coffee. They check IDs and walk the waitresses to their cars at the end of the night. If I could bench two hundred pounds, I’d switch jobs.”
“Sorry, babe,” I say, drizzling sauce all over my dumplings. “You aren’t scary enough to be a bouncer. Maybe if we gave you a Mohawk and some tats.”
Abbi puts a hand in front of her face and laughs. “I swear, it would almost be worth it.”
We exchange an amused glance, and I give myself a mental high five for getting her to smile.
* * *
"I may never eat again,” I declare an hour later as I dry off the crystal goblets that Abbi hands me. “That was magnificent, Mrs. Ritter.” It’s not a lie. This was my best fake Thanksgiving date yet. “That pumpkin chai pie was exquisite.”
She beams. “There’s a pie shop in New York City that I admire—Posy’s Pie Shop—and I recreated the recipe.”
“My compliments to whoever Posy is,” I say. “I’m so full I may burst.”
“Too full to play some pool?” Dalton asks. “I like to shoot pool while I digest. There’s a TV in the game room, too, if you need to keep track of the football score.”
I glance at Abbi. “What do you think? Want to play on my team?”
“Sure,” she says. “I’m terrible, though.”
“Me too,” I promise her. “Let’s be terrible together.”
And we are. Abbi’s stepfather knows how to set up complicated shots that quickly leave us in the dust. “It’s a good thing I’m on a hockey scholarship and not a pool scholarship,” I say as I scratch on the eight ball.
“Good thing,” Abbi chirps, and we smile at each other like a couple of conspirators.
I don’t mind losing at pool, because I’m winning at life. Every time we step back from the table, there’s a new opportunity for me to talk to Abbi. I’ve woken up Mr. Smooth from his food coma, and put him to work.
I’m putting out all the signals, and she’s waving me in. I hope so, anyway.
Life is good, in spite of Abbi’s creepy-ass stepbrother smirking at us from a sofa across the room. Every time I miss a shot, he chuckles.
Whatever, punk. Meet me on the ice sometime, and I’ll show you how it’s done. The guy looks like he’s never been to the gym in his life.
As the sky begins to darken outside the windows of the well-appointed game room, I see Abbi sneak a look at her watch. And I remember that there’s a bottle of white wine chilling outside in the car, and a quiet holiday night ahead of us, when nobody is expected to work or go to hockey practice.
Maybe Abbi will invite me in when we get back to her place.
After we lose another game, and Abbi checks her watch a second time, I slip an arm around my fake girlfriend. Even this simple gesture is a shock to my system, because she feels so good leaning against me.
And it’s not just me, either. I catch Abbi’s sideways glance, and it’s full of heat.
“Should we head back soon?” I ask, my voice weirdly husky. Mr. Smooth has already deserted me. “Uh, I was hoping to put in an hour or two on that…anatomy paper I told you about.”
“Oh, sure.” She licks her kissable lips. “No problem.”
“What’s the paper about?” Dr. Ritter asks. “I used to teach anatomy to the first-year med students at Moo U. Are you premed?”
Well, fuck me. Why did I have to invent an assignment? And why did I pick anatomy? I don’t have a paper due. My subconscious is obviously hung up on exploring Abbi’s anatomy. Thanks, brain.
“I am premed. And my topic is, uh, the spinal cord,” I say quickly. “And which parts affect which, uh, motor skills.”
Abbi’s smile widens. She knows I’m talking out of my ass right now. I can only hope that she finds idiots attractive.
“Step into my office,” he says. “I have a skeleton that’s really great for understanding vertebrae in 3D.”
