Page 66 of Second Down Fake

“About what?”

“The perfect date.”

My cheeks burned. I wasn’t a prude, but the visual of Diego stripping me naked, my body pressed against cold glass? Well, it’d left me more than flustered.

“Murder, She Wrote. An episode. No, wait, a season. Season three, I think.”

“God, you have a favorite season of the show? What a nerd.” I rolled my eyes as I downed the drink along with any thoughts of Diego and sex. “Why Murder, She Wrote, anyway? Did you spend a lot of time with your grandma or something?”

He took a slow sip of his drink, tongue running over his lips as he set the glass back down. “No. Sort of. My mom works at a nursing home. She worked third shift when I was in grade school so I’d sleep in the common area. They kept a TV on all night for the residents that couldn’t sleep.”

I flinched slightly, surprised. His charm, even when I’d met him back in college, had been effortless, the type of assured self-confidence of a kid used to luxury. The type of kids who went to boarding school and spent summers abroad.

“What about your dad?”

Diego shook his head. “He took off after I was born. Divorced my mom and only showed up when I signed a college scholarship to play at Alabama. I haven’t heard from him since.”

I waited for a breath, but he didn’t elaborate. “So, it was just you and your mom? Why didn’t she follow you to Norwalk?”

Our conversations had been teasing and fun, not deep. Conversations guaranteed to keep the lines of our relationship clear, even if we physically flirted with that line. A mistake that I’d started and maybe shouldn’t have encouraged.

“We’ve talked about it before, but there’s always a good excuse not to. I might get transferred. The nursing home was short staffed. Her husband doesn’t want to leave.” His lips flattened and he shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. I try to make it down to see her at least once a month. It’s harder during the season, though.”

“She doesn’t come to your games?”

The bartender interrupted our conversation with food. Diego asked for a second round of drinks, and I picked at the plate of loaded fries, no longer hungry.

“Rarely.” He shrugged. “She won’t let me buy her tickets or fly her out unless it’s a division championship or something. Even then, she tries to pay me back. She’s stubborn.”

“I wonder where she gets that from.”

Diego laughed, a low rolling chuckle that made me smile. “No idea. When I signed my first contract, I tried to buy her a house. She wasn’t having it. She’s a tough lady.”

Diego grabbed the two small plates placed on the bar and loaded one up with food, passing it to me with the fork. “I try to visit whenever I have a chance, but it’s hard to get away during the season. And I hate asking her to come, knowing it’s just going to turn into a fight.”

“I get that.” I paused. “Not the money part, obviously, but the tension.”

“Tension,” Diego agreed, taking a sip of his drink. “That’s probably a better way to describe it. I just hate that she won’t let me take care of her.”

His face crumpled, and I slid my hand over the bar top onto his. He sighed, eyes sliding to my hand as he turned over his palm, interlacing our fingers. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be a downer.”

I squeezed his hand. “You’re not. Not even a little. It’s nice talking to you about something other than disc golf and video games.”

“Is that the bulk of our conversation?” His eyes stayed locked on our hands, his thumb rubbing over mine, the light sensation sending tickles down my arm and through my body.

“I like when you tell me more about you.” I cleaved off the second thought. I like you. Although “like” felt a little too tame given our earlier conversation.

“Enough talking about me. Tell me something about you.” The edge of his lip pulled up, brown eyes flitting to mine with a mischievous glint. “A deep, dark Cassandra secret.”

“You’re jumping straight to deep, dark secret territory? After telling me your relationship with your mom is tense? Yeesh, that’s a leap, Salazar.”

His fingers grazed my back, and I leaned back into it. “I don’t have any secrets.”

“Liar.”

“I’ve never lied in my life.” I slanted my eyes at him with a wince. “Alright, never lied in a way that wasn’t backed by a stack of legal documents.”

He ran a finger over the top of his glass, tilting his square jaw as his brown eyes raked over me. “Okay. Then tell me a truth.”

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