Page 34 of His Jersey

It turns out, a long nap because when I blink open my eyes, I only have a half hour before I’m supposed to meet Jack. I wonder what he’s been doing all day.

After putting on a Gucci mid-length sundress with a macramé bodice and a flowing skirt, I do a ’fit check. Lookinggood, all things considered. I add a pearl necklace and a pair of Valentino high heel sandals to complete the outfit.

As I pop in a pair of hoop earrings, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Despite the abundant sleep of the last twenty-four hours and the facial, my eyes are baggier than they were two years ago.

Would I look more rested if I agreed to wear Jack’s jersey to one of his games? I don’t know the answer to that because I don’t fully understand the question, but it’s time to meet him … and thank him profusely for the generosity of today.

When I reach the mermaid fountain, I toss in a coin, hoping that everything goes swimmingly tonight. No pun intended. When I pass the front desk, Yvonne squints at me as if uncertain whether she recognizes me from our encounter with Jack or from somewhere else.

I pick up my pace and nearly collide with a potted Bird of Paradise, then I spot Jack standing just outside the Sapphire Sea Restaurant. He wears slacks and a dress shirt. The top two buttons are open and the sleeves are folded.

Where’s my fainting couch? I need to lie down and cool off.

His eyes follow me as I approach. I try to remain cool, maybe a little aloof like many of the women here, but my grin blossoms and then blooms the closer I get.

He says, “You look lovely.”

“Why, thank you. My kind benefactor sent me to the spa today.”

“Kind benefactor? Do you mean secret admirer?” His lips twitch with a smile.

Playing coy, I arch an eyebrow.

“What I’m really asking is, is there competition?”

“Do I have a boyfriend?” I snort a laugh without waiting for him to answer. “Nope.”

But I do wonder about his playboy reputation. He can wine and dine me here, and then we may never see each other again. Though, we are on a three-year, once-a-year streak.

The restaurant’s main floor is sunken with several terraces surrounding it like concentric circles in a pool when a stone is dropped in. Dim bands of light illuminate each ring, lending to the illusion that we’re floating. I cannot imagine having to carry trays of food and not fall. But I shouldn’t be thinking about work as the hostess guides us to a table on the upper level.

Like a gentleman, Jack gestures for me to sit first. The menu is an electronic tablet, also glowing around the edges. He doesn’t look at it. But there are no prices, just three options: sea, land, and air.

Leaning on the table with his hands clasped, highlighting his powerful forearms, he asks, “You’re smiling. How was your day?”

“Sublime, but it may have been more fun if you were with me.” Doubt pricks holes in my mind about the billionaire son’s visits and weekend flings. I ask, “Was your day sublime too? What did you do?”

He wears a lazy grin. “So sublime. I worked out and napped.”

“Me too. Well, the napping part. It was overdue.”

“You’re a napper?”

“Is that a professional description? Like a plumber or a hockey player?”

He chuckles. “Naps are underrated.”

Our conversation flows easily through appetizers and the meal. I’m stuffed, but cannot pass up what the server describes as Pieces of Neapolitan Paradise for dessert with a combination of luscious chocolate, creamy vanilla, and fresh strawberry.

When the server brings it with two forks, Jack clinks mine with his and says, “To wearing hockey jerseys.”

“I didn’t agree.” Yet.

“I hope you do.”

We both glance at the plate between us with a lower layer of what looks like a waffle cone wafer topped with three ice cream orbs—one brown, one white, and the third pink—and numerous other geometric edible gem and ocean-related shapes sprinkled with gold flecks all arranged in a gravity-defying architectural array of sweet confection.

“How do we eat this?” I ask.

---