Page 18 of The Secret Play

“That sounds very open minded of you.”

Gemma smiled and shrugged. She did that a lot when I complimented her, and it left me with the impression that she wasn’t used to compliments, which was a damn shame. She said, “When you have the safety and happiness stuff taken care of, it’s easier to become who you’re meant to be, don’t you think?”

“I’d have to imagine so. But I don’t have any kids, so I’m out of my depth on that end of it, and I’d never presume to know how to raise one.”

“It’s a lot, but a lot of it you make up on the fly. Reminds me of the one improv class I took in college.”

“I bet you were great at it,” I said.

She laughed once. “I was awful at it. Nearly failed.”

“Can’t picture you failing at anything.”

“There you go again, being kind.”

I shook my head, smiling. “Just honest.”

Our drinks came and she went on, “The improv class was stressful. Constantly stressful. I never knew what to expect. But by the end of the class, I had a C to pass it and an understanding of how to deal with people better. It’s probably the class I use the most in my day to day routine, and not just with Winnie, but with interviews, too.”

“Because you never know what someone will say?”

She nodded once. “For instance, I didn’t know you were going to ask me out.”

“Neither did I,” I confessed. “It just sort of slipped out.”

“Is that how you get your dates, Coach McConnell? Accidentally?”

I snorted. “Call me Casey, and usually, no. It takes a lot of working up the courage and hoping I don’t fall flat on my face.”

“Am I not intimidating enough to warrant all that effort?” she teased.

“You scare the panties off me.”

Gemma laughed far too loudly for the decorum of the restaurant, and I loved to see it. She slapped her hand over her mouth, but her shoulders heaved with residual giggles until she calmed down. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m not.”

“How precisely do I scare the panties off of you, and yet you were able to ask me out so easily?”

“Because when it came to you, I couldn’t help myself.”

Her cheeks flushed red from that, but before she could respond, the food came out. After a few initial bites, she asked, “Do you mind if I ask a few work questions?”

“Shoot.”

“Not the thing to say to a sharpshooter,” she said with a gleam in her eyes.

“Seriously?”

“My dad used to take us to the range when we were kids. I’ve always had a knack for it.”

“See? I knew you were impressive. Does Atlanta still feel like your hometown, or have we changed enough in the past few years to make it different for you?”

She sat back, thinking. “It’s still home, but a few of my old haunts are different now. Bing’s Books is now a tattoo parlor, that kind of thing. But it still has my favorite people, so it’s home.”

The moment felt easy, natural—until the waiter returned to deliver our second round of drinks, and in the process, managed to knock over my glass of wine. Red liquid spread across the tablecloth like a bloodstain, soaking through the edge of my shirt and dripping onto my lap.

“Oh, no!” the waiter said, his face going pale as he scrambled to clean up the mess. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

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