Page 89 of The Thing About My Rival

“LuckyIrish pubs, you mean.” I take a bite of my dog and give her the old Powers eyebrow wiggle.

She ignores me and turns her attention back to the boys, who’ve now marked goalposts with piles of their sweaters. And one of them has just dumped a football out of a bag.

“You’ve brought me to a kids’ five-a-side soccer game?” She scoops up some ketchup that’s about to drip off the end of her sausage and wipes her finger on her tongue.

I cross my legs the other way. “Would you rather I’d said let’s get dressed up and go back to Pulacini’s?”

“God, no.”

“Exactly. I know very well you’d rather be here, unshowered, in sports gear, no makeup, and eating dinner you can hold in your hands while watching a ball being kicked.”

“Hey, I’ve got mascara on.” She nudges me with her elbow. “You are annoyingly right about the rest of it, though.”

“Why is it annoying? Isn’t it good that I get you?” It is. Not only good. But really bloody special. I know it is.

She might not know it yet, but if her presence has made me notice leaves fluttering on branches, birds twittering as they hop about on grass, and, Lord of all horrors, singing along to Taylor Swift the other day, then it’s my life’s mission to convince her of it too.

“Do you think I getyou?” she asks, then runs her tongue through a line of mustard oozing from the top of her bun.

For fuck’s sake, there are only so many ways a man can cross his legs.

I grab a napkin and wipe my mouth. “I think you think I’m annoying. Not cute annoying. Not amusing annoying. And not so frustratingly hot annoying that you want to drag me onto this table and bang the annoyance right out of me.”

“Well, not in front of the children.” She gestures to the young footballers and takes another bite of sausage.

“Whoa.” Her cry is muffled by whatever it is they make veggie dogs from. “Did you see that?” She points at the game and looks at me, eyes wide, one cheek stuffed full like a lopsided hamster.

There we go. I knew she’d spot him straight away. Just like I did. The kid who passes with the effortless accuracy of Beckham or Messi.

“I did.”

Her eyes go back to the boy. “And look at the way he moves.”

“Yup.”

“He handles the ball like an adult. Like he came out of the womb with cleats on.”

“Yup. That’s Jordan.”

“You know his name?”

“Yeah. They play here every Wednesday. The first time I stopped to watch them he recognized me and came over to say hi.”

“Didn’t that piss you off?”

“Why would it piss me off? He’s just a kid. And a football-mad kid. The best kind.”

“Because you hate people bothering you. The press, the public, Sonya in accounting when she complains your receipts are too scrunched up.” She tilts her head the same way she did when I kissed her a few minutes ago. “See, I do get you. Well, parts of you.”

“Any particular parts?”

“I’m ignoring that.” She returns her focus to the kids. “Anyway, so Jordan’s the reason you brought me here?”

I love her expression of self-satisfaction when she works stuff out—she sticks her chin up a bit and screws up one corner of her mouth. Like the other day when she was trying to fix one of her broken shelves. It took all my willpower not to dive in, take over, and do it for her, but I thought I should give what Tom said a go and leave her to it. Eventually she realized she was screwing the newbracket on upside down, and the look of pride on her face when she made it work was totally worth it.

“Yup. Well, that and the gourmet meal.” I hold up the remainder of my hot dog. “And the, you know, scenery.” I gesture at my own face.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She turns her attention back to the game and her dinner.

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