Page 30 of Can't Kiss the Chef

“We are leaving in forty minutes for dinner. You guys need to get ready.”

It must be some good weed because they start uncontrollably laughing at me. Izzy pulls out her phone and sees the time.

“Shit, Tee, we have to get ready.” They jump off the couch and bolt into the hotel suite.

It’s still warm, and living in the northeast my entire life, I know I need to soak in all of these days while I can.

Inspired by tonight’s sunset, I pull out the short sangria-colored dress with the embellished straps and pair it with a black strappy heel in hopes it makes up for the disadvantage I have in the height department in the pictures we will take while we’re out.

Thirty minutes later, the sun has fully set and the streets of Philadelphia have come to life. The sound of locally famous bands pour out of dive bars. Drunk Phillies fans are celebrating a walk-off playoff win. It’s the perfect night to show my friends why my hometown is so special.

I post a picture on my Instagram story with a poll asking if my heels make up the height difference between me and my friends. They don’t, if you were wondering.

Ivy is the first person to send a DM asking me to tell the group she misses us and that she will visit Westvale soon.

The following two messages come in instantaneously.

Byron:

Wearing the nickname like a badge of honor, Pipsqueak.

Dalton:

Damn, Lola, Looking good ??

To see those two names next to each other on my phone feels like my future being written despite the past doing its best to stay at the forefront of my mind. It’s just my luck; I’m insanely attracted to both.

After dinner, we went to a sports bar to kill time before our table reservation at Sixty-Two, the club the center for the Eagles owns which opened last year. If you ever need a confidence boost, go to a male-dominated sports bar dressed to go dancing at the club. Izzy somehow managed to secure multiple rounds of free shots, so we all leave a little tipsy and ready for the next stop.

Indy is giving her name to the bouncer for our reservationwhen I hear someone calling my name.

I brace myself before I turn to see who is calling. You never know who you’re going to run into when you’re at home.

“Lola!” It’s a little louder this time.

I smile when I find who the voice belongs to. I wave him and his friends up the line. The groups of people waiting to get in between us try to stop them, but they just ignore them.

“Dalton, what are you doing here?” Even on my tip toes he has to bend down for me to be able to wrap my arms around his neck.

“We decided to come in for the night before the season starts. Why are you back home?”

I’ve gotten the occasional text from Dalton since our run in outside Expresso Yourself. I really like him. His banter is top notch and he makes me laugh. I still think we look a little odd together. His polos and gelled back hair should be repealed by my tattoos and affinity for back outfits. Maybe I should give the whole opposites attract thing a shot. Nothing else has worked for me so far.

“It’s Izzy’s twenty-first birthday, so we got a table here.” I pause. I don’t think the girls will be upset if I invite some cute hockey player to sit with us. “Why don’t you guys come in with us?”

“We’d love to,” Dalton says without consulting any of his teammates.

I grab Indy’s shoulder and push her down until I can whisper into her ear. It probably couldn’t have been any less subtle. “Dalton is here, and I invited him and his teammates to come to our table.”

Indy’s eyes get big, and her mouth drops open. “Like hot Dalton, the Dalton you’re using to get over Byron, Dalton?”

I feel my eyes grow big, trying to distract my friend from my reddening cheeks. “Have you ever heard me talk about any other Dalton?”

Indy contemplates it for a second, like there has been a surplus of Daltons in my life.

I dig my license out of my purse, and when I look up to give my ID to the bouncer, he just shakes his head.

“I don’t need that, Lola; you’re fine to go in.”

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