Page 19 of Fake-Off with Fate
“Hi, Peggy,” my unexpected dinner companion says. “I got here yesterday and I’m hankering for your beer-battered fish and chips.”
Peggy—yet another middle-aged waitress—writes her orderdown. “You got it, honey. You want a Shirley Temple to go with that?”
Ashlyn smiles which inexplicably causes a tightening sensation in my stomach. “I can’t believe you remember my favorite drink after all this time,” she says.
Peggy nods her head, and with a smirk adds, “We have pumpkin praline pie on the menu tonight, as well.”
Ashlyn hands her menu over. “That pie is almost enough to make me want to move home.” The waitress beams at the compliment before walking away.So much for taking my order.
“I’d like a cheeseburger,” I call after her.
Peggy stops dead in her tracks before returning to our table. Laughing, she says, “I was so excited to see Ash here that I totally forgot about you. How do you want that done?”
“Medium,” I tell her. “With fries and a Sprite.”
After she leaves, I turn my attention back to Ashlyn. “I don’t usually get ignored. You must be something special in this town.”
“No more special than every other kid who grew up here. The difference is, I didn’t stay. As a result, when I come home, some of my old friends get excited.”
“Where do you live?”
“Los Angeles. I went to college at UCLA, and I stayed.”
“I’m from New York City.”
“I go there often for work.” She explains, “I’m a closet designer for rich people. A lot of my clients have homes on both coasts.”
Shaking my head, I tell her, “I can’t imagine needing someone to organize my closet for me.”
Her gaze moves from my face to what she can see of my outfit. “Not much of a clothes horse, huh?”
It feels like she’s judging me and for some reason that irritates me. “I have over fifty pairs of shoes,” I brag.
“Wow.” The accompanying laughter makes it clear she’s not impressed.
We sit quietly for long enough that I once again think about getting my food to go. But then Ashlyn announces, “My dad wanted to talk you and your teammates into holding a kissing booth at Maple Fest to bring in a bigger crowd.”
I nearly spit out the sip of water I just took. I force myself to swallow it before telling her, “That’s not going to happen.”
She scoffs. “I know, right?”
What does she mean by that?
She seems to realize I’ve taken offense because she adds, “Not that women wouldn’t want to kiss you. I mean, I’m suresomeof them would …” Just clearly not her. Which is fine, because I don’t currently want to kiss anyone,includingher.
Yet, I can’t seem to help myself from boasting, “Women enjoy kissing hockey players.”
“Open your mouth,” she orders.
I don’t know why, but I do as she instructs. She leans forward and peers inside. “It looks like you have all your teeth, so that’s a plus.”
“I’m still not going to volunteer my guys for a kissing booth,” I tell her.
Her face crunches up like I’ve just offered her a worm salad. “Please don’t. I’ve already told my dad what a disgusting idea that is.”
“You don’t like kissing men, huh?”I wonder if she’s gay.
“I most certainly do enjoy kissing men,” she says. “Just not strangers. And certainly not ones who’ve been kissing a lot of other women.” She grimaces before adding, “I mean really, hockey players? Imagine where all those mouths have been.”
