Page 7 of Off Camera
She shakes her head and bites her bottom lip. “Just right.”
“Good.” I reach past her and grab her drink and plate, moving them in front of her. “You’re not driving home, are you?”
“No. I took an Uber in case I needed to drown my misery with a couple of drinks. I might walk back, though. I love DC in the late summertime.”
“Are you from the area?”
“No. I moved up here a few years ago when I took a new job,” she tells me.
“A job in marketing,” I say, repeating what she told me earlier.
I’m not sure she’s being honest about her career either.
The woman is gorgeous, with long brown hair that hangs down her back and big brown eyes. Her skin is tan, her smile is soft, and there’s this presence about her. Like she can light up any room she’s in without having to try. It makes me wonder if she really spends all her time behind a computer in an office.
“When this opportunity came up, I jumped at the chance to accept it. It’s a higher profile position than what I was doing before, and I’m good at it,” she says, and I admire her confidence.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Thirty-one. How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
“What was the Great Depression like?” she teases.
“Someone has jokes,” I say.
“Consider it payback for telling me where I belong in the house.”
“I deserve that.”
The night stretches longer. The bar gets louder, and we inch closer to each other. At one point, Not Claire is almost in my lap, and when she stands up to use the bathroom, I have to rest my palm on her waist so she can slip past me.
“Sorry.” My fingers hook in the belt loop of her jeans and give a gentle tug. “I’m stuck.”
“It’s okay. Close quarters.” She folds her hand over mine. I see a tattoo on the inside of her left middle finger. It’s a sunflower, and I wonder what it means. She frees me from the denim and smiles. “There we go.”
“Thanks. Want me to order you something while you’re gone?”
“I think I’m all set,” she says, and I try my best not to look disappointed. “But maybe you’d like to walk me home?”
“Yeah.” I bob my head. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” Her eyes sparkle, and she tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Don’t make out with any ex-girlfriends while I’m gone. I’ll be disappointed.”
She heads for the bathroom, and when she turns a corner and disappears down the hallway to the back of the restaurant, I shove my glasses up my nose, confused.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do now. Do I kiss her? Walk slow so she understands I don’t want to say good night yet? Hint that I’d like to come up so we can talk a little more?
I grab my phone. Dallas and Maverick will have the solution. They’ll tell me what to do.
There are nearly a hundred notifications on my screen, an alarmingly high number for a Friday night. I see a dozen text messages in the group chat with my friends. Eight alerts from ESPN. A missed call from my boss and an email from Shawn Holmes, the head coach of the DC Titans football team where I work as the social media manager, with three words attached:call me asap.
I hit his contact information and tap my foot on the floor.
“Reid,” he answers. “There you are.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m out and didn’t see your email. What’s going on?”
