Page 88 of Nothing Less Than Everything

What if I turned it down, then we broke up in three months? What if I did another season with the Reds after that? Could I really watch my ex-boyfriend play twenty feet away from me? Could I perform on the fifty-yard line knowing that another woman in WAG seating was wearing his jersey?

My depressing train of thought was derailed when a man in a bespoke suit sided up to our table. His jet-black hair was short on the sides and neatly coiffed on top. A tattoo peeked out from his sleeve, but he quickly cuffed his hand around his wrist, hiding it. “Mr. Bryant, Miss Porter, it’s a pleasure to have you dining with us tonight.” He turned to me, “I’m so glad that I’m actually here to oversee that dinner I promised you, Wren. I’m only in New York part-time now, but you knew that.” He winked, charming as usual.

“Always a pleasure, Mr. DeRossi,” I said with a laugh.

“Please—just call me Luca. I hear you’ve gone with the carte blanche option for the evening.”

Neither Tatum nor I were especially adventurous when it came to eating during the season. I kept my meal choices “safe” to stave off any pesky bowel issues when dancing for four hours straight under the midday sun. Tatum, on the other hand, had a militaristic regiment of eating times, portion sizes, and making sure he got in the right number of macros.

But tonight, we were on a date. We weren’t a professional athlete and a dancer. We were us. Just Tatum and Wren. When in Rome—or, Manhattan.

“Everything sounded too good—we just couldn’t decide,” I said as politely as possible.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the kitchen door. “I’ll let you two enjoy your evening. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

Luca left our table and checked on another before disappearing from the dining room.

Tatum raised his eyebrows. “You know the…”

“Owner and executive chef,” I supplied. “He has a place on the Upper West Side. His assistant, Astrid, hired the firm to decorate it. It was my first solo project as a senior designer. Apparently, he liked what I did because a few years ago, he bought a gorgeous A-frame in a little coastal town in North Carolina. I got to work with the builders who gutted the place and oversaw the renovations. We opened up the floorplan and put skylights in. The place is a dream. You can only get to the master bedroom from this secret staircase in the kitchen. I convinced them to build a new widow’s watch. We turned the basement into a speakeasy lounge with a wine cellar. I designed this custom wet bar that is sexy as hell and found this tufted circular couch that—” I stopped when I realized that Tatum was laughing at me.

“What!” I laughed.

He leaned in, twining our fingers together. “Wren, this is the first time that I’ve heard you actually get excited about a design project.”

“I have photos,” I whispered. “Some people keep photos of their nieces and nephews. I have photos of couches.”

He snickered. “So, is that what New York would be? With the new branch? More design projects like that?”

My smile faded. “Not really. It would be a lot of art acquisitions and uppity clients needing their solariums redone each season because heaven forbid you have an outdated solarium.” I rolled my eyes. The disdain in my voice shocked even me. I loved the higher-end clientele that Colette James had garnered over the years. Well… I loved their budgets. Their taste and penchant for looking down on “the help” left much to be desired. Luca DeRossi and Tatum were the exceptions to the rule.

He stroked the back of my hand. “Is working for Colette a necessity?” he asked, motioning in the direction where Luca had disappeared. “I mean, from the looks of it, your clients are pretty loyal to you. What if you took Colette and the firm out of the equation and went out on your own?”

We waited for a beat as our server brought the first course, explained it, then disappeared. I speared a bite of riso nero alla livornese—a savory sage and red pepper risotto that was midnight black from the squid ink it was cooked with. Bright green leeks and buttery coral-colored prawns against the black risotto created a visual masterpiece. The first taste had my eyes rolling back in my head.

“Starting a business is risky. Working for Colette pays the bills,” I said. “Lord knows being with the Reds doesn’t.” It wasn’t something that we ever had to talk about. It just was what it was. Tatum and I were on opposite ends of the Rhode Island Red Cocks pay scale.

“You gonna do another season?” he asked.

I froze with my wine halfway to my mouth. “What if my body and my mind are done, but my heart isn’t ready to let the Reds go?”

Tatum sat in silence, chewing slowly as he muddled over my question. “You’re scared of what’s next,” he finally said after swallowing.

“Aren’t we all?” I scraped the last few grains of rice onto my fork and popped them into my mouth. “What would you do if you knew this was your last season? What would happen on the day you woke up and realized that you didn’t have to go to the facilities to work out or watch film?”

That stumped him.

Tatum dabbed his mouth with his cloth napkin. “Coach told me that if the team keeps working the way we have been, I could have a few more seasons with them.”

I pursed my lips. “And if I did another season, we would have what—another year and a half of sneaking around?”

We ate the next two courses in silence. Neither of us wanted to admit what was glaringly obvious. It was him or me. Only one of us could stay with the team. And given that my position with the Ladies in Red paid about the same as a fast-food job, it was pretty clear who had to give it up.

Logically, I knew that was the answer. Finish the season strong and on my own terms.

“Listen to me,” he said gently as we finished the last of our dessert, a divine sesame and white-chocolate cake with a guava and coconut gelato and a black sesame tuile. “You can give up good for better without diminishing what you had before.”

Before I could respond, Luca appeared by our table. “How was everything?”

“Oh my goodness, Mr. DeRossi. Everything was amazing, and the dessert was incredible!” I said, motioning to my empty plate. If it wouldn’t have been completely inappropriate, I would have picked it up and licked it clean.

His smile was tight. “I’ll certainly pass along your compliments to my wife. She creates all the seasonal desserts for my restaurants.”

“The two of you must make a dream team,” Tatum said with a smile.

Glancing at the front of the restaurant, Luca said, “I’m sorry about this, but I wanted to make you aware that there is a hoard of paparazzi loitering outside this evening. You are more than welcome to make a discreet exit through the staff entrance if you’d like to fly under the radar tonight.”

And just like that, the fantasy shattered, and we were back. Trapped in a web of secrets and lies. Could I get through another season like this?

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