Page 23 of Made For You

“I do,” she answers, “but sometimes, I just get into the zone, and I don’t realize the time.”

I look down and cut a piece of my steak. “What do you do for work?” I ask her the question, and she looks down at her plate. My stomach sinks, thinking I asked her something I shouldn’t. Her words yesterday replay in my head. “Forget I asked,” I backpedal. “It’s none of my business. If you wanted me to know, you would have told me.” I smile at her, sticking to a completely neutral topic. “It’s nice weather we are having.”

CHAPTER15

VIVIENNE

“What do you do for work?”He asks me the question, and the minute he does, my stomach sinks, and I want to throw up the food he just made. Food that is the best thing I’ve eaten in a while. I look down, wondering how I can answer this question, knowing that in the end, what I tell him won’t be the truth. “Forget I asked,” he says, looking down at his food. If I didn’t feel like an asshole before, I definitely feel like one when he says the next part. “It’s none of my business. If you had wanted me to know, you would have told me.” He smiles at me, and it’s so fucking fake. I also hate it. “It’s nice weather we are having.”

I can’t help but chuckle nervously. “It’s okay to ask me what I do.” When I walked in and saw he was reading one of my books, it was the first time I wanted to spill my secret. I couldn’t help the giddiness inside me. I wanted to be like, “I wrote this,” but instead, I pushed it down.

“No, it’s not,” he says, shaking his head while he cuts his steak and avoids looking at me. My stomach gets tight, knowing that I’ve ruined it.

“I work in the writing industry.” I remain very vague. At least it’s not a lie. Trying to figure out what to tell him and not spill the secret. I don’t think I’ve ever come out and said I’m an author before, never. I mean, I’ve told my accountant and my lawyer, but I’ve never ever said my occupation to one person.

“I don’t even know what that means.” He laughs, and I can see he feels a bit more at ease and not that he’s asked something he shouldn’t.

“It’s hard to explain.” I cut a piece of steak. “But I edit stuff. Rewrite things.” I put the piece of steak in my mouth to stop talking. Something inside me is not okay with lying to him, and I have no idea why. My family, who knows everything about me and has been there my whole life, doesn’t know what I do. It’s never bothered me once that they don’t. But this guy, who I met, what, four days ago, maybe five? I have this guilt that I’m not telling him the truth. I stab a piece of salad on my fork, looking up at him and finding him staring at me. “What?” I ask him.

“You really aren’t going to ask me what I do?” he quizzes, my eyes looking back down at my steak before lifting them to find him still staring at me from across the table. His head shakes, and I can’t help but smile at him.

“Are we going to go over this again?” I joke as I cut another piece of steak. I now realize I’m stuffing my face with all this food to shut my mouth from asking him everything. I’ve never wanted to ask questions in my life. I usually just sit back and wait, knowing that people share with you, whether you want to know or not. It’s the human nature in us.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, and I wish the lights were on so I could see his eyes. “If I wanted you to know, I would have told you.”

I point the fork at him. “Exactly, you are learning.” I can’t help the smile that fills my face when he just smirks and then looks down to cut his steak. Do I want to know what he does for a living? Yes. I mean, I haven’t seen him leave to go to work all week. “You look like a stockbroker,” I joke as he just stares at me while chewing. “You are definitely not in the medical field.”

This makes him laugh. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re grumpy,” I tell him honestly. His eyes go into slits as he glares at me, making me laugh.

“I’m not grumpy,” he defends right away. I smile at him and nod my head like, sure you’re not.

“Okay, whatever you say,” I tease him.

“I used to play hockey.” The words that come out of his mouth do two things. One, they shock the shit out of me, and two, yup, still shocked. I blink for what feels like an eternity, the words replaying in my head.

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He throws his head back, and all I can hear now is his deep booming laughter. “But.” I shake my head. “But,” I repeat, trying to let the words sink in. It’s only then do I gasp. “That’s why my father knew who you were.” All he does is shrug and nod his head. “Great,” I say, putting the fork down, “never going to hear the end of this.” I shake my head. “Do you know how many times I’m going to hear, ‘remember when I said I knew him?’” His laughter is even bigger now. “It’s not funny. It’s going to be for the rest of my life.”

He chuckles. “Sorry about that.”

I cut another piece of steak. “I mean, he did say you kind of looked familiar. But he says that all the time. We went to Greece one year, and he thought the sixty-five-year-old man making coffee looked familiar.” I shake my head. “News flash, he didn’t.”

He cuts a piece of his own steak, chewing it before saying, “I didn’t have the beard.” He rubs his hand on his chin. Then runs his hands through his hair. “Or the long hair. That could be why he thought he recognized me but wasn’t sure.”

I tilt my head to the side and try to picture him without the beard. “Really?”

He nods his head, leaning back against the bench. “Oh, yeah, the team I played for was old school.” He starts talking, and something in his voice makes me know that something deeper is going on. “I had to be clean cut. Hair was to be kept short and no facial hair whatsoever.” I have to bite my tongue not to ask him what team he played for.

“Wow,” I say, but I’m itching to ask him so many more questions. It’s the first time that curiosity is killing me. It’s the first time I want to pry and ask him all the freaking questions but I have to respect his space. “So you used to play?” I prod, not really invading his privacy since he mentioned that he used to play. So technically, I’m not intruding.

“Yup,” he says, his tone tight, “walked away two years ago.”

“What’s your name?” I ask, and he laughs. “I mean, I could always google Xavier and hockey, and I’m sure I’ll find you.” I roll my lips to stop myself from laughing. “Don’t worry, I would never google you.” I chuckle. “But my sister, now she’s another story.”

He laughs out loud. “No need to go on Google.” He stares at me. “Xavier Montgomery.” I put my fork down. “So how about the weather?”

“Is that code for you don’t want to talk about hockey?” I ask, swallowing down the lump.

---