Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(22)

I look away, hoping that he’ll just disappear. But I’m not that lucky. The next time I happen to glance his way, a waitress is dropping off a glass of wine. I catch myself watching for his sexy smirk when he thanks her.

Goddamn Tank and his goddamn smirk. I’m on this date specifically to forget about him. And now who’s drinking a glass of red wine and undressing me with his eyes?

I’m so irritated I could spit.

“How’s your food?” Brian asks.

I look down and realize I’ve eaten several bites without even tasting it. “Wonderful. How is yours?”

“Great,” he says, stabbing a piece of macaroni.

I squint at it, because I can’t see any sauce or seasonings on it. “You ordered the…?”

“Noodles with butter,” he says. “That’s my favorite. I’m a purist, I guess.” He chuckles.

Yup. My date is officially the least interesting man in Brooklyn. Ten feet away sits a man wearing a tight T-shirt that shows off the hollow between his pecs, where my tongue recently traveled.

I glance at Brian and try to imagine doing the same to him.

Nope. Not happening.

My phone buzzes with a text. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tank place his phone on the table.

I’m not going to be that rude person who checks her phone. Not during dinner. I stay in the moment and make small talk with the dedication of a medal contender in the Small Talk Olympics. I even laugh at Brian’s jokes.

I stay strong for a good fifteen minutes. But then Brian begins an extended conversation with the waiter about the qualities of the house-made vanilla ice cream, and I let myself sneak a peek at my phone.

You look hot in that blouse. Unbutton one more button.

I set the phone in my lap and quickly tap out a reply. What, are you my pimp now?

Not for him, he replies immediately. This is for me.

I glance up to find Tank’s gaze taking a slow, dirty stroll down my body. It’s the opposite of subtle. I pick up my wine glass and take a sip while casually giving him the finger.

Brian is still deep in conversation about the vanilla ice cream. He doesn’t even notice.

Tank laughs, his green eyes flashing. Then he starts tapping on his phone again. In Brooklyn again? And I don’t get a phone call?

I guess he’s going to figure out my situation sooner or later. So I confess. Actually, I live here now. Sorry if I didn’t mention that before. And you KNOW why you’re not getting a phone call.

First he responds with the eyes-wide emoji. And then he writes: You sneaky Pete! My change-of-address card must be lost in the mail. How odd that you didn’t mention it before. Oh well, I guess you were too busy moaning my name. So how’s your date going? Fun guy?

Totally, I lie.

Did he really order plain macaroni?

My ego demands that I ignore his last text. And anyway, Brian has decided that the ice cream passes muster and orders it.

“Nothing for me, thank you,” I tell the waiter, even though ice cream sounds good. I just really need to get out of here.

Of course, Brian eats his ice cream very slowly. He offers me a bite, but I decline out of spite. I polish off my wine and wish I were drunker than I am right now. Maybe this will all seem funnier on Monday morning when Eric asks how the date went.

I sure hope so.

Meanwhile, two tables away, Tank is putting away the New York strip steak, rare, with arugula and Parmigiano mashed potatoes. The muscles in his forearms flex whenever he cuts his meat. And every minute or two he looks up to give me a look so searing and sexual that it’s probably punishable by death in several distant nations.

And I’m just so confused. How is it possible that I’m slobberingly attracted to one man, when the other one does nothing for me? Science insists that their DNA is 99.9 percent identical. But, man, that 0.1 percent is like the difference between a rare steak and plain macaroni. One makes my mouth water, while the other is just…

I hold back a sigh and pray for my date to finish his ice cream.

Finally, Brian calls for the check. When the waitress brings it over, I plop my credit card on top of the wallet right as Brian does the same.

He lifts his bland eyes to me. “What’s this? I’m treating.”

“Well, thank you very much,” I say, removing my card. Because I don’t want to fight about it.

“I’m an old-fashioned man,” he says, passing the wallet and card to the waitress.

“I noticed that when you expressed surprise at my career.” Oops. It just slipped out.

He chuckles, as if I’ve said something cute. “I work in a man’s world. Sometimes I forget.”

“You forget that women exist? Are there no women who…” I try to remember a single word he said about his job. “…do what you do?”

“There’s one,” he says. “We used to have two, but she went off and had babies.” He shrugs, as if this was inevitable.

He’s lucky the waitress has already removed my silverware, because I would have stabbed him with it. “You know, this has been fun, but I’ve got to go,” I say, pushing back my chair. “Thank you for the lovely evening.”

“Will I see you again?” Brian asks, pushing back his chair to stand up, too.

“Oh, I hope so,” I lie, offering my hand for a shake. “It was so nice to meet you.” I give him a big smile and then practically run out of the restaurant. When I hit the sidewalk, I take a deep, cleansing breath. Chin up, I coach myself. You can’t expect to meet Mr. Right on the first try.