Authors: Emma Taylor
“Ok,” he says, laughing as well. “You got me. It's not payback. I just...really want to have dinner with you.”
He seems more relaxed now and he’s looking at me hopefully. It might not have been the ‘I would like to go on a date with you’ admission that I was hoping for. But, it’s much closer than ‘I need to pay you back’.
“Sounds good,” I tell him with a smile. “What time were you thinking of going?”
“I’ll knock on your door around seven,” he says. “That is if that’s ok.”
“All right,” I answer. “Seven it is.”
He breaths, what sounds like a sigh of relief and gives me a beaming smile that I can’t help but mirror.
“I’ll see you then,” he says. I nod as he heads excitedly into his room.
With a smile, I slide into mine as well. Thankful that I packed my nice red dress. Just in case.
*****
I can’t sleep that afternoon or even rest. Even though my king sized bed is larger than any I have ever slept in and about twice as comfortable, there’s too much-excited energy pulsing through me.
So, in preparation for my date, I decide that I might as well make tomorrow’s tacos today. David might see this as a sabotage of his ritual, but, I honestly don’t think it’ll matter. I’ll put them in the warmer so they’ll still be hot tomorrow morning.
The tacos only take about fifteen minutes. After that, I pace around my huge suite until a five thirty when I start getting ready for dinner.
I try my best to add some volume to my thin and impossibly straight black hair. With a curling iron, I manage, at least, to add more than is normally there. I try my best to use liquid eyeliner to highlight my large, brown eyes. It takes me three times to get it right.
As the clock clicks toward seven o’clock, I look in the mirror, pleased by the outcome. I rarely use this much makeup and, for a first attempt, it’s not half bad. I can only pray that David shares this opinion.
As promised, David knocks on my room door at exactly seven o’clock.
I feel a pleased tingle rush through me when I open the door and his eyes widen. He looks me up and down appreciatively.
“Wow,” he says. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He laughs fully at that.
“I guess I should take that as a compliment,” he says.
“You should,” I answer honestly. I’ve always thought David was handsome. But, tonight, with his gray suit complimenting his tan skin and a red tie providing the perfect pop of color, he looks positively delectable.
“Should we head out?” he says beckoning towards the elevator.
“Sure,” I answer. “I’ve been making tacos all afternoon. The smell made me hungrier than I already was.”
“You’ve already made the tacos?” He asks as we head to the elevator. I’m glad to hear that he sounds more amused than upset. So, I feel no trepidation in answering him.
“Yeah,” I say. “I couldn’t really sleep. I felt like I had to do something.”
He laughs as we step inside the elevator and make our way down.
David isn’t kidding when he says the restaurant is right across the street. As soon as we step outside the hotel lobby, I see the visible but minimalistic sign for La Paladar on the other side of the road and it takes only a minute for us to reach it.
I can immediately tell that this is a fine dining restaurant. The kind you have to have a reservation to get into. But, even though the restaurant seems full, as soon as David gives his name, we are shown to a small table just across from the kitchen.
“This is the chef’s table,” David tells me as soon as we sit down. “I come here every time we play the dodgers. They keep it reserved for me the night before Rangers games.”
“Another ritual?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says. “Just a routine.”
The waiter comes by for our drink order and I let David pick out a bottle of wine for us. If I were given the wine menu, I would have no idea where to start.
When the waiter returns with a full-bodied red, I take a sip and am immediately in heaven.
“I think I’ll let you choose all my alcoholic drinks from now on,” I tell David as soon as the waiter leaves.
“That might not be the best idea,” he says.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because this is the only alcohol I drink,” he says.
“You mean you only drink red wine?” I ask. I can’t help but think that’s a bit odd. I’ve heard of people who don’t drink. And people who only drink wine or beer. But, someone who drinks only red wine is a new concept to me.
“No,” David says. “I only drink this red wine.”
That’s even more, surprising.
“Another one of your routines?” I ask.
“Something like that,” he says.
This gives me a lead in to ask him something I’ve been meaning to since we met. I haven’t dared. I thought it would make me sound either stupid or too forward or both. But, since we’re on the subject…
“Is that a baseball thing or do all athletes do that?” I ask.
“What? Have routines?”
“Not just that,” I say. “I mean, those rituals that you have. Like the twenty-four tacos thing.”
He shrugs and takes a sip of his wine before answering.
“I know a few other guys who have their own little things,” he says. “Lucky rabbits feet. Lucky shoes. Even lucky boxers, believe it or not.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. I’m glad when I hear him join me.
“I wonder why that is,” I say. “I mean, why do you guys think that stuff helps?”
He sets down his wine glass and looks at me thoughtfully. The amused smirk has gone from his lips and I can tell I’m about to get a real answer.
“I think it’s got more to do with control than anything else,” he says finally.
“Control?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, when you really think about it, after all, the training and all the practice that goes into it, on the day of the game, at least, some of it is going to be left up to chance. Most of us...at least most of the guys I know, don’t like that.”
“But, that’s part of the game? Isn’t it?” I ask.
“If it is,” he says. “It’s the only part of the game we don’t like. We don’t like feeling that there’s nothing we can do. So, we come up with these little rituals to make us feel like we’re more…”
“...in control?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Something like that.”
I bring the wine glass up to my lips and take a sip. All the while, I never take my eyes off of him. Just as his gaze doesn’t leave me.
“See, I don’t understand that,” I tell him. “Isn’t chance part of the fun?”
“Maybe if you’re just watching,” he says. “But, when your livelihood depends on it, it’s a bitch.”
I have to laugh at his phrasing. But, I can’t help but think that I still don’t quite understand.
“See, I’d still take chance over complete control,” I tell him.
“You would?” he asks.
“I think so,” I say. As I do, I look into his green eyes and a sudden urge has come over me. Clearly this man is so tightly wound, so anxious about his career that little if anything can get through to him. I want to unwind him a bit. Or try, at least.
So, I lean over the table, very aware that my low cut dress is revealing my ample cleavage. “In my experience,” I tell him in a conspiratorial sort of whisper. I feel a little thrill of victory when I see his eyes dart down to my cleavage and his face colors. “The best things in life tend to happen when you let go of a little control. Leave things up to chance.”
“Is that so?” There’s still a hint of a blush in his cheeks but, he’s lifted his eyes to mine and a flirty grin has spread across his mouth.
“In my experience, it is,” I say leaning back and taking my wine glass in hand. “You should try letting go of a little control. You might actually like it.”
Though my outer voice and presence (I hope) exude confidence, my insides are shaking a bit. I’ve never flirted this brazenly before. Then again, no man has ever made me work this hard or wait this long for a date. So, I’ve got a feeling that I have to do things a little differently with David.
“Maybe you're right,” he says. I breathe a silent sigh of relief when the impressed grin remains on his face. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that sometime.”
This time, it’s my turn to blush at his suggestion. I swallow it down and try to form a secret seductive smile.
“You should,” I tell him.
*****
The rest of the dinner is much more normal than I expected. Not normal as in boring. Normal as in...comfortable. We laugh at stupid things we’ve heard on the news, talk about living in Dallas. He tells me stories about his trips to various places around the country.
We talk for so long, in fact, that the waiters begin to sweep the floor around us in a subtle hint that we should leave because the restaurant is closing. When I look at my phone, it is, indeed close to midnight.
We pay and David lead me across the street, holding my hand the entire way.
As we walk, I keep looking down at his hand clasped in mine. Wondering whether or not this means what I hoped it means. Wondering if the door that adjoins our two suites will be put to use.
After more than a couple glasses of wine, I’m still feeling slightly wobbly as we head through the hotel lobby. The high heeled shoes I’ve chosen for the evening certainly didn’t help matters.
By the time David presses the button for the elevator, I am struggling to keep myself upright. The doors ding open and, hand still clutched in mine, he pulls me in after him.
It happens quickly. I feel my stupid heel catch on the stupid gap between the elevator floor. Before I know it, I am falling forward.
David lets go of my hand and reaches out to catch me around the waist. He pulls me towards him as I struggle to right myself. When I finally feel balanced and look up, I see David’s eyes flashing down at me.
He is so close that I can feel his breath warming my face. So close that the breath issuing from our mouths might as well be one and the same. Still staring as though transfixed, I begin to wonder if I should say something.
I wonder if I should make some joke about not doing well in heels, or thank him for catching me. But, he’s still looking down at me. His eyes staring straight into mine with a look I’ve never seen from him before.
I open my mouth to try and say something, anything, but, as soon as I do, his lips are on mine. He’s tentative at first. Slow and gentle as though he’s asking a question.
I throw my arms around his neck and press desperately into him. I hope this gives him the answer he’s looking for. It does.
As the elevator rises, he presses me hard against him. His hands tangle in my hair, yanking it, so hard that it’s almost painful. A swooping sensation fills my stomach and I know it has nothing to do with the elevator settling at its destination.
When the elevator dings, I feel him suddenly go tense against me. His hands drop from my hair and his eyes burst open. Even though I can see in the glass that no one is outside, the expression on his face is one of shame and embarrassment. As though an entire band of little old grandmothers had caught us.
Gently, he puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me away. He walks through the elevator doors and I follow in his wake. My hands have balled into fists and I can’t stop the horrible sinking of my heart. I know that was the most freedom he could allow himself. It was not going to happen again, at least not tonight.
This is confirmed when he turns to face me at my door.
“We should say goodnight,” he says. “I’ve got a game tomorrow, after all. Don’t want to be too tired.”
“Yeah,” I answer reluctantly. I don’t try to hide the disappointment in my voice. “And I’ve got to wake up early. Got to make sure you get your tacos.”
He gives a slight chuckle and stands awkwardly at the door. Not meeting my eyes and fidgeting with his hands.
“Thanks for tonight,” he says finally. “It was fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And, without waiting for an answer from me, he rushes to his own door, tears it open and moves inside.
I stare at his closed door for several minutes. I’m half embarrassed to feel tears welling up in my eyes. Eventually, I head to my own room.
The smell of chorizo still wafts through the suite. Hours after I’ve cooked the scent is still there. Usually, that smell of cooking meat and tortillas calms me. Now it only intensifies the aching in my chest.
I know I shouldn’t expect anything more than a kiss tonight. In fact, given how David is: tightly wound, addicted to his routines; I should be happy with that.
Normally I would be. But after that kiss, after I felt all his desperation, all his pent up frustration, I know he’s not happy with that. I know that he stopped short of what he wanted. That makes me just as frustrated as I imagine he is.
I flop down onto the bed with a sigh and begin to take off my shoes. My heart stops when I hear a knock on the door.
It’s not coming from my suite's front door. The sound has come from the white door separating David’s room from mine.