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Chapter twenty-three

Rebecca

Except in the process of trying to ease my anxiety about my date, I’ve created more for myself by finding Holt’s follow request from last week. I thought all these hockey guys’ social media accounts were run by PR firms. That they didn’t go on Social, or if they did, they had private accounts.

Apparently not the case.

I contemplate texting Sutton to ask her what to do, but then I do something crazy and hit accept. I already accepted Wes’s request a few weeks ago, so what’s one more? Besides, it would be weird if I didn’t accept it.

I click on Holt’s profile, because now I’m curious about what he posts and if he’s active on this account, but there are only a few pictures from a while ago.

One where he’s holding the Stanley Cup from when the team won a few years back.

Another one of him, Wes, Hunter, Coach Thompson, and a few other guys I don’t recognize.

I half expected to see posts featuring his ex-girlfriend, but there are none .

I exit out of the app and shove my phone back into my purse before heading toward the restaurant, where I spot Cyril waiting outside.

He greets me with a hug, which is a bit awkward if I’m being honest, but I chalk it up to it being a first date, and we head inside.

“What made you decide you wanted to get into physical therapy? Why a physical therapist instead of a real doctor” Cyril asks a few minutes later after we’re seated at a table near the entrance to the kitchen.

For fuck’s sake.

“Well—” I fiddle with the edge of the menu.

I’m saved from having to answer his question by our server arriving with glasses of water and a basket of bread.

“Can I get you folks anything to drink?” he asks after greeting us.

“I’ll have whatever lager you have on tap,” Cyril says.

The server nods and turns to me.

“Water’s fine,” I say, unwrapping my straw and putting it into the glass.

“You’re not ordering a drink?” Cyril frowns. “They have a lot of wine options if you don’t enjoy beer.”

“I’m good.”

“You sure? Do you prefer sweet or dry? I’m sure one of us can make a recommendation.” He gestures between himself and the server.

I glance over at our server who is shifting back and forth, his gaze bouncing between the two of us, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

Same buddy, same.

“I don’t drink,” I say, plucking a piece of bread from the basket.

Cyril frowns again, staring down at his menu before looking up at me. “Really? I thought I saw you drinking at the bar.”

I internally grimace. Seriously ? Are you trying to catch me in a lie?

“Nope.”

“I’ll be right back with your beer,” the server says, backing away.

I turn my attention back to my menu hoping that this night gets better .

“I could have recommended a light beer if you’re afraid of the calories.”

My eyes widen. Did he really say that?

“I’m not afraid of the calories. I. Don’t. Drink.”

“Fine. Fine,” he says, splaying his hands out on the table. “I can take a hint,” he mutters.

You have got to be kidding me. Two minute penalty for being an asshole.

I ignore his comment, studying the menu. I sure hope this isn’t an indication of how tonight is going to go.

A few minutes later, our server returns. “Are you ready to order?” He sets Cyril’s beer down.

“Yes,” Cyril says without asking me if I am.

Excuse me? And we’re back in the penalty box.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the server says, turning to me.

“She’ll have the eggplant parmesan with a side salad. No—”

What the actual fuck.

“Wait, one moment,” I interrupt.

Cyril furrows his brow at me. “I assumed because you were vegetarian . . .”

“I’m not vegetarian,” I say through gritted teeth.

“How about I give you a minute?” our server suggests before making a hasty retreat.

“I was only trying to be a gentleman. I thought women appreciated it when their date ordered for them?” Cyril gives me what I think is supposed to be a sexy smirk, but on him it comes across as condescending.

My mouth falls open. I’d literally rather be anywhere but here. Removing my napkin from my lap as I stand, I grab my purse.

“You know what? I don’t think this is going to work out. I’m going to go.”

“Really?” He looks around, everywhere but at me. “You’re going to walk out on dinner? I was just trying to be nice and order for you.” His voice pitches up at the end, and I see a few patrons staring .

“Yes. Yes, I am.” I cross my arms. “You didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t drink. You don’t even know me, yet you think you can order for me. Without even asking?” I shake my head. “Bye, Cyril. Lose my number.”

When I’m safely in my car, with the door locked, I slowly count to ten, trying to calm my racing heart. This is why I don’t date. Because it never goes well.

Taking a deep breath, I start my car, and head back to my apartment. Guess dinner will be whatever leftovers I can scrounge from my fridge.

The drive home is quick, and before long, I’m pulling into a parking spot in front of my building.

I greet the doorman before pushing the Up button for the elevator.

It’s slow as usual, and after what feels like an eternity, the door finally opens on my floor.

With a sigh, I push off the wall and step out onto the landing, where Holt is waiting for the elevator.

Just my fucking luck.

“Hey, Holt,” I plaster on what I hope is a convincing smile and step around him. “Have a good night.”

“Becca,” he calls after me. “Are you okay?”

I stumble to a stop in front of my door, and look at him over my shoulder. “Dating sucks.”

The elevator door begins to close, and I tip my chin toward it. “It’s leaving without you.”

He runs a hand through his hair, glancing between me and the elevator before stalking over to me.

“What happened?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

He’s so close to me his breath tickles my neck.

I turn to face him, my back against my still-locked apartment door.

“Just a guy who questioned whether I really don’t drink alcohol instead of taking what I said at face value.

Then decided to order for me even though he doesn’t know what I like to eat.

” I meet his gaze. “Is it really a big deal that I don’t drink? ”

“No, and if someone can’t respect your decision, they’re an asshole.”

Turning, I put my key into the lock. “Agreed. I won’t hold you up. I’m sure you have places to be. ”

“Let me buy you dinner.”

I look back at him. “Thanks, but you don’t have to do that.”

He reaches forward and brushes a strand of hair out of my face. “I know, but I want to.”

I close my eyes, leaning into his touch, which lingers far longer than necessary.

“Becca?” he prompts.

My eyes flutter open. Why the hell not? I like him. He likes me based on the kiss we shared. Maybe I will let myself have this. It’s only dinner. I deserve it after the awful date with Cyril.

“Okay.”

“Do you need anything from your apartment?”

“N-no.”

“Come on.” He holds out his hand.

I stare at it for a second before taking it, and letting him lead me to the elevator. I figured we were going to order takeout, but I guess we’re going out.

He pushes the Down button, and we wait in silence, still holding hands.

I know I should let go of him. I’m probably giving him the wrong impression.

But I like feeling his fingers wrapped around mine.

I like it a little too much.

Friends hold hands, right?

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.