Page 4

MERIT

“Why are you wearing that?”

Kyra’s voice echoes through the speaker of my phone. My best friend is brash and brazen and absolutely wonderful. A few years younger than me, she’s working on her master’s degree in graphic design, and she’s one of the most talented women I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. I’d be completely lost without her.

“What do you mean? I know it’s been a long time since I’ve been on a first date, but since when does a black dress not meet the standard?”

“Since your asshole ex-husband always made you wear a little black dress every single time you went out.” She growls, “Emphasis on little .”

Turning around, I stare at my closet and the fifteen little black dresses that take up nearly half the space. Kyra’s right. That was one of Edward’s rules. He always wanted me to look classy—yet sexy—in case we ran into one of his clients or work colleagues. It always made me feel like I was attending a funeral as a high-price escort on the arm of a mobster. Well, I take that back…all the mobsters in my old movies are sexy, debonair, and dangerous. Even the attorney consiglieres are usually strapping and charming. Edward’s none of those things. So, I guess a better description would be I was the hooker draped across the arm of the mob’s weaselly and whiny CPA.

I slam the closet door and walk over to my jewelry box. “This is the first time I’ve had dinner with a male—who isn’t my dad —in two years. I have bigger concerns than what I’m wearing.” I slide the dangly pearl earrings through my ear. Reaching over, I run my fingertips over my great-grandmother’s diamond and ruby bracelet before closing the lid.

“Concerns? Like what?”

“Conversation, for starters. What in the world are we gonna talk about? What if he wants to take me for sushi? You know I hate sushi.”

“Then tell him you hate sushi.”

The doorbell cuts off my sarcastic, R-rated response.

Kyra gasps. “Was that the doorbell? Is he there?”

I still can’t believe I gave him my address. I’m a complete lunatic. I should’ve just told him I would meet him somewhere.

“Lock up my store,” I bark my order to Kyra.

“Yeah, yeah. Have a great time. Call and tell me all about it.”

I end the call and stand in the small hallway, staring at the front door. My heart thunders in my chest and a small drop of sweat rolls down my back. I wonder what he’ll do if I don’t answer? Maybe if I’m quiet, he’ll just leave. I hold my breath and tiptoe to the door. I lean closer to it.

All of a sudden, he knocks. Hard. “Merit? I know what you drive. I know you’re here; I see your SUV. Just come to the door.”

Holy shit. He’s an actual stalker, and I invited him to my doorstep.

“How do you know what I drive?” I ask him through the door.

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. The same two cars were parked in front of your store yesterday and today. One has an Alabama tag, and one has a Minnesota tag. I’ve heard both you and Kyra talk. It’s pretty easy to figure out that you’re not the one from Minnesota. They do call it a southern accent for a reason.”

I think about that. It’s pretty smart and observant, actually. “And you’re a high school football coach, and not a cop?”

“There are a lot of cops in my family, but no, I’m not one of them. Now, do you plan on letting me in, or do we have to spend all night talking through the door?”

Huh. That might not be a bad way to ease into my first date as a not-so-newly-single woman.

“C’mon, Merit. I don’t think I’ve ever had to work so hard to go out with a woman before.”

Giving in to his honey-and-gravel voice, I open the door, adding to his comment. “Maybe that’s a good thing. Working hard for something, I mean.”

My sudden appearance takes him by surprise. I watch in eager anticipation as his eyes roam my body. When Edward looked at me, I felt like he was critiquing me, judging me, never quite happy with what he saw. But this? I feel like Holt is appreciating me. Absorbing me. Soaking me up, like water in a sponge.

And it makes me nervous in a wonderful way. A wonderful and horrible way.

A way I haven’t felt in such an incredibly long time.

He chokes on his words and has to clear his throat. “Something tells me I’m gonna have to work hard every minute of the day with you, Mer.”

I’m not sure if that’s a compliment. I’m also not sure if I like the nickname, but I don’t get a chance to tell him that before he continues.

“You’re beautiful.”

Well, at least I know that’s a compliment. “Thank you.”

Discreetly I try to study him in the same way he studied me. He’s wearing khaki pants and a pale blue button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And flip flops. I bite my lip to stifle my bashful and heated giggle. The contradiction of his church clothes and stained flip flops does nothing but add sincerity to his already larger-than-life charisma.

He’s so attractive it almost hurts to look at him.

He takes a step across the threshold, and for a brief moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. I have no idea what comes over me, but I close my eyes. Instead, he grabs my chin and tilts it up, examining my face.

“You can barely see your black eye. If I didn’t know it was there, I would never know you had it.”

I can’t believe I closed my eyes, thinking his intentions were less than gentlemanly…or at least hoping they were.

Taking a step back, I turn around. “Makeup. I may not wear it much at the shop, but I still have a little talent up my sleeve.” I walk over to the kitchen island and drop my cell phone in my purse.

Holt uses that as in invitation to come inside. “I was surprised you lived here. I thought these condos were mostly student housing. College kids.”

“They are.” I don’t elaborate, and he doesn’t press.

He looks around, taking in the small living room and kitchen. It’s pretty grandiose for the slight space. Expensive leather furniture, fancy appliances. I can’t help it. This is the way Edward’s mom decorated it.

He nods down the hall. “Just one bedroom and bathroom?”

I nod in return. He acts like he wants to keep walking through my place, and then it hits me. I’m so rude. “Did you need to use the restroom? I’m sorry, sir, I should’ve offered that.”

“No, I’m good. And you have to stop calling me ‘sir’ before I go bat-shit crazy,” he says with a throaty chuckle. Turning to me, with good humor still plastered on his perfect face, he holds out his hand. “Ready?”

I stare at it.

He wants me to hold his hand?

Yeah, that’s not happening.

He smiles, tilting one corner of his mouth. Dropping his hand to his side, he walks over and holds open the door. “After you.”

I’m glad I won that battle.

***

This hostess is flaunting her ass all up in Holt’s face. She’s not even walking us to our seats. She’s prancing us to our seats. I’m waiting on her to dislocate a hip as she sways back and forth.

I know he’s gorgeous. I see it; I’m not blind. I also know I have no right to be jealous, but I literally can’t help it. These girls are just being obscene with their flirtation. First, there was Bunny. And now, there’s Rosie, the hostess. And don’t even get me started on that girl who made eyes at him in the parking lot just outside.

He holds out my seat for me before seating himself. I nearly barf on the table when Rosie uses grabbing the extra silverware as an excuse to dangle her cleavage under Holt’s nose. When she finally leaves, I have to roll my shoulders to lessen the tension. Holt clears his throat, and I watch as he leans back in his chair, rubbing his fingers across his lips.

“It’s cute, you know?”

I set my purse on the empty chair beside me. “What’s cute?”

“Your jealousy.”

My eyebrows bolt into my hairline. “Excuse me?”

“When you get jealous, you scrunch your nose, like you smell something bad.”

Oh, he can’t be serious. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t scrunch my nose.”

“Yes, you do. Don’t be embarrassed. Ella rolls her eyes every time a girl hits on her husband Crutch. He loves it.”

“Let me get this straight…he loves it when other women hit on him.” I push the menu out of my way. “In front of his wife.”

Holt sits forward, leaning closer to me. His growl is low, and it rattles in his chest. “No. He loves it when his woman wants to bare her teeth and fight for him.”

I don’t know if he meant for his words to be so sexy, but they were. Heat coils low in my stomach. With super-heroic strength, I ignore it. “Well, it’s a moot point anyway. Because I don’t scrunch my nose.”

He opens his mouth to rebut, but he’s interrupted.

“Hey, Coach. It’s great to see you.” The teenage boy who just walked over turns his head to me, nodding. “Ma’am.”

Holt shakes hands with the boy, slapping him on the shoulder. “Hey, Carson. It’s good to see you too. I requested a table in your section.”

Carson grins, standing an inch taller. “Thanks, Coach.” He smiles at me, his eyes glistening with a little mischief, and says, “Everyone fights for him when he comes in. He’s a really good tipper.”

Holt reclines in his seat and folds his arms behind his head as he pretends to protest, “Hey, who said I was paying tonight?”

We’re in one of the fanciest restaurants in town. It opened about two years ago, and people still trip all over themselves to get their name on the reservation list. So, needless to say, his boisterous behavior has a couple of stuffy patrons looking in our direction.

He winks at me.

Unfortunately, I’m starting to like it when he winks at me.

“Yeah, right,” Carson rolls his eyes. “I’ve never known you not to pay for a date.”

“Just how many dates have you brought here?” I can’t believe I just asked that question. I clamp my hand over my mouth, and my face burns red.

Holt sits up straight and makes a knife-over-his-throat motion in exaggerated fashion. “Cut it out, Carson. You’re ruining the mood.”

Carson laughs. “I’ll go get you some water while you read over the menu.”

I shake my head. “I apologize. That was a rude thing to say.”

Holt shrugs. “Why are you apologizing? I have been on a lot of dates here.”

Oh.

I knew this was a bad idea.

He reaches across and grabs my hand. I’m too shocked to move it away. “And before you race out of here—because it’s written all over your face that you wanna do just that—you should know that I’m not some player stringing you along. I’ve had a lot of dates because that’s what people do when they’re searching for the one.”

“And that’s what you’re doing? Searching for the one ?” I ask.

His calloused thumb circles around my skin, sending shivers down my spine. I should really move my hand.

“Isn’t everybody?”

I shake my head. “Not me.”

“That’s the thing, though, Merit…maybe you are, and you just don’t know it yet.”

Carson walks back up to the table and sets crystal goblets of water in front of us. I pull my hand back, but not before Holt gives it a soft squeeze. Carson straightens the black bow tie on his waiter’s uniform. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier. My name is Carson, and I’ll be your server this evening, ma’am.”

“Carson is one of my students. He’s also one of my players. He’ll be a senior this year.” Holt’s face beams with pride. “He’s got a very bright future ahead of him. He wants to be aeronautical engineer.”

“Wow. That’s amazing,” I say. “What made you pick that field?”

“I watched a documentary on it when I was in elementary school. It always stuck with me.” He tugs at his bow tie again. “I’m working here over the summer and saving up money for college.”

“That’s so admirable of you, Carson.”

“Thank you.” Gifting me with a shy nod, he goes back to work. “Would you like to start off with an appetizer this evening?” He turns to Holt. “You wouldn’t like the soup. Today is lobster bisque.”

Holt makes a funny face.

“You don’t like lobster bisque?” I ask.

“Ugh. I can’t stand seafood. Or sushi.”

I bite my tongue.

Holt waves the menu at me. “Did you want an appetizer? Or just stick with the main course?”

“Main course is fine with me.” One, I don’t want to drag this date out longer than it needs to be. Two, he doesn’t have to spend the extra money on me. I can survive without a couple of overpriced stuffed mushrooms.

“What can I get you?” Carson eagerly awaits my answer.

“I’ll just have the grilled chicken salad. House dressing is fine.” Politely smiling, I hand Carson my menu. We both turn to Holt, waiting on him to order.

But he doesn’t.

He cocks his head and narrows his eyes, staring at me. Eventually, he sighs. “Carson, can you give us just a minute, please.”

“Sure thing, Coach.”

I’m thoroughly confused about what is happening right now.

“You ordered a big salad,” he says simply, firmly.

Oh. I fold my hands in my lap. “I’m sorry. I’ll be happy to just get a side salad.” Anger flies in the pit of my stomach. He’s just like Edward. Well, screw him.

It’s fine; I’ll just treat myself and order take-out after I get home.

He snorts. “A side salad? That’s the most pitiful thing I’ve ever heard. Listen, it’s completely fine if you want a grilled chicken salad. Hell, I actually eat that a lot at home. I just wanna make sure that’s what you really want. I know someone who always ordered a salad because that’s what was expected of her. Like she had to be some prim and proper little thing. When what she really loved was Philly cheesesteak sandwiches.”

“A woman you dated?”

His brow furrows. “What?” He shakes his head. “No, I’m talking about Ella.” His face softens. “You remind me a lot of her, and I just don’t want you ordering something because you think it’s what I wanna hear. I don’t want you to go home and have to order take-out because you’re still hungry.”

He. Can. Read. My. Mind.

“What’s your favorite food?” he asks.

I take a deep breath. “My favorite food?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I have two. Steak and blueberry pancakes.”

He bursts out laughing. “Well, I don’t think blueberry pancakes are on the menu here, but we can definitely make steak happen.” He waves Carson back over and nods to me, waiting for me to rise to the challenge.

I clear my throat. “You can scratch the salad. I’ll take the filet. Medium-rare. With the loaded baked potato—extra cheese and bacon—and the grilled summer vegetables. And water to drink will be fine.”

Holt smiles widely, proudly, like he just won a ballgame. “I’ll take the exact same thing. And a beer.”

After a bartender drops off Holt’s beer, we settle back to wait on our food. I worry that we’ll have an uncomfortable silence, but Holt doesn’t let that worry come to fruition.

“How old are you, Merit?”

He asks the question like he has a secret. Like he knows something I don’t know. “Oh my gosh. Am I older than you? Like cougar old? How old are you ?” I blink.

He snickers, enjoying my anxiety. In fact, he seems to enjoy my anxiety a little too much, if you ask me. “Calm down. I doubt you’re older than me. But it wouldn’t matter even if you were.”

“It would matter to me.” I don’t know why I feel the need to share honest answers with him.

He shrugs, intrigued with my comment. “Why?”

“Think of the optics. If you’re some big football star, I don’t wanna be seen as the older woman, chasing the handsome athlete around town.”

The tilt of his mouth drives me crazy. Even the freckles on his nose drive me crazy. I had no idea freckles could be so sexy.

“ If I’m some big football star? Are you telling me that you didn’t google me this afternoon as soon as you found out I played in the NFL?”

I shake my head. “Half the stuff on the Internet may be true, but the other half is a blatant lie. Do you really want me learning about you from my laptop?”

“Point taken. And that may be the most refreshing thing I’ve ever heard on a first date.” He takes a long pull from his beer. “I’m thirty, by the way. I’ll be thirty-one in October.”

“I’m twenty-eight. I’ll be twenty-nine in March.”

He grins over his bottle. “See. You have nothing to worry about, my little cougar.”

Oh god. Let’s hope that nickname doesn’t stick. I’ll take ‘Mer’ any day over that.

“Why’d you stop?” I ask.

“Why’d I stop what ?” His words are slow and lazy, like he knows what I’m asking but he’s decided to tease me, nonetheless. “Why’d I stop spouting off cute little nicknames for you?” His teeth playfully bite into his bottom lip. “I can come up with a few more for you. Is that what you want, sweetheart?”

Agh! My parents call me sweetie and sweetheart. So, no, thank you. I definitely don’t wanna picture the drop-dead sexy Holt Hill every time Mom asks if I need a new toothbrush head because they bought a huge pack on sale from Walmart.

“Uh…Mer is just fine,” I concede, afraid of what name may stick if I fight the battle too hard. “I mean why’d you stop playing in the NFL?”

His lively demeanor fades just a smidge, and he twirls the beer bottle around on the table. Everybody else is drinking out of fancy, frosted mugs. Holt told the bartender he wanted to drink straight from the bottle. “Injured my knee and neck,” he says, giving a little point to a barely visible scar in the crease of his neck.

I frown a little. He doesn’t have a limp and doesn’t seem to be in any pain when moving his neck, so I’m guessing he’s mostly—if not fully—healed, depending on when it happened. “I’m sorry. I know football can be rough on the body.”

He opens his mouth but freezes before any words come out. It’s clear to see he’s not exactly sure what to say. I’m guessing talking about his career-ending injuries is not high on his small-talk list. He leaves me with a simple, “Yeah. It is.”

Our eye contact is broken by the hostess—and her swishy ass—announcing loudly in our direction, “A table for two.” I watch as an older couple is seated two tables over from us. Rosie makes certain to take the long way back to the hostess stand, passing right by our table.

Holt stares at me, watching for my reaction.

I don’t give him the satisfaction. I quickly stand from the table. “Please excuse me.” I look around. “Do you know where the restroom is?”

Holt points down the back hall. He stands to escort me, but I quickly wave him down. “I’ll manage. Thank you.”

Edward always wanted me to excuse myself by saying I had to ‘powder my nose’. I always thought that was the most ridiculous comment ever. People know that’s code for peeing and pooping. It felt really good not saying that tonight.

On my way back to the table, I nearly have a heart attack when a huge crash and the sound of breaking dishes filters from the partially open kitchen door. Being the curious sort, I slow my walk and peer around the corner, checking to see if my steak is on the floor. Several people are standing around, and I see Carson bent over a couple of broken plates, picking up the pieces.

“How could you be so stupid! That china costs more than you make in a week!” An older guy with a small mustache and a white chef’s jacket is shouting at the boy.

Carson nods at a box of laundered linen napkins sitting by the door. “I’m sorry, Chef. Someone left that box right in front of the door. I tripped.”

“I left that box there. Are you blaming me? I’m trying to run a kitchen,” he yells. “I can’t be responsible for every little moron who doesn’t have enough sense to watch where he’s going.” He tosses his hands in the air. “I told Luke he should never hire high school kids, but he doesn’t listen to me. This is coming out of your paycheck. Clean up this mess and try not to ruin my night more than you already fucking have.” He walks away, mumbling under his breath. “Imbeciles.”

I watch as Carson’s shoulders slump. He works silently, taking care to gather every last shard. Not one single person offers to help him.

Not one.

After a few seconds, another server cuts around him and bounds out of the door with plated food, making me jump. She, at least, has the decency to look somewhat embarrassed, assuming I heard her boss’s outburst. When I look back, Carson is gone.

With a broken heart, I retreat back to the table. No kid deserves to be talked to that way. What makes me even sadder is there were a couple of times in our marriage when Edward called me stupid or made me think I was the cause of something happening when it was all him.

That’s something you never forget.

Ever.

“Well, there you are. I was worried you’d ditched me.” Holt takes another drink of his beer.

His joke falls on deaf ears.

Immediately sensing something is wrong, he reaches across the table and grabs my hand. Again. And once again, I wasn’t quick enough to remove it. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you sick?”

I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re most definitely not. I already told you, Mer, you wear your emotions all over your face. And something is definitely wrong.” When I don’t answer. He squeezes my hand. His face is serious, his voice stern. “There is no choice here. You have to tell me what’s upset you.”

“Carson dropped a couple of plates in the kitchen. He tripped over a box that was blocking a doorway. I saw it on my way back from the ladies’ room.”

Holt’s hand leaves mine as he looks behind his shoulder, searching for his student. “Is he okay? Is he hurt?”

“Not physically.”

Holt turns back around, eyeing me suspiciously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I bite my lip. “It’s not my place to say.”

“It is your place. Carson’s my student, my player. If anything happens to him, I need to know about it.”

I take a deep breath. “The guy back there—I guess he’s the chef—he wasn’t very nice to him. He said some things.”

Holt’s jaw tenses. “What things?”

I look down at the table. Gathering my strength, I look back up, staring Holt in the eyes. “He called Carson stupid. Said he was a moron. Told him that the cost would be coming out of his paycheck.”

Holt’s eyes grow wide, and his nostrils flare. He pushes back from the table with so much force I worry his chair might tip over and holds out his hand. “C’mon.”

His tone leaves nothing up for discussion. Trying not to overthink it, I place my hand into his, and he pulls me behind him so quickly, I nearly trip over myself as I grab my purse. Stalking down the corridor, Holt bursts into the kitchen, not caring that he’s not invited, not caring that he’s not supposed to be back there. Everyone in the kitchen turns to look at us.

Glancing at me sideways, Holt growls. “Which one?”

I nod to the chef in the corner. He looks up from the grill at the same time Carson comes walking in from the back area.

“Coach? Is everything all right? I was just bringing your bread and butter to you.” He holds up an overflowing basket in our direction.

“Come here, Carson.” He leans down, getting eye level with the boy. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Carson doesn’t know I saw anything, so he’s completely confused. His innocent eyes look from left to right. “Sorry?”

“You dropped some plates?”

Carson lowers his eyes, once again slumping his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

Holt pats his shoulder. “Hold your head high, son.” Focusing his attention back on the kitchen staff, Holt points a finger at the chef. “You. I’ve met you before. What’s your name? Chef Asshat?”

The guy’s eyes bug out of his face. “Chef Ashman. ”

Close enough.

“It makes you feel good about yourself to call other people names? Treat them like second-class citizens? No one deserves that.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re fine, aren’t we, Carson?”

Carson tugs on Holt’s arm. “It’s fine, Coach.”

“No, Carson, it’s not. No one is allowed to belittle you. Ever.”

Asshat folds his hands across his chest. “I’ll ask you politely to get out of my kitchen.”

“Not until you apologize to him for calling him names.”

“I didn’t call him names.”

“Liar.” Holt flicks his head to me. “She heard you. She saw you.”

Asshat points a finger at me. “Then, she’s the liar.”

Holt turns to me. His face—his whole body—is filled with anger and fire, but also a sweet passion. For a moment, it steals the breath from my lungs. I open my mouth to defend myself, but I don’t have to.

“She doesn’t lie. Not to me she doesn’t.”

I can’t even wrap my head around Holt’s assertion, his confidence in me.

Asshat flings his hands in the air. “Fine. I called him a few names. He broke some very expensive china. He needs to start paying attention to what he’s doing. He acts like a dumb kid? He gets called a dumb kid.”

“Sounds like you need to start growing some common sense along with that holier-than-thou attitude. Putting a large box right in front of a doorway is just begging for trouble.” Oops. I didn’t mean to open my mouth. How did I drag myself into this standoff?

Holt squeezes my hand, nonverbally thanking me for my words, for my support. Oh, that’s right, he’s still holding my hand.

Asshat screams at the top of his lungs. “Get the fuck out of my kitchen!”

Everyone in the restaurant had to have heard that. There’s no way they couldn’t.

Holt shakes his head in disgust. “You make me sick.” He nods his head at Carson. “Go get your stuff. We’re leaving.”

Carson whispers, his eyes torn with anguish. “Coach, I really need this money for college.”

Holt shakes his head. “Not this money. Not from him, you don’t. We’ll find you a new job—a great job—I promise.” Holt grabs the bread basket from Carson’s hand and sets it on the counter. “Go on. Get your stuff, son.”

Carson reaches down and pulls out his cell phone and car keys, before taking off the black waist apron. “This is it.” He looks down at his outfit. “Well, and the uniform. But I don’t have clothes to change into.”

Finally letting go of my hand, Holt reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. I watch as he peels three crisp, one-hundred-dollar bills from the money inside. He tosses it on top of the bread basket. “There. This should cover it.” He pins Asshat with one last punishing glare, “And if this isn’t enough to cover the plates, I suggest you start going to Costco and buy in bulk, you pretentious douche.”

Pushing open the kitchen door, he ushers Carson out, and when he reaches behind, grabbing for my hand again, I don’t think I’ve ever felt better.